Sway (13 page)

“Hey, girl,” I said when I was still about ten feet from her.

Courtney wore an impish smile as she stood to greet me. “Hey, Jesse,” she said sweetly. “Long time no see.”

“Did you miss me?” I asked, and she laughed and tossed her head back, her auburn hair casting a shimmer of red in the sun. Courtney was one of those good-looking girls made impossibly beautiful by sheer force of personality. As a fourteen-year-old, I'd get a rock-hard boner anytime I got within fifty feet of her. Her parents, close with mine from the time she was four and I just a baby, had spent many evenings at our house. While our parents drank and talked late into the night, we had watched Disney movies in our pajamas on the living room floor.

Courtney was my first love. I loved her in the way only a nine-year-old boy can love a twelve-year-old girl, the first girl I had ever seen naked in person. The first girl who had ever kissed me, even if it was just on the cheek and her lips had been greasy with popcorn butter. The first and only girl to break my heart when she fell in love with a soccer-playing WASP who moved to our town from Baltimore when Courtney was fifteen. At twelve, I had been filled with so much hope, knew that soon my voice would change, I'd grow hair on my balls, and we'd finally be together. But it didn't happen the way I imagined it would. Life never does.

No, she fell in love with the WASPy guy who could bounce a soccer ball on his head like a trained seal, not a twelve-year-old with a Jewfro who played classical guitar.

I was older now, no longer awkward in the presence of the opposite sex, but I felt a flutter in my belly and a chill in my bowels under the glow of her smile.

She came to throw a possessive arm around my neck and held me close. “Guys,” she called out to the other cheerleaders working on the Acura, “this is my little brother, Jesse.”

The girls all smiled and said hello and I put an arm around Court's waist to give her a brief hug. I was taller than she was now, a small triumph. “How've you been?” I asked her.

“Good. It's good to see you,” she said as she reached over to fluff my hair with her slender fingers.

“Yeah?” I asked.

“Yeah. I think about you all the time. I was really glad that you called. I always think about calling but—” She hesitated as she searched for the right words to say, but then gave up. “—well, you know.”

“Sure, yeah. You don't have to explain.”

“I always think, maybe I could just call him and not mention it, not mention anything about his mom,” she said. “But then I start to think maybe that would be weird. You know, you can't just call someone and
not
talk about it.”

“And if you don't talk about it, it's still hanging there, like the elephant on the veranda, everyone too polite to mention it,” I said, finishing the thought for her. “Damn, girl, you think you need to tell me any of this? I know it. I've been living it.”

She squeezed my hand as we moved away from the others to have some privacy. “I see your dad sometimes,” she said. “You know, he still sees my folks occasionally. I always look for you when we go to the symphony.”

“Yeah?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Well, I guess it's good to be missed,” I said.

“Of course I miss you,” she said, giving my shoulder a gentle shake. “I love you like a play cousin.”

“Which is why,” I said, “I knew I could count on you for today.”

“Yeah, I guess there's a sucker born every minute,” she said with a smirk and a wry twist of her eyebrows. “You know, instead of going to college, you should think about just running for Congress or something.”

“Please,” I scoffed, “politicians don't accomplish anything. I would never go into such a futile line of work.”

“Then the world will miss out on one of the best bullshit artists to ever play the game,” she said.

“Can't bullshit a bullshitter,” I said. “You're the best in the business. I stand in awe. Besides, now you can feel good about yourself—supporting your alma mater, the poor, disadvantaged kids who go to Wakefield who will now get a decent homecoming dance and senior class trip.”

She laughed and slapped my arm, but it was gentle, like a bird lighting briefly on a branch. “So, what have you been up to? You seeing anybody?” she asked.

“No. You?”

“Not really,” she said with a sigh. “I've been hanging around this one guy who's very big into the Greek scene.”

“Huh. I thought frat guys were all gay,” I mused.

“Oh, you're very subtle,” she said, then punched me in the gut and dropped a kiss on my forehead as I bent double to absorb the impact. As she turned away, I found myself studying her, comparing her beauty to Bridget's. Thinking about Bridget in the presence of such charm and beauty was not a good sign.

 

EIGHTEEN

I don't know the whole story about how things went down between Bridget and Ken. I didn't ask. Didn't want to know any details. But I started seeing them walking the halls at school together. I knew from Pete, who over the ensuing weeks had inserted himself as my very own sidekick, that Ken now volunteered with Bridget on Tuesdays at the Siegel Center and was helping her to organize a 5K to raise money for a therapeutic garden, whatever that is, for the kids she worked with.

Ken was like Frankenstein's monster, reformed into Mr. Nice Guy under Bridget's influence. Suddenly the worst bully to walk the halls of Wakefield became an advocate for the deformed and powerless. Had I believed that people could change, I would have said Bridget made him a true convert, but knowing people, which is what I know best, I knew the change had to be superficial.

David Cohen accosted me after chemistry again one day that week, looking worried and strung out. It was my habit now to walk the long way to the cafeteria after fourth period so I could pass Bridget's locker. She and I both had early lunch while Ken was stuck in late lunch, so I knew I would see her by herself after fourth period. Sometimes I was caught up in the throng of students moving to the cafeteria and she wouldn't notice me; other times she would see me, her face breaking into a smile. If she saw me, I usually just gave her a nod or a wink, but I never stopped to talk.

“I need money,” David said as we strolled along the first-floor hallway.

“I gave you a hundred-dollar advance last week,” I said at a volume only he could hear.

“I know, but I need more.”

“I'm not running a charitable foundation, David,” I said, letting my tone convey a warning. He needed to be put in his place. In truth, I was done with him and had been shopping around for a replacement. There was a freshman in senior calculus I had started to cultivate as David's replacement—a nerdy girl named Hilary. I had assumed she would be vulnerable, easy to take under my wing given her mousiness, but she was driving a hard bargain, demanding almost twice what I had been paying David. I tried to explain to her that the market couldn't support the kind of prices she was quoting, but so far she was unwilling to budge. Eventually Hilary and I would reach a compromise—the hunger was in her eyes, so I knew she wouldn't let the opportunity walk away, and I respected her negotiating skills—but in the meantime I was still relying heavily on David.

“The labs you handed over last week were the sloppiest I've seen from you,” I said. “I couldn't even charge full price for them.”

David rubbed nervously at the bridge of his nose and shifted his shoulders to redistribute the weight of his backpack. “I was out almost every night last week with Heather, and homecoming is going to set me back four hundred dollars—tux, limo, dinner.”

He was full of excuses, which is a sign of poor character. David had been in my pocket since sophomore year but I was wiser now and knew to avoid his type. His intelligence was shallow, useful only for churning out the work high school teachers demanded, but there was nothing original or creative in his work. He cared only about reputation and empty rewards, cared nothing about the satisfaction of a job well done.

“David, I can't keep advancing you money if you're going to turn out a shitty product,” I said, stating the painfully obvious.

“I know,” he said too quickly, telling me that he wasn't really listening. “I get it. It's just that I bought Heather a really expensive necklace with money from my college savings. My dad found out and cut off my access to the account. The hundred bucks you gave me last week barely paid for dinner and a movie on Friday. I had to tell her I was going to my cousin's bat mitzvah on Saturday because I didn't have any funds to take her out.”

How had this happened? Suddenly I'm the guy's shrink, his loan shark, pimp. His behavior was totally unprofessional and now I was getting sucked into a situation where I had to invest time in counseling his personal life.

“Jesus, she's bleeding you dry,” I said with disdain. “She's going to ruin you if you don't get out now.” We were approaching Bridget's locker and my mind was straying from David's problem.

“No!” he yelped, then checked himself and, after a furtive glance to see if anyone was paying too close attention to our conversation, lowered his voice to say, “No way. I'm getting laid like once a week. She went down on me in the car after I gave her the necklace. Heather is the best … the only … thing that has ever happened to me. I'm not giving her up.”

I stopped to face him in the hallway so my next words would sink in. We had passed Bridget's locker and I caught only a glimpse of her gilded hair over David's head. Now he had ruined the one moment of the day I looked forward to and I was done with his weakness, his lack of self-respect.

“I'm going to give you another hundred against the assignments due in two weeks, but the next time you give me a product I can't sell, I'm cutting you loose.” He reacted with a relieved smile, like a junkie who just got a fix. I held up a hand to silence him and continued, “Now, I'm going to give you some advice, free of charge, and if you're smart, you'll take it. A girl like Heather is poison. She looks fierce and she'll treat you right as long as you're paying for it, but she'll ruin you and never look back. Get out now while you still have a little dignity left.”

He wasn't listening to me—had stopped listening as soon as I'd said I would give him some money—and I knew that it was only a matter of time. It was time to get to work on securing David's replacement. In business, emotional attachments are a liability. David had been compromised by his relationship with Heather and was no longer of use to me.

 

NINETEEN

“Do you know how beauty is defined?” Pete asked me as he thoughtfully contemplated a bite of omelet on his fork.

“Is this a trick question?” I asked. It was a rainy Saturday afternoon and we were killing time before I stopped off at Skinhead Rob's to stock up on party favors for an evening of teenage drunken debauchery.

He ignored me and kept talking. “Anthropologists have done studies to figure out what makes people perceive someone else as beautiful. It was discovered that in cultures around the world, from Bushmen in Africa to alpaca herders in Bolivia, the more symmetrical someone's face—the more even a person's features—then the more beautiful they are considered. It's a universal truth.”

“Really?” I asked with a slight frown. “People herd alpacas? I thought they were hunted in the wild.”

Pete ignored my comment, was really good at ignoring me, in fact. Even when I was actively trying to irritate him, he either didn't notice or didn't care.

“Of course, there are other factors,” he continued as his gaze shifted to the window. “With some people it's more about attitude, the way they carry themselves. Like you. I mean, you're not ugly—”

“Thanks for saying so.” I tipped my water glass at him in a mock toast.

“—but most of what makes up your appeal is the fact that you carry yourself with confidence, come across like you're the man.”

“Who says I'm not the man?” I asked as I sat back and put one arm along the back of the booth and gestured to the waitress that we were ready for the check.

“My point,” he said as he turned back to look me in the eye, “is that girls are biologically predisposed to be attracted to a certain male archetype—a guy who has symmetrical features, tall but not freakishly tall, broad shoulders, big muscles. Speaking strictly from an evolutionary standpoint, it just makes sense. No woman would want to mate with a weak or sickly guy, end up having weak, sickly kids.”

“Yeah, okay, I get it. If we ever get shipwrecked and everyone is starving, you'll be the first one to get eaten. So, what?” I asked him as the waitress set down our tab on the table. “Thanks.” I unconsciously directed a smile at her.

“Sure,” she said. Her hand strayed to the back of her neck and she tugged at a lock of hair that had come free of her ponytail. As she walked away, she glanced back over her shoulder and caught me as I watched her retreating figure.

“See what I mean?” Pete said, almost an accusation.

“What?”

“If I put the moves on a girl like that, she would just roll her eyes, probably tell me to drop dead.”

“I'm not putting the moves on anyone. All I did was thank her for bringing the check,” I said as I pulled out my wallet. Pete moved to reach in his front pocket and I just gave a slight shake of my head and put my debit card on the table.

“Thanks,” he said. “I'll get you next time. But I'm right. You were totally hitting on that girl and she was flirting right back.”

“You're imagining things.”

“Oh, yeah? When she comes back, ask her for her phone number—see what she says.”

“What's your point, exactly?” I asked.

“My point is, no girl is going to look twice at a guy like me because my face is lopsided and I walk with a limp. No one wants lopsided, limping babies, so no one is going to want to sleep with me.”