It’s the first day of actual practice and I’m still not sure what to expect. Bree hadn’t been too specific when telling us what to wear. I decide to wear my dance clothes under my regular clothes. That way I won’t be so nervous and I can kinda get an idea of what’s to come next. How everyone interacts, what they’re wearing. In Ohio everyone had to wear white tights and black leotards so the teacher could see the lines of our bodies and correct our posture, so that’s what I’m wearing today. I imagine Bree has to correct us too; how else will we get better? The strange thing is, I’ve just learned that our dance group is more of a mix of dance and cheerleading. Nothing like we had at my old school because this squad includes boys, as I’ve just discovered today. This throws me off a little since they weren’t at our earlier practice and I’m not used to working with boys in such close proximity. I’m not exactly happy. Right now everyone is gathered outside of the dance room.
The excitable one—a thin boy with short, spiky hair bleached nearly white—was surrounded by a group of girls, engaged in a conversation about hair dying. He was distressed by his black roots, which were already showing after only a week.
Hmm . . .
I decided to forgo that circle for the moment, and joined a different group of girls.
Was that Carrie?
She noticed me approaching and smiled wryly. “Welcome aboard.”
Carrie introduced me to the other girls, including her two best friends, Chloe and Joy.
But it was another boy who truly held my interest. He seemed strangely out of place as he sat in solitude on the edge of the school’s field. He seemed unusually withdrawn, which made it hard to believe that he would be involved in the sport at all. The sunlight accentuated his coloring, turned his mocha hair and toffee-colored skin to a flattering golden-bronze. A single dandelion held his attention, and he plucked it, twirling the stem between his finger and thumb.
“Oh, that’s Nick,” Carrie said. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to him.”
When he saw us approaching, he self-consciously dropped the flower behind him and stood. He had engaging green eyes—eyes the cloudy color of green tea ice cream, soft and unassuming. He had exceptionally high cheekbones, and a pair of the fullest, poutiest lips I’d ever seen.
“Hi, I’m Nick.”
“Krista’s new here. I’m taking her under my wing,” Carrie said.
He nodded. “Great. Glad to have you on the team.”
I smiled, relieved by their acceptance, but feeling awkward nonetheless.
“Did Aeleise bring you to school today?” Carrie asked him.
He nodded, his gaze diverting to something behind us.
“How is the happy couple, anyway?” she asked.
Nick looked as if he’d been catapulted back into reality. He blinked. “Oh—Aeleise. We’re fine . . . everything’s great.” He smiled, lips together.
Carrie turned to me. “Aeleise is a sophomore on JV cheer; Nick likes his women older.”
Nick’s cheeks flushed at her comment.
She looked at him again. “How long have the two of you been together now?”
“Uh . . . I don’t know.”
He began chewing on his thumbnail.
They’re totally making out again; kissing six inches in front of me, making these sounds that make my stomach drop because I can tell they wish they were doing more. I swear, if you’ve never had this happen in front of you before, it’s worse than embarrassing.
He has her back pressed against the lockers; his hands are on either side of her.
I slam my locker shut and turn to leave. Carrie’s boyfriend says, “Hey—”
The last thing I want to do right now is to look at either of them, but I make myself turn around.
“Do you have any idea where I could find a backpack like yours?” he says. All nonchalant like, as if two seconds ago they weren’t trying to make babies between layers of clothes. “We were hoping they’d have them in black or burgundy instead of sparkling bubblegum pink with faux angora.”
“Well, I don’t know if—”
“Forget the bag for now,” he says and peels his body off Carrie’s. “Carrie tells me you’re in her dance class; you’re not half bad either. I’m Brandon,” he says and then lifts my hand until the back of it brushes his lips. I freeze, then pull my hand back.
“Actually he’s more like Lucifer in the Flesh,” Carrie says.
Brandon ignores her. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
I open my mouth to speak but Brandon says, “My eyes are up here.”
I don’t even know him, but I hate Brandon right now; hate how he makes his voice sound like he’s naked or something when my cheeks are already burning. I meet his gaze; he’s got the most amazing amber eyes. “Ohio originally,” I manage to say.
Brandon’s smile is more like a smirk. ”So what’s with the K-mart Jaclyn Smith collection?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Brandon’s always teasing,” Carrie says.
Brandon reaches out and runs his fingers through my hair. “Is it naturally straight?” he says.
Carrie swats his chest. “Lighten up, Brandon. You want to scare her away already?”
“Heavens, no. So what’s your story?” Brandon asks, his eyes still focused on me.
“I don’t think I have one.”
“We’ll change that,” he says. “We’ll get together tomorrow. Show you around.”
Finally. Someone to talk to. Even if Brandon and Carrie do seem a little off I’m not about to be picky. Anything is better than hanging out alone.
Brandon looks at his watch. “I’ve gotta split if I’m gonna catch the swell.” He looks at Carrie. “Call you tonight?”
“Yep.”
He kisses her cheek then turns to me. He puts his hand on my shoulder then slides it down my arm to my elbow. I freeze. He’s smiling like he knows a secret I don’t. “Krista . . . a pleasure.”
I’m just standing here, stunned. He vanishes into the crowd. I hear Carrie behind me say, “Sorry . . . sometimes he comes on kinda strong.”
Kind of? Why does she let her boyfriend get away with that? I want to tell her to make him keep his paws to himself, or at least not let them stray beyond her. Instead I say, “Is he always like that?”
“Only if he likes you. Brandon won’t give the time of day to most people. But he’s a total flirt otherwise. You’ll get used to it.”
I turn to face her. “Isn’t flirting something reserved for times when you’re single?”
“Depends on who you are.” Carrie’s busy studying her hair for split-ends. “I thought you were really good at technique today,” she says.
“Thanks.”
She stops fussing with her hair and looks at me. “So tomorrow. Let’s meet at these lockers come lunchtime.”
“Uh, sure,” I say.
Carrie turns away, starts walking toward the field. “See ya, manana,” she says.
“So, what are you?” Carrie says.
What are you? I hate that question. I squirm in my skin, actually itch. I can never find an answer I’m comfortable with. I’m a doll, I’m a mouse, I’m an orangutan, I’m a bunny hopping away, I’m a kid being dragged here on a slave ship, I’m human but I sometimes feel less-than, and I’m the misfit girl sitting across from you. My name is Krista McKinley and I hate it when you ask me that. I can already hear the progression of questions, the never-ending tape recording that plays in my head: Who’s black—your mom or your dad? What do they do? Where is he? Have you ever met him? Do you want to? . . . and so on and so forth. It gets old. Really, really old.
“You’ve got this exotic look happening . . . sorta Mariah Carry-ish,” Brandon says. I open my mouth to speak but Brandon adds, “She’s part black, I believe.”
At least he saved me from saying it. I hold up my finger and sing, “Ding, ding, ding.”
“Really?” Carrie says.
“Guilty as charged.”
Actually, the truth is a little more profound. My father did not marry my mother. Marc and Josh are sons of my mother’s husband Phillip. After she divorced him she hung out with my father. He disappeared, the usual. Phillip still shows up to see Marc and Josh but I have only Mom and Mom has a thing about God and the church.
“There are better things to talk about,” I say.
“Suggest one,” Brandon says.
“No offense, but you two make an odd couple.”
Brandon laughs. “Did we ever tell you we were a couple?”
“It’s pretty obvious.”
“Wow—I owe you five bucks, Carrie.”
She grins. “Cash only, please.”
“Did I miss something?”
“I suppose saying yes is a credit to us,” Brandon says. “Ball’s in your court, Carrie.”
“I’m trying to decide whether to tell her,” she says.
“If it’s something about dating, don’t worry,” I said. “I have brothers. Anything you tell me, I won’t be shocked.”
“Brandon’s gay.”
Except that.
Gay? “He’s . . . gay? What do you mean gay? As in homosexual gay?”
“Is there any other kind?”
“But you two were just all over each other—he practically made you swallow his tongue! That didn’t look very gay to me.”
Carrie’s laughing, first time I’ve seen her smile. Maybe this is her way of telling me she thinks I’m stupid, that I’m gullible down to the last.
“What are you talking about? He had his tongue down your throat.”
“Boy, you have a lot to learn. What do they do to you in Catholic School, sew it up?”
“What’s so funny?” I say. I could’ve choked on the intensity of Brandon’s presence—nowhere in his masculinity did I pick up any hint that he was gay.
“Should I have kept my mouth shut?”
“I don’t know yet,” I say. “It’s still soaking in. You’re telling me that he’s not interested in girls at all?”
“Sure he is . . . as friends.”
Unbelievable!
I’m searching for something to say. Something that’s not too offensive but doesn’t say much. Right now the best I can come up with is, “Interesting . . . Wow. That’s like . . . interesting.” So I could’ve chosen better words . . . I’ll have time to work on that. I shake my head. “I never would have thought . . .”
“Most people don’t.”
Brandon’s leaning casually against the hall lockers, hands hidden inside his pant pockets, one leg crossed in front of the other.
“Hey,” Carrie says, “You told me I could tell her.” She’s touching up her face with the assistance of her mirrored compact.
Brandon gives me this lingering look, almost like he’s sizing me up. My heart skips a beat.
“And yes . . .” he says, and then his arrogance melts into something silky and toying, “I’ve had sex with girls. Why?” I can’t believe his lazy smile, or how his voice and eyes charm like the snake’s in Eden. “Do you want to come home with me—play doctor in my bedroom?”
Talk about direct. My gaze drops and my cheeks respond in rose. “No—I mean . . . that’s not what—”
He crackles with laughter. “She falters. Relax—I’m just giving you shit.” He softens his manner some. “Really, you shouldn’t let me get away with that. Carrie will tell you. She hassles me all the time.”
“It’s true,” Carrie says.
Brandon pushes away from the lockers. “So our charade is finie. Well done, Carrie.”
At this point, there’s only one thing I want to know. “Does this mean the make out sessions come to an end?”
“Disappointed?” he says and smiles.
“Relieved.”
“I gotta go,” he says, “I’m meeting up with Ryan.”
“Say ‘hey’ to him for me,” Carrie says.
“Done.” Brandon starts walking away without as much as a goodbye.
On the way home all the queasy spots disappear in my stomach and I realize I have met two people who make me feel comfortable. How can that be? “What are you?’ the question everyone asked. So maybe it was good to be around other people who were a little hard to pin down.
