Punk Like Me (21 page)

She and the other co-captain gave everyone on their team nicknames as well.

We were going to really miss her when she graduated in June; no one could come close to replacing her abilities in and out of the water. I just tried to follow her example and hoped she got a great full scholarship to wherever she decided to go.

“Tonight?” I repeated, trying not to stare at her too blankly.

“Yeah, tonight,” she said, and we started making our way up the stairs. “Instead of practice, we have a meet in Brooklyn College, against…”

The rest faded out to my hearing as we got to the top, and when we reached the sidewalk, I turned to stare at Kitt in shock. Holy fuckin’

shit! I’d forgotten I had a meet! Kerry wouldn’t know and would be waiting for me at the store; what the fuck would she think? Goddamn!

And to top it off, I’d forgotten my equipment, all my stuff—my racing swimsuit, my swim goggles and cap, my towel and spare clothes were sitting in a bag identical to Fran’s right by the door of my room.

Where the fuck was my head? What the fuck was I thinking about?

Never mind. I knew what I was thinking about. I was remembering, how at some point during the night, warm, sleepy hugs had become caresses, and then heated kisses, and somehow we’d both lost our sleep shorts, and I was again lost in the warmth of her mouth and the tight,

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wet heat of her body. Only this time when my Þ ngertips were poised at her entrance, it was by very deÞ nite request and not by accident that I slid inside of her.

“Are you sure?” I had whispered in her ear.

“Please,” she’d answered me and placed her hand on mine,

“please,” and it was with her hand urging mine that it was done.

She moaned softly in my ear and nipped the lobe. She turned on her side. “Baby, I want to touch you,” she growled into my ear. She let go of my hand and brought her Þ ngertip up to my mouth. In the light provided by the streetlight outside my window, I could see it glisten.

“That’s me, baby, and what you do to me,” she whispered, and she brought her hand down.

“Now, I want to know what it’s like,” she continued, “to touch your pussy,” and her hand went farther down. Her voice, soft and insistent in my ear, and her words were tuning me up to a fever pitch, and I was almost dizzy with anticipation and crazy with want “to know that your wetness is mixed with mine.” And as her lips found mine, her Þ ngers slid through my folds.

The sensation was incredible, and I groaned as quietly as I could.

I thought I knew right then that nothing in the world could possibly be better than this, and not stopping my own movements on and within her, I parted my legs slightly.

She stroked, rubbed, and tweaked my clit, and I could feel how turned on I really was. Then suddenly, the tip of one of her Þ ngers was at the edge of my untried entrance.

“Kerry,” I said. I wasn’t too sure about this, I wasn’t feeling any overwhelming need to try that.

“Shh, baby, it’s okay,” she whispered and tenderly kissed my cheek. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

She stroked me, she kissed me, and I lost myself in our movement, my hips starting to move, when suddenly I could feel her, feel Kerry start to slide inside me. I gasped with a little more than just the shock.

Don’t let anybody fool you. You know how they say jock girls break their own cherries all the time? Not true. The week before I’d been doing racing sprints in school because it was raining, and going up the steps two, then three, then four, Þ nally, Þ ve at a time. At the top of the stretch, I received a sharp pain in my “genital area” that I’d never felt before, and when I went to the bathroom, there was approximately a two-inch diameter bloodstain in my underwear, and it wasn’t my

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period, because that had been over the week before. Besides, this blood was different—bright red, a little jellylike, actually, and it was, well, the color of a maraschino cherry.

“Oh,” I thought, “that’s why they call it that,” and Þ guring I’d done the jock girl thing, I shrugged it off.

Because of that, I was surprised that this hurt, and I placed my hand over Kerry’s to stop her. “Please don’t,” I asked her. “That actually hurts.”

“Baby, it won’t hurt for long. It’ll feel so good you won’t even remember your name,” she whispered. “I promise.” She gave a small wiggle, and I jumped. Nope, that certainly did not feel any better.

I laughed quietly, a little nervously. “I’m sure you’re right, but not…just not now, okay?”

“Okay, for now,” she agreed and kissed me, and I felt her Þ nger move away. I was tremendously relieved, but I couldn’t have told you why—then, anyway.

We kissed more, and we continued the way it had been—Kerry focused on my clit and me on her clit and inside of her.

“Baby,” Kerry asked between kisses, “you can use another if you want,” and I brought another Þ ngertip by her opening.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t baby, you won’t,” she assured me, and after a few seconds of gently teasing, I slid in. Her body was tight and pulled me within. Kerry groaned into my mouth, and I groaned with her. It felt amazing.

“Nina, you feel so good inside of me.”

“It feels good to be inside you.”

Kissing deeply, tongues reaching, we groaned into each other’s lips, our rhythm picking up speed and intensity.

“Nina, baby,” Kerry breathed into my ear, “I want you deep inside of me,” her breath hitched, “when you come.”

“’Kay.”

We were building to a crescendo—ß ying, pushing, pulling, straining against each other. I could feel her pussy tighten and her clit throb; I could feel the pulse of my clit under her thumb. Arms, legs, lips entwined, breast against breast and heart to heart, sliding and pushing deep within each other, holding each other closely, we came together in a gorgeous, furious rush, and we held each other tightly as the aftershocks became little tremors and then eased to a steady pulsing.

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Softly kissing, we snuggled and I held Kerry on my shoulder as we Þ nally fell asleep, for real this time.

And that’s where I was, not here on this cold, gray November street, talking to one of the swim team captains, but I wasn’t about to tell Kitt that; and in that second, Kitt noticed I was missing a bag.

“Shit, Razor, you forgot your stuff?” Razor was one of my nicknames on the team and the one Kitt and the principal preferred (unless I was being called to the carpet; then I was just “Boyd,” in the absolutely most chilling tones. Hey, now you know my last name! Took long enough, right?).

“Hey, Razor, Kitt! Wait up!” came calling out behind us.

I was saved from having to think of an answer right then by the appearance of a small girl, about four foot Þ ve, with Þ ery red hair pulled into a thick braid.

“Hey, Betta.” I turned and greeted her with a smile. Laura was a freshman and, as such, a new member of the swim team and one of the smallest. She was a nice kid, and I’d worked with her in the weight room and on her stroke in the pool after practice. She had a nice form, and after a few of our sessions, she was deÞ nitely a stronger swimmer; she’d already been a Þ erce one, hence her nickname, “Betta.” You know, after the Siamese Þ ghting Þ sh, Bettas, which are small, brightly colorful—and ferocious.

“You ready for the meet tonight? Gonna anchor the relay?” she asked me excitedly.

“It depends on Coach Robbins,” I answered, “and at this rate, if I can get my stuff in time.”

Kitt interrupted and explained for me. “Razor,” and she paused to give me an arch look, “left her things at home. C’mon, let’s walk to school, see if we can Þ gure something out,” and leading the way, Kitt started down the block, and we came after her.

“You know, I’m only about ten minutes away from your house, Nina,” Kitt mused as we walked along, kicking at the fallen leaves. “I get out one period early today. I could rush home, get my car, and…”
Hroonkk! Hroonkk!
a car screamed by.

“Nina, babe!” called out into the air.

A black ’74 Nova, shiny like oil with even brighter chrome that scared away the gray November light, pulled up in front of us, half on and half off the sidewalk. The license plate said “Blade.” The driver’s

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side door opened, and the sound of the Doors’ “Break on Through” poured into the chilly wind. A Þ gure with a black coat whipping out and tangling around her black-denimed legs, and long dark hair spilling around her shoulders, stepped out. In that moment, I could swear I smelled the ocean.

You met her before—Samantha Cray. Co-captain of the swim team, also a senior, and the coolest, toughest girl in school, and for the Þ rst time, I could actually see it, see her, like it seemed everyone else did. I don’t know how I could have missed it. Maybe I’d ignored it. Or maybe more than just parts of my body were retarded.

When we had initially met on detention I was a freshman and she was a sophomore. We had to polish the trophy case together, sweep rugs, shine banisters, and occasionally diagram sentences or do complex math equations. Afterward, we’d grab a cigarette together on the way out of school. Samantha had convinced me to try out for the swim team in the Þ rst place. She was my friend, my teammate, and my swim buddy since we swam the same events and, more often than not, my detention partner.

While everyone really admired Kitt (and I wasn’t completely immune to her either), they sort of hero-worshipped Samantha. I guess I’d just ignored it, because when we hung out and we were on our own, we were just, you know, us, and when we were with the team, well, Samantha was also known as “Sammy Blade” or simply “Blade,” just like the one she always wore, since the past summer, hanging from her throat. Sammy cut through the water like a hot knife through butter, like a sword. She made mincemeat of our opponents, and when Samantha and I competed in the same events (we usually ended up in the same race or “heat”), it was called a “Slice and Dice,” because we both did our best to win and usually did, getting points for the team.

Samantha didn’t act like she cared too much about it one way or another, though. She always shrugged off all the congratulations with an “I was just fuckin’ swimming, not curing cancer,” unless, of course, it was a teacher or a parent, in which case it was “Just swimming.” But modesty aside, she was focused and determined, a force to be reckoned with in the water, and everyone knew it.

Oh, and before you get the wrong idea, Samantha, like me, wasn’t a rich kid like so many of the girls in school. The car she drove had been a gift from her Þ reÞ ghter dad, two years before, and it had been

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car-primer gray, dented, wheel-less and up on blocks.

He’d told her it was for graduation and was Þ xing it up for that day, until he’d gotten killed last year in the line of duty. I spent most of my free time last spring with Samantha, at the wakes and funeral, just being there if she needed someone, ya know? When school ended, Samantha immersed herself in Þ xing that car (except for that one time I convinced her to come out and play) until it was perfect, until it was the thing of beauty and babe magnet it was. It was the only thing Samantha showed pride over.

“Come on, get in,” Samantha said, then noticed my companions.

“Hi, Betta,” she greeted the freshman. “Kitt.” She nodded coolly.

“Hi, Blade!” greeted Betta breathlessly, staring at the car with big eyes.

“Blade.” Kitt nodded just as coolly, and a silence stretched on as the two of them watched each other guardedly.

Samantha nodded her head once and jerked her head in the direction of the car. “Pile in,” she invited everyone with a jerk of her thumb, and slid back into the driver’s seat.

Kitt opened the door and sat in the back behind Samantha, and Betta scrambled in from the other side; and putting my books on the seat, I climbed into the front passenger side, tumbling my bag beside me in the seat. I fumbled around with my seat belt, and I wondered when in the hell I’d noticed that car was so fucking cool.

“All in?” Samantha asked, checking the rearview. “Okay, then.” She turned to me for a second and patted my leg. I jumped at that, but Samantha didn’t notice. She just grinned. “Hang on,” she told me in an undertone, and turning her attention back to the road, she slammed on the gas.

Betta shrieked as we tore off the sidewalk with a roar, and I’m sure we must have laid a half-inch-thick stripe of black rubber on the asphalt.

Half a block down, Samantha looked at her through the rearview.

“You okay back there?” she asked with a smile.

“Yeah, Þ ne,” Kitt answered shortly.

“You’ve got a great car!” Betta yelled over the music.

“What was that?” Samantha asked with a grin.

“You’ve got a great—car,” she Þ nished as Samantha turned the music down.

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“Thanks, kiddo. That ain’t nothin’,” Samantha answered with a satisÞ ed grin. “Everybody ready for tonight?” Kitt stirred in the back. “Blade, we have a problem. Seems Razor left her stuff at home today…” I could feel her eyes staring at the back of my head, so I twisted in my seat to face her, “and since we have to be in Brooklyn by Þ ve, I’m thinking I get out early, I’ll grab my car, pick her up here, run by her house, and then zoom into Brooklyn. Could you tell Coach Robbins? We’ll probably be a little late for roll.” She meant roll call—when the coach went through the heads to see if we were all there, to sort and slot us for events if we didn’t already know our roles, or if there were new ones due to people shortage.

“Hey, Razor, you were out yesterday, right? I thought I saw your name on the attendance sheet. You must have thought it was Monday,” Betta chirped.

“Uh, sort of,” I answered weakly. That sounded good enough.

By this time, we were pulling in around the school and about to enter the grounds.

“No,” Samantha answered Kitt Þ nally, as we entered the drive.

“I’ve already got my car. I’ll do it.”