Crush (7 page)

One daywhile I’m practicing with the soccer team, someone kicks the ball and it lands right by him as he’s walking home. My entire body reacts joyfully to the very sight of him. Though nobody can see it, I’m embarrassed, and it makes me so angry, at him, for existing! When he tries to pick up the ball for me, I scream so viciouslyat him that he flinches, stumbles backward, almost falls, and the hurt sparkling in his eyes mangles me. I never knew I could be so evil. I turn myback on the urge to put myarms around him and crush him against me…

…and I leave him standing there. I feel my soul rejecting my actions the way a body rejects a defective heart. That evening I skip dinner and go to bed early, but I don’t sleep. I cry silently under my blankets in the dark. I want to wail, get this agony out of me, but if I crytoo loudly, Mom will hear me. The pain sits there.

I’m miserable, but I go on doing what I’m “supposed” to do… fucking every easy girl from the home and away teams I can possibly put my dick into, bragging about my conquests in the locker room, doing everything I can to prove to myself that I’m a “normal” guy, straight, randy, meat-eating and beer-drinking, and all about pussy.

Anyway, so what? Just because I frequently catch him watching me (with those spectacular blue eyes), just because my smile (along with my huge boner) is involuntary whenever I see his smile, it doesn’t
mean
anything. I’m reading too much into this! Maybe he’s just
friendly
, for God’s sake!

But, just in case, I never fail to enforce the sculpture a derisive frown from the clayof mysmile, so that if he
does
like me in that certain way, he’ll get the message. He’ll give the idea up, and he’ll turn away (leaving me with a distressing pain in my center after I’ve seen the resultant grief).

There’s nothing here. He needs to know, and I have to be strong. I’m not gayand there’s no waythis can be…
And yet, whenever he’s absent from school, or not there when the church youth get together for something, I’m not just dismayed, I’m desolate, unable to enjoy anything or anyone, incapable of prohibiting myself from hoping he’s just late arriving on scene. After a day or more of not seeing him, a mere glimpse of him, even from a distance, is like water for a man lost in the Sahara.

It all starts in September, right after high school begins, on a Sunday at church. It’s such a small thing. He simply holds my hand while we have prayer…and I’ve been obsessed ever since.

Stacy’s the first and onlyone I’ve told, and it takes me a long, long time, at least a few weeks after school starts, to work up the courage. We’ve been passing notes back and forth, writing about the massive crush she’s developed on Ray Battle. He got held back in sixth grade so he and his sister Yvette are both seniors. She’s a snob but Ray’s prettycool. We three hang out a lot, mostly with the youth at the Baptist church, manyof whom attend the high school with us. I don’t go to church as often as I used to, but lately I’ve been willing to attend again. It’s where I can see Tammy Mattheis when we’re not in school.

Before I tell Stacy that I’m in love, I make her swear. Not to laugh at me. Not to think I’m a freak. Not to tell another living soul, not Lydia, or Sylvie, or Patti or Deeanna, not Ray, or that other dude Benny…not even Lloyd, as long as she lives. She promises, and when I tell her, she’s so great. She doesn’t say, “So you
are
gay!” She just hugs me and says, “Oh, myGod, Jamie! He’s so
hot
!”

He’s at least two or three years mysenior, stands at least six feet one inches tall, his fatless, flawless body weighing in at oneeightyor one-eighty-five. He stalks the campus like he owns it. He dresses in tee-shirts fit to flatter, jeans that hug his superb rearend, Nike shoes, and his letterman jacket draped over those ample shoulders.

But it’s not just the stuff that’s so obvious about him, the beauty and confidence that is immediate and on the surface. There is something in his
eyes
, a real and solid presence of mind. He’s verysmart, with a self-possession that unnerves me. Believe me when I say, that is what really makes him irresistible to me. If he was the typical jock airhead, a big, dumb muscle, he wouldn’t make me swoon as I do. I’m not one of his dozen or so bimbos. None of the other jocks interest me. Not a one of them can compete.

My heart pounds mercilessly in my chest and a hot blush stains the white skin of my throat and face when I see him, hear his voice, hear his name, think about him or even
talk
about him. “Oh my God,“ I sigh and hug her back, burying my scarlet face against her neck. “He is!”

Mysecret brings us closer. Our notes are now about Ray
and
Tammy. We’ve always heard that Mr. Monroe takes notes and reads them aloud to class when he catches people passing them. One day he takes a note from a girl and reads every private, embarrassing word to everyone. After that, Stacy and I are extremelycautious, and our grade point averages climb a notch or

we’re in love with collide noisilyin tackles and get mud splattered all over their beautiful blue, black and white uniforms. I’ve never wanted to play football in my life, and at my size, I doubt anyone would allow me on the team, but watching Tammy Mattheis throwing that ball, jogging lazily across the turf, running swiftly to crash against other bodies, does something to myinsides.

I’m fourteen at this time, and in spite of what I’d experienced at the hands of my biological parents, I’m something of an innocent. I’m not ignorant, just ingenuous. Just because I’ve been penetrated and fucked, it doesn’t mean I know anything about the exhilaration that comes over me whenever I look at this towering, dark haired icon whose hand held mine for the duration of a

prayer.These are
feelings
I’m having. Feelings that are
new
. Feelings that are
real
. I see the distinction between what I experienced with myparents and myfeelings for Tammy.

I’m shy, far too shy to approach Tammy Mattheis and talk to him. My introversion is an enduring consequence of the life I lived before Lloyd changed everything with those bolt cutters. I’ve had to spend a lot of my energy pushing away memories of the abuse I suffered, and it’s exhausting. Miss Halliday, the psychologist Lloyd sends me to, tries to help as much as she can. She’s very kind and open-minded, and the wayshe lets her yellow hair hang down on her shoulders instead of wearing it in a severe bun puts me at ease. Lloyd’s debriefed her on all the incest and abuse, but because I can’t stand to talk about it, and because she doesn’t force me to, I don’t think the counseling’s done me much good.

I’m frightened when I wake up with an erection. Being told in Sex-Ed class that “morning wood” is a “natural and normal occurrence in adolescent boys” makes absolutely no difference. Because I see my dad’s when I see mine. And I don’t love him anymore, I hate him. I’m ashamed. Because I feel dirty. Because it feels so
good
.All these ingredients boil together in a witch’s brew of disarray, foreboding and degradation. I can’t bear to open up to Miss Halliday about the darkest details of my childhood, and her not being the pushy type is either a blessing to my mangled emotions or a defeat to mycomplete recoveryand understanding.

Miss Halliday asks, “Do you think your parents committed suicide because theyfelt guiltyabout what theydid to you?”
As I sit in a chair in her office, I onlyshrug at her, digging my indexnail into the glossy, softened, splintered wood of the arm.
I wish I knew.
I’m diagnosed with anxiety and depression, and Miss Halliday prescribes Zoloft, which makes me feel everything less intensely, which is great for me, until Stacy remarks that it’s making me into a zombie.After the first bottle is gone, I pretend to Miss Hallidayand Lloyd that I’m getting it refilled, but I don’t think I need it.

In September, she’s ready to give up our weekly sessions and see me once every other month, but even with this new schedule, her hopes of getting me to trust her and volunteer my childhood skeletons are in vain. I just can’t bear to let those memories out. I have to keep them in check, securely subdued in my mind, lest they assert themselves in all their hideous, pornographic detail. I can’t talk about them to anyone, not even dear Lloyd. Close as we are, this is one topic that is too demoralizing to raise even with him. I can’t even talk about it with Stacy.

It’s worse when Pastor Sellers talks to the adolescent portion of his congregation about how, now that our bodies are changing, we must take extra steps to avoid the sins of the flesh. “Better to cut your hand off if it causes you to sin,” he says, “or poke your eye out if it causes you to lust.”

I’m already liable. My experiences with sexuality make me ashamed, and my inexperience with intimacy makes me withdrawn and lacking in that sophistication that most of the kids my age already have, but I have enough knowledge deep down inside to feel guilty about these new feelings. All I
know
are my feelings. There are no words in mybrain when I look at Tammy, at his tall, strong body, the chiseled features of his godlike face, the dark stubble over his lips, jaw and chin, the eyes the color of the ocean I love so much. There are only these wonderful, sinful emotions that surge through me and leave me weak and breathless. The more Pastor talks about them, the more guiltridden I feel.

So I admire him from afar. I stare at him at school, at church, on the football field, everywhere I can possibly see him. I’m happier and sadder and more ashamed than I’ve ever been in my life. I’m so determined to see him playfootball everysingle Friday night, whether it’s home or away, that I’ll suffer anything. One night it’s below freezing. I put on three pairs of pants, three pairs of bulky socks, and four shirts underneath a heavily padded jacket, and let’s not forget two thick pairs of mittens…and I’m still shivering.

“It’s no wonder,” Stacy remarks. “You’re thin as a spindle! You need to gain some weight!” We buy hot dogs and hot chocolate at the concession stand, but I’m still frigid when they’re sitting in my belly. I feel even colder when the game ends and I see Yvette running up to Tammy and kissing him on the mouth. His muscular arms go around her, lift her off the ground, and swing her in a circle. That night in my bed, I weep, wishing, and not
caring
how wrong it is, that I was the one Tammy had treated so right. My daydreams are of Tammy talking to me, holding my hand like he did in church, kissing me, touching me, loving me. My innocence dissipates rapidly during these horrible, beautiful months of myfirst year in high school. Myusual nightmares go on sabbatical, and I’m waking up from dreams of Tammy leaning down, whispering to me, his lips close to mine, and I’m wet and myheart is onlybeginning to drop out of warp speed. I know what I’m feeling now. I know
exactly
what I’m feeling, and it feels too agonizingly good for me to care what the Pastor has to say about it. I’m a boyin love with a man.
I’ve never been in love…I’ve onlybeen fucked. I want to be loved. And I want Tammyto love me.

In October, the church has a rummage sale to raise funds to improve the building. As always, if there’s a chance that Tammy will be there, even if it’s with that slut Yvette, I’m there. They put Stacyand me over at the pots and pans and kitchenware table. We spend most of the day giggling at Yvette. She’s been given the position of “supervisor,” which means she’s to stand in the middle of the yard and make sure nobody’s running off without paying. She stands stock still, her jeans so tight around her big butt it looks like she’s about to bust out of them, hands on hips, really swanky, just staring like a statue. The look on her face says she’s doing all of us a favor by being there. Meanwhile, Tammy’s supposed to walk around asking anyone if theyneed help, so he’s walking, he’s circling, over and over, like a tiger in a cage. He’s not even asking anyone how they’re doing, he’s just pacing, circling, really fast, not looking at anything but the grass he’s quickly mashing down. The whole thing is so comical that we can’t stop laughing. Yvette standing there like a waxstatue, in her old (she’s probably had them since eighth grade) Jordache jeans, and Tammypacing in a big circle at top speed.

After a while, theyabandon their posts and come walking up to us with one of the other girls from school. My heart begins its routine maniacal thumping as Tammy nods at us, his customary salutation to nobodyin particular.

Their friend walks right up to me. “You’re sure pretty,” she says, leaning into me with a huge smile. I nearly choke swallowing the poorly-chewed licorice I’ve been gnashing before managing, “Oh, thank you,” in a shaky voice, my lacquered eyes averting up down, back and forth, seeking a safe place to land.

The girl straightens and regards me closely. “You know, you’re wasting your time selling pots and pans. You ought to move to L.A. and be a Calvin Klein model. Don’t you think so, Yvette? Don’t you think he’s pretty?”

Lard-Ash gives me a saccharine smile. “Sure,” she says in her trademark blasé manner, “but shouldn’t he have to be
taller
to be a model? He’s kind of punytoo.”

I’m readyto crawl under a rock when the girl nudges Tammy. “Don’t you think he’s pretty, Tam?” My stomach somersaults painfully as Tammy’s handsome face creases into a scornful glare, and he snaps, “How in the
hell
would I know?! I’m a guy!”

Their friend cuts her eyes up and insists, “Well, I think you’re adorable.”
My eyes are now fastened to the pots and pans in the box in front of me. I’m paralyzed. I can sense Stacy grinning at me. I silentlywarn her to stop it.
When theywalk away, Stacysqueals, “Tammywas looking at you!”
“Oh, please,” I snort.
“He was smiling at you, kind of.”
“He was pissed!”
“Yeah, he looked like he wanted to haul off and smack Yvette! I think he
likes
you!”
I give a dismal laugh. “Get real.”
“I was watching him, Jamie! He had this goofylittle smile on his face, and his eyes were on
you
the whole time!”
“You’re full of shit. He was probablysmiling at Yvette’s nastyass crack!”
Ignoring the probable double meaning of what I’ve just said, Stacy argues, “Why?! Why do you think it’s so impossible? You’re beautiful!”
“No, I’m not.”
“You really have no idea. You’re gorgeous. Even that girl thinks so!”
“She was making fun of me!”
“
Listen
to you!”
“Just stop!”
“I think he likes you, Babe.” She’s resolute.
“Whatever.” I look up from the box of pots just in time to see Tammylooking over his shoulder at me as Lard-Ash pulls him by his arm to her car. I ignore my rising panic and force myself to keep myeyes on him, scanning his divine face for anyhint. I think I see something, but I can’t trust myown eyes.
That evening, I trynot to dwell on Yvette’s mocking words. I try not to analyze what I saw in Tammy’s eyes when they met mine before he got into the car and rode away.
I know all about that “beauty is in the eye of the beholder” crap. I don’t want to hear about it. I wouldn’t believe him if he did come up to me and tell me he loves me, that I’m beautiful.All I see is ugliness when I look in the mirror. All I see is Mom and Daddy.
Another new year. We go to The End each Thursday, and one night Tammygets up with Ray and Benny Feldman to sing “I Only Have Eyes For You.” His deep, gravelly voice (Ohmygod!) leaves me melting with desire and dissolving into anguish. He’s singing to Lard-Ash, and I despise her, sitting there winking and blowing kisses at him.
Eventually, they break up, but that’s no consolation. He already has another bimbette at his beck and call. I’ll never have him. I have to face it. And I try to tell myself to forget about him. I reallytry.
But it’s in vain. I’m in love, and knowing he’s infinitely off limits to me doesn’t stop me from desperatelywanting him.