Читать книгу Slump - Kevin Waltman - Страница 10

4.

A year ago, Wes would have taken the desk right next to me. He would have leaned over every time Mrs. Hulsey turned to the board, making some crack to try to get me to laugh. And he would have been bugging me all week before every test, wanting to compare notes—just to come over and blow a few hours messing around instead of studying.

Instead, I’ve got to ride out American History solo, and it’s not going well—a string of Cs and C+s so far. Wes is in the back, so close to Iesha I wouldn’t be surprised to see her crawl into his lap. I should be happy for him. In some ways I am, but it’s like my friend is just gone. Vanished into some fog of love.

Right now, Mrs. Hulsey is trying to drive home a point. “It changed everything,” she says. “It was called ‘The War to End All Wars.’ Every facet of American life—literature, politics, religion—was touched by it. That’s what happens when more than 300,000 men in a single generation are killed or wounded. In Russia, that was more like two million.”

As she says that, there’s an audible yawn somewhere in the classroom. Hulsey’s excited expression drops into one of disappointment. She’s always shocked and saddened that we’re not all as amped as she is about things that happened a century ago. Every so often Marion East gets some young, white teacher who’s seen one too many movies about going to an inner city school and saving everyone. The ones who’ve been here a while end up sneaking cigarettes behind the track between classes. Mrs. Hulsey isn’t there yet, but give her a few years.

She puts one hand on her hip and gestures to the class with the other. “Who was that? I’m sorry if one of the most important events in American history bores you. Maybe you won’t be bored when you see these things on the next exam.”

A brave soul raises his hand. It’s Martin Germain, a football player, who takes pride in how little he cares about this class. “Well, I get the American stuff,” he says, “but why should we care about the Russians? Didn’t we, like, hate them?”

Just like that, Mrs. Hulsey brightens again. Her eyes widen and her mouth pops open like she’s about to gasp. Even a jaded question is enough for her. “That’s the interesting thing, Martin,” she says. “We did end up hating them, but during World War I, we were on the same side. That’s how strange and intriguing history is.”

She floats that comment out to us like she’s fully expecting us to buy in all of a sudden. It’s no go. The only response she gets is a muffled laugh from the back of the room. I turn, see it’s from Wes, who’s leaned over to whisper something into Iesha’s ear.

For the first time, real anger flashes on Mrs. Hulsey’s face. Her cheeks redden and her lips pinch together like she’s trying to hold something back. When she does speak, her words are as measured as when Coach Bolden’s trying to hold back his rage during a timeout. “You think you know everything,” she says. “Sophomores in high school, and you think you know it all. But do you know what sophomore means?” She pauses just for a second, but she doesn’t really want us to answer. “The soph part is where we get philosophy and sophisticated. It means wise. But the other part is where we get the word moron. The word sophomore means wise fool. Next time you think you’ve got it all figured out, remember that.”

The only sound in the classroom now is the hum of the heater. Mrs. Hulsey stands there for a few seconds, like she’s surprised she got that angry. Then she tells us pages to read. She retreats behind her desk and marks up old assignments.

When the bell finally rings, I hang back for Wes. He and Iesha are still whispering to each other, like they’re all alone on an island instead of in the middle of a classroom in the middle of the week in the middle of the city. I have to call his name to get his attention, and even then Iesha takes a few more steps with her hand in his, so it looks like he’s about to drift away at any minute.

“What up, D?” he asks, still leaning in Iesha’s direction.

“We hanging later?” I ask. “We can maybe hit up Ty’s Tower.”

His eyes light up for a second, but then he glances over at Iesha. She just gives him this knowing look, and he turns back to me. “Nah, D. Can’t tonight. Maybe next week?”

I want to call bullshit on him. I mean, for years Wes clung to me like I was a life preserver. And he always jumped my case if I blew him off for hoops. Now he gets action with a girl and it’s Nah, D. Maybe next week. “Sure,” I say. I try to let the word slide out slow, to let him know this isn’t cool, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Soon as it’s out of my mouth, he’s turned back to Iesha, and they’re out the door. Just me and Mrs. Hulsey, who’s still not looked up from her desk.

Practice was ugly. Being stuck with Fuller at the three is starting to turn Josh Reynolds into Lance Stephenson in our minds. And if I weren’t so mad at the kid, I’d make another appeal for him to come back.

The truth is though, we can make do with Fuller. Tonight was just one of those sluggish practices. The shine is off things, and now we’re just slogging until the regular season starts.

I make the mistake about bringing it up to Jasmine. Now, she gets grief from her parents or gets something less than a perfect grade on a quiz, and I’m all ears. I’ll listen to her vent all night if it means I get to spend time with her. But let me mention one thing about Bolden being the biggest pain-in-the-ass to ever blow a whistle, and I get the sigh. It’s that long, frustrated sigh she gives when I’ve done something intolerable. She looks away as she does it, like it causes her physical pain.

“What?” I ask.

“Basketball,” she says. “Again.”

We’re sitting on Massachusetts Avenue at some place you can get coffee and sweets and frozen yogurt. Not my speed, but I’ve never been one to say no to Jasmine. I mean, there have been maybe three other black people in here the whole time. The place is filled with people who scream money—thirtysomethings with their bratty kids, college-aged kids in their stupid band t-shirts and caps. I feel like there should be a sign at the Northeast end of Mass Ave telling people from my blocks that they’re not invited down here. Sometimes I think this is the Indianapolis Jasmine wants to belong to, but I give her the benefit of the doubt—there aren’t really any decent places open late in our part of town.

“It’s not like I’m making you memorize our offense,” I tell her.

She gives a half-smile at this. “Fair enough.” She takes a sip of her hot chocolate.

I push my luck a little. “And be honest, girl. You were into it last year when we got on that tear. We make it to State and you’ll be as amped as anyone.”

She sets her drink down and gives me a long stare. For a second I think I’ve crossed some line with her, but then, slowly, she lets her mouth curl into a grin. “Oh, Derrick,” she says, “you are a funny guy.”

After that she starts telling me about things she’s learning in her Honors English class. Stuff about the Harlem Renaissance, stuff about W.E.B. DuBois, things I know I should care about. But I can’t get worked up about what happened to poets a century ago, no matter how much she insists it’s still important today. I don’t let on though. I ask questions, nod along, be a good boyfriend. When she’s done, she starts window shopping, making a huge deal out of some vintage handmade scarf she sees across the street. I want to get on her for liking white people things, but I know better. Besides, I also know she’ll look good in that scarf if she ever gets it.

Later, we’re parked down the street from my house. I don’t want to go in—not because it’ll be the same noise of Dad and Jayson arguing, but because this is as close as I’ve been to Jasmine all night. I lean over and kiss her, and she doesn’t pull away. That’s all it takes to set me racing. I lean in closer and take her hand in mine, feel the heat flowing from her. When I kiss her again, our bodies press together, and I can feel her heart pounding. I slide my free hand along her knee and up to her thigh. I pull back for just a second and look at her—her eyes are half-open, and her lips are still formed into a kiss. She shifts her hand in mine, then places her other one over it. Looking at our hands, her skin tone a couple shades lighter than mine, I think about more of our skin touching. I imagine rolling back to her house, sneaking up into her room—maybe her parents are out—and getting down to it for real.

But just as I go in for another kiss, images of where this could go zipping through my head, Jasmine squeezes my hand and pushes it back against my chest.

“You have to go,” she says. She sounds out of breath and distracted, like she’s afraid of what will happen if I don’t get out of the car.

“Jasmine,” I say and lean back in.

She stiffens and turns her head away. “No, Derrick. You’ve got to go. It’s late and I need to get home.” There’s no sense in trying for more. It feels like someone just elbowed me in the stomach and my breath comes out fast as I sink back in my seat. “Don’t be that way,” she snaps. “Don’t make me feel guilty, Derrick.”

“I’m not, I just—” but I don’t know where that’s going. We look at each other for a while longer. We’ve been down this road before, and she’s made it pretty clear that we’re not going further any time soon. Still, I could feel how hot she was getting. Up the walk, the porch light at my house snaps on. If there was any chance before, it’s gone now.

Jasmine leans over and kisses me on the cheek, like some aunt telling a child how sweet they are. “I had a great night, Derrick. Let’s not mess it up. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I say, and I try to sound upbeat about it. “I’ll see you at school.”

Then it’s up the walk to home, the crisp night air hitting me like a splash of cold water.