“Got a little wasted last night?” he asks with a grin.
“Did you go all Hulk and hurt someone?”
“I did,” she replies in a rasp.
“Oh, yeah,” I say, suddenly remembering.
“How’s your hand?”
“Wait.
You really did hurt someone?” Eric’s mouth drops open.
Then he starts laughing.
“Did you punch Cal and I missed it?” I shoot him a look.
“Why would I want to punch Cal?” Nyelle asks.
“My hand’s okay.
Although my head hurts so bad, I can’t feel anything else.”
“Let me see it,” I request.
She slips her hand out from under the blanket.
It looks so delicate, I can’t imagine it forming a fist and punching someone in the face.
I slip my hand under it to examine it more carefully, taking in the details of her uncovered hand.
Her knuckles are red but not cut.
It’s a good thing she was wearing her gloves.
“Doesn’t look bad,” I say.
But before I can turn it over, she pulls it back under the blanket.
I didn’t find what she didn’t want me to see.
But she’s definitely hiding something.
“What did you bring us?” I ask Eric.
“Well, I didn’t know I was feeding three people,” Eric responds.
“I don’t want food,” Nyelle says, and makes a noise like even the thought of eating is making her sick.
“Don’t we have Powerade or some of other sports drink in the fridge?” I ask, still not willing to get up.
Eric eyes Nyelle lying on my lap and replies dramatically, “Well, let me go check.” He returns with a sports drink and a bag of food.
“Thanks.” I take the bottle from him and open it.
“Nyelle, you should drink this.
It’ll help your head.”
“So, what are we doing today?” Eric asks, leaning back in the recliner before unwrapping a burger.
“Nothing,” Nyelle answers, carefully lifting her head to take a sip.
“Well, that sounds exciting,” Eric responds sarcastically.
“There’s a party—”
“No,” Nyelle snaps quickly.
“No parties.
Please.” I laugh and shrug, “No parties.” Eric crumples up the wrapper of the burger he just inhaled.
“I’m meeting some of the guys at the gym to play ball.
I was supposed to ask you…” Then he looks at the Nyelle and stops.
“I guess I’ll see you later.”
“Thanks for getting the food,” I say, watching him disappear into his room.
Nyelle shifts onto her back so she’s looking at me upside down.
I brush the hair out of her face.
She smiles weakly.
Then she closes her eyes and falls asleep.
I watch her hidden eyes shift beneath her lids and rub her arm.
I know she’s miserable right now.
But I’m not.
* * * “Henley, get down,” I tell him as he jumps up on the couch next to Nicole.
“It’s okay,” Nicole says, digging her hands into his fur and rubbing behind his ears.
“Hey, Henley.
So good to see you.” He jumps back on the floor and she brushes his gold fur off of her skirt.
“How was your baseball game?” she asks, kicking off her shoes and lying down on the small pillow so her head is right next to my leg.
She folds her hands over her stomach and lies perfectly still with her legs straight.
I look down at her and she’s staring up at me with her bright blue eyes.
“Bad day?” I ask, setting down the controller for the video game.
Nicole usually does this whenever something’s bothering her.
I tease her that it makes me feel like she’s lying on the couch of a psychiatrist’s office.
Although I know psychiatrists don’t really have couches for patients to lie on—at least my mom doesn’t.
“Lance asked me out today,” she says quietly.
My heart skips a beat.
“And what did you tell him?” I feel like I have sandpaper in my throat.
Nicole sits up on the cushion next to me.
“That I don’t want to go out with anyone.”
“Oh,” I say in relief.
But then… wait.
“You don’t?” She looks at me and shrugs.
But she doesn’t look away.
It’s like she’s waiting for something.
“Are we supposed to want to now that we’re in middle school?”
“I don’t know,” I answer.
I haven’t asked anyone out since we entered the sixth grade a couple months ago.
But then again, the only girl I’d want to ask is looking at me right now.
Nicole takes my hand and closes her eyes.
“It’s so confusing.
I don’t want to have to think about it yet.” I want to wipe my hand, afraid that it’s sweaty.
But she doesn’t seem to care.
She does this too sometimes, just sits here with her eyes closed, holding my hand, like I have some magic power to make her feel better.
It never used to bother me, and it still doesn’t.
But now it feels different, or at least I want it to mean something different.
“Hey!” Richelle hollers from the top of the stairs.
Nicole’s eyes fly open.
She releases my hand and practically jumps to the other side of the couch as Richelle comes down the stairs, carrying an empty Mountain Dew bottle.
“What are you guys doing? Come over to Rae’s.
The guys are here.
I thought we could play a game.” She looks at me and smiles.
* * * “What are you thinking about?” Nyelle asks, her eyes open.
I look at her hand wrapped around mine and I grin.
I shake my head.
“Nothing.
Are you up for watching a movie?”
“Do you mind if I take a shower? It might help me feel better.”
“Sure,” I say.
“Want me to get you something to eat?”
“Peanut butter and jelly?” she requests.
“I have that,” I tell her.
“Grape or strawberry?” Nyelle pushes off the couch.
“Strawberry.” I have a paper plate with a peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich and a handful of Doritos waiting for her when she gets out.
“So much better,” she says, tossing the empty sports drink in the trash.
She searches the cabinets for a cup and fills it with water, then sits on the couch next to me.
“This is perfect! Thanks.” She begins to eat like she hasn’t in weeks.
She doesn’t make a mess, but she barely swallows between bites.
“Just don’t breathe on me after,” I tease.
“What? You don’t think peanut butter–Dorito breath is sexy?” she says, crunching on a chip.
“Not really.” I chuckle.
The next thing I know, she’s straddling me, breathing in my face.
I try not to laugh as I hold my breath, turning my head away.
She leans in closer, so I grab her wrists to keep her back.
She’s laughing as she struggles against my grip.
“Smell my peanut butter–Dorito breath, Cal! I know you want to.” I flip her onto the couch and I’m between her legs, pinning her arms above her head.
She smiles up at me.
I don’t move.
Suddenly, I don’t give a shit what her breath smells like and drift toward the mouth I was trying to avoid just seconds ago.
She frees a hand and runs it through my hair.
Just as I’m about to kiss her, she says, “You need a haircut.” Then she pops up, her head nearly colliding with my mouth.
“Oooh.
Can I cut it?”
“You want to cut my hair?” I ask, sitting back on the cushion, defeated.
Trying to kiss this girl is dangerous.
Nyelle leans over and finishes the last bite of the sandwich.
“Yes.
And I promise to brush my teeth first.
Do you have clippers? Or scissors? Or a razor?” She’s off the couch and in the bathroom before I can react.
“No razors,” I say adamantly, images of bloodshed flashing in my head.
I can hear her digging through the contents of the closet in the bathroom.
She returns carrying the black bag with Eric’s electric clippers in it.
“Scissors?” she asks after setting the bag on the coffee table.
I don’t remember saying okay to this.
“In my room, in the desk drawer,” I tell her, figuring if it sucks, I’ll just buzz it short like I did in high school.
She returns with the scissors, pulling my desk chair behind her.
“Sit here,” she instructs me, placing the chair in the middle of the open space.
“Have you ever done this before?” I ask, sitting on the chair.
“Not exactly, but kinda.” That wasn’t an answer.
“So, basically, you have no idea what you’re doing,”
“Basically,” she agrees, plugging in the clippers.
She puts a towel around my shoulders, then stands in front of me and studies my head, running her fingers through my hair.
My eyes shut with her touch.
Then I hear the clippers buzz into action and my eyes pop back open.
“Keep them shut,” she says.
“I don’t want to get hair in your eyes.” I should be concerned.
But I’m not.
What my hair looks like is not that important to me.
But I could sit here all day, letting Nyelle run her fingers through it.
The clippers hum as I absorb the tingle of her fingers as they slide through the hair around my neck, over my ears, and eventually the sides of my head.
When she shuts them off, I ease my eyes open, sedated.
“I like the way it kinda curls up,” she says, tousling the hair on top of my head that she has yet to cut.
I force myself to focus on her face with her standing this close.
If I look forward, I’ll be staring right at… Crenshaw.
And not looking is taking all of my effort.
She’s torturing me right now, and she doesn’t even know it.
Nyelle picks up the scissors.
I release a tense breath when she stands behind me.
I need a moment to get my shit together, breathe deep, and think about football.
She trims the top of my head.
When she’s done, she removes the towel from my shoulders and stands back to admire her work.
“I like it,” she declares with her hands on her hips, still looking at my hair and not really at me.
She sets the scissors down and steps forward until the sweatshirt is practically brushing my nose, flipping my hair with her fingers.
I can’t resist.
I slide my hands onto her hips.
She stills within my grasp, her fingers easing through my hair.
I reel her in gently so she’s straddling one of my legs.
She still won’t look at me, but I’m watching her eyes, waiting for a sign that I should let go.
She inhales deeply, expanding the letters of Crenshaw across her chest.
Then she brushes a hand down my cheek.
I take it in mine, and that’s when I notice the scars.
It’s like she slammed her fist down on miniature razor blades.
Tiny crisscrosses run along the side of her hand.
It’s shaking.
The rest of her is motionless.
I don’t think she’s even breathing.
I press the side of her hand to my mouth, kissing the marks she’s been so determined to hide.
She slowly eases herself onto my lap.
Her eyes are dark and have yet to blink, watching me apprehensively.