Victor Lavalle - Slapboxing with Jesus

— Shut up, you fucking cyclops, I said. Everyone laughed; One-Eyed Chuckie, who was sensitive about it, slammed his locker shut and left.

— Seriously, Ant, Mark said while sliding on shorts. You going to go out with Olisa?

I was shocked, angry at the suggestion. — No fucking way. I looked down, my face warm. She’s so ugly.

— Yeah, someone added. You see that hair? Does she comb that shit or what?

I sat and pulled on my sneakers. Mark asked me, — How does she get her hair like that?

— How would I know? I hopped up like we might fight.

— Okay. Don’t get mad. Mark tapped me on the arm. She is fucking ugly though, he said as though that was an apology.

We walked out to the yard. Kids were choosing up sides for kickball. The maroon ball lay on the gray, pebbled yard waiting for someone to direct some energy toward it. The sun was well above the fence line and its glow felt like a pressure against my forehead, not heat, something physical. — It’s kind of windy, I said.

— Okay, Mark agreed.

— I better go get my hat, I said and ran inside.

But about Nancy.

I was watching her on my own as she stood, with Miss Bernstein, going over a spelling test. Nancy was into that Madonna look back then, as much as she could afford — the layers of cut-up clothing. She was close too, her brown hair framed her face well; it was all a mass of strategically messy curls. Nancy wasn’t allowed to wear makeup yet.

Mostly, watching her, I wanted sex. In my head a whisper asked, What if she did let you fuck her? What if she said yes and showed you her pussy? I had seen only magazines by this point, porno movies were a year away; in the snapshots I’d pawed, the way women had to hold themselves open made me think there was a complicated system of flaps to undo before you got inside. I was afraid that when I was finally close to one I’d have to sit back and ask the girl to work the shit for me.

Todd, droopy ears and big teeth, saw me staring, came and said, — I dare you to grab her ass. He didn’t say it quiet so other guys left what they were breaking to swarm around me like I was giving away quarters for video games. For twenty minutes, in the afternoons, Miss Bernstein gave us free time and Todd’s challenge was indicative of how well we used the period.

— Go ahead, look at her ass in those jeans.

— Man, you should just go and sink your teeth into it.

— Just go over there and fuck her in the ass! Rich joked; someone smacked him for the rest of us — serious plans were being made.

— I’ll do it.

Guys laughed.

— Yeah, bullshit.

— You won’t do it you faggot.

I stood. I walked at her. The chairs behind me scraped the green floor as my friends arranged themselves into an auditorium audience, row after row. Why couldn’t Miss Bernstein walk away?

Next to them now, Miss Bernstein smiled pleasantly. I was a good student. Twice she had hugged my mother after parent-teacher nights. Nancy did not turn her head to me. Her ass however, spoke: Go ahead, it goaded. What’s the big whoop? My hand began its trajectory and I cheered it on. Started low and I envisioned a perfect cup of the right or left cheek, but then my five fingers had their own plan, wanted something else. Up her back, close but not touching, to the shoulder, over the other side and finally the motherfucker perched there on Nancy Salvino’s left breast.

I was scared to move or squeeze. Miss Bernstein’s eyes darted from my hand to my face. Her grill lit up like magnesium flares. I was smiling, then, fuck it, I squeezed.

Miss Bernstein stuttered out, — What the shit are you doing? The laughs, behind me, were an explosion — so powerful I would have ducked if I wasn’t hypnotized. Girls stopped writing their friends’ names on the covers of their notebooks. Nancy turned, looked at me, didn’t seem angry. We asked so much of that girl, like she was the God of All Our Needs. She looked at me like I was stupid, like I could be sure this was the closest I’d ever get.

Miss Bernstein yelled as she led me from the class. She was tall and had long, frizzy brown hair that she often wore up; she was in her forties and none of us had ever had a crush on her. She squeezed my hand too tight as we moved; instantly I got an erection. The way her wedding ring rubbed against my wrist bone, she was really trying to hurt me.

In his office Principal Kurdick talked to me so slow and precise that I got drowsy. He said, — I can tell you feel awful. I looked around the room for whoever he was addressing. You can go back to your class now, he said. Miss Bernstein watched him, waiting for more; when nothing came we went together, she angrier at the principal now than me. She told me, in case I hadn’t understood, what I’d done wrong. As we moved my hand throbbed with power, heat and majesty that would have been called bragging if my mouth were doing it.

After school me, Frankie, Jung and Mark walked home. We stopped at the Carvel across the street from Booth Memorial Hospital, which had a horror story attached to it, a caution for all children who might hurt themselves. Its ambulances were slow.

— You’re stupid, Frankie said to me as he licked the chocolate ice cream dripping down his hand. The walk home was nice; gas stations across the street leaked so much intoxicating fumes there was no way you couldn’t inhale a bunch.

I assured him, — Metallica is much better than Iron fucking Maiden. I was eating a strawberry Flying Saucer. I took a bite.

Jung shook his head. — Judas Priest. Fucking Judas Priest.

— What do you know? I laughed. He gave me a shot in the shoulder, it hurt, but I smiled. You punch like a girl.

— Faggot, Mark added absently.

The four of us walked on, debating in this manner, passing the black gates of the Botanical Gardens. We reached Tony’s building, his was like most: dim hallways and piss on the stairs. Mark lived in a rented home with his mother and two brothers; they’d had me over one weekend and taken me to their synagogue. Frankie lived with his dad somewhere farther. I’d see his father around in his old clothes, a fading denim jacket, looking impotent and angry about it, the world already poised to forget him and his hard work.

We rang the bell five times before Tony got to the door, sweating. He was out of breath, stooped forward with his elbows on his knees. Jung asked, — You jerked off so much you got tired?

— My mom’s birds got out, Tony said.

Jung leaned back against a wall, we were all inside, said something in Korean; Tony nodded, sadness on his face. I nodded for him too, understood, Your mom is going to kill you, in Korean, Urdu, Pakistani, Spanish and Italian.

— Take off your shoes, Tony commanded.

Mark laughed. — This ain’t Japan. Me and Frankie went to the living room couch, my sneakers and his boots cutting like knives across the carpet. Tony still looked worried.

— Why don’t we catch them? I asked.

Frankie went to the kitchen and returned with five garbage bags. — We each take one and hunt these fucks down.

All armed, we moved together, through the living room. We passed the television (on), the bookshelf, the couches, the small table where new mail was dropped. There was birdseed, small pebbles of it, lying on surfaces. Tony explained that he’d tried to lure them with it, get them to stop and munch long enough to catch them, but they were pretty fast.

They were little parakeets. They rested on a curtain rod; not quite green, they seemed only half ripe. The rest of their bodies was a very light gray. A pair. Their chirps and whistles startled me only because I was used to the deeper, less whimsical sounds of pigeons. — So tiny, I whispered.

— You don’t have to keep your voice down, Tony said. They can see us right in front of them.