I realize that I’m focusing more on comprehending her than I am on the orderly file of human beings who are making their way toward the entrance of the towering Honda Center, home of the Anaheim Ducks. So I squeeze her hand back.
“Thank you for your show of support. So far it’s working.”
“We should have a code word.”
“A code word?”
“So you can tell me when you aren’t feeling so great.”
“Can’t I just tell you I’m not feeling so great?”
She shrugs. “Yeah. But a code word could be more fun. We could make it a game. Like…when you aren’t feeling great, you can say ‘pickles.’ And when you really, really feel like you need to leave, you can say ‘relish.’”
“I like relish.”
“It doesn’t matter what the word is. We can pick something else if you like.”
By this time, we are at the glass doors that lead inside. Sadly, I have to let go of her hand to pull the tickets out of my wallet and hand them to the ticket taker.
The building looms above us as we walk in. It’s big—really big. I’m trying hard to breathe the way she showed me, but I’m not sure it helps. I’ll keep trying though, because she showed me and she seems to believe in it. What does help is that we are headed in a direction that most are not taking. I bought the more costly tickets, hoping that would be the case.
Jenna looks down at our tickets stubs to determine where our seats are. “Wow, you spent the big bucks. I’ve never sat in the good seats before.”
“You come to hockey games often?”
She shrugged. “I dated a guy who was into hockey. He shared season tickets, so I came with him a lot.”
As we walk to the other side of the arena in search of our section, I’m overwhelmed with unpleasant feelings about what she just said. I can’t help but wonder who the guy was that she dated. It wasn’t Doug. As far as I know, he isn’t into hockey, and she didn’t date him for very long.
Suddenly, I’m furious as memories of seeing them together flit through my mind—sitting next to each other at RMRA meetings, holding hands, even kissing. That heated feeling inside me is jealousy, and it’s not rational because she’s no longer with Doug. But I hate those memories because they remind me that she was with Doug and not me. It makes no sense, but I’m angry anyway.
“You’ve had a lot of boyfriends?” I ask. It surprises me the way I blurted it out. I’ve learned over the years to keep my mouth shut and to force myself to think about what I say before it comes out of my mouth. About half the time, the words are left unspoken. But these words slip through when my guard is otherwise occupied with fighting off irrational jealousy.
“Um. I’ve had a few.”
“Alex says you don’t date people for very long.”
Her eyes fix on the ceiling. “Alex is overly critical of my dating habits. She doesn’t really understand.”
Well, that makes two of us. I don’t understand, either.
She stops and turns to me. “This is our section. Are you ready?”
I stop beside her and glance around us as people are heading toward our door. We are fairly early, so it’s not busy yet. “Yes.”
When we step inside, I’m immediately overwhelmed by the massive arena around and above us—so much so that it’s dizzying. But some people are already seated and it doesn’t feel as oppressive as I’d anticipated, so I’m relieved. Jenna is watching me closely as we walk down the stairs to find our seats. “Wow, William. You must have paid a fortune for these. I’m used to sitting up in the nosebleed seats.”
I look up at the top of the arena toward the seats she’s pointing to. “People get nosebleeds up there?”
She laughs. “Sorry, no. It’s an expression. It means the seats are so high in altitude that you could get a nosebleed.”
I picture the last time I had a bloody nose. I was jumped in high school and some kid head-butted me right in the nose while calling me a ‘hopeless retard.’ The blood was hot and tasted like metal.
I look back at Jenna, whose eyes are on my face. I jerk my gaze away.
“You’re picturing having a nosebleed, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I think I’m getting the hang of how you think. I’ll try to be more literal.”
She sinks into her seat with a small smile. “Want to work on some stuff while we wait for the game?”
“More visualizing?”
She shrugged “If you want. Or we can just talk.”
“What would we talk about?”
“Well…I was wondering about your armor. You said that wearing armor calms you because of the weight.”
I nod. “The pressure feels good.”
“I think I get that. It’s like when you’re at the dentist and they put that weighted blanket on you for X-rays. That makes me feel relaxed.”
I picture my last visit to the dentist. The hygienist, Nancy, told me she likes me because I don’t try to talk while my teeth are being cleaned. She has short, blond hair and her hairspray smells awful. “Yes. Not exactly, but that’s approximately it.”
People are filing in, talking loudly, laughing even more loudly. Odors of the food they are carrying from the vendors overpowers me. I’m hungry, but I am in no mood to eat.
All the while, Jenna is talking to me. I try to focus on what’s she saying, but I only pick up some of it. Shifting in my seat, I turn my ear toward her, but all I can hear are the people coming in, pressing around us, filling up the arena. The Ducks have been doing well, so she tells me, and it’s late in the season. Lots of people are coming to watch these final games.
“How are you doing? Are we getting close to pickles yet?”
I give her a look and then remember it’s a code word. “I’ll be fine if I can get my sketch book out. It’s something I do in public that helps.”
I pull out a small sketchpad from my back pocket and a retractable pencil I use when I’m on the go. She tilts her head and looks at me out of the side of her eyes. I look up and meet her gaze.
It’s a lot easier when she’s looking at me like that—less intense. Less like staring into a bright headlight or the sun. Jenna is definitely the sun to everyone else’s bright headlight.