Pretend You Love Me (2 page)

“Tell us a little bit about yourself,” Miz S said, snaking an arm
around Xanadu’s waist. Xanadu, aka the goddess, had on tight low-rider jeans with a form-fitting, see-through, black lace
top. So fine. So very, very fine.

“Like what?” She crossed her arms in front of her, looking embarrassed, self-conscious. Her top rode up a little and my eyes
fixed on her belly-button ring.

“Xanadu. That’s an interesting name.” Miz S’s eyes glazed over. She peered off into the middle distance and cleared her throat.

Uh-oh, I thought. Here it comes.

“In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.”

Miz S paused. “I forget the rest. Do you know it?” she asked Xanadu.

“Know what?” Xanadu said flatly.

Miz S opened her mouth, then shut it. She asked, “Were your parents great lovers of Samuel Taylor Coleridge?”

Xanadu stared into Mrs. Stargell’s wrinkly face. “Nooo,” she drew out the word, “my ’rents were lovers of float. They were
meth-heads, obviously amped up on jack when they had me.”

During the stunned silence even the dust motes fainted over dead. Xanadu’s gaze cruised around the room at all the bulging
eyeballs. Was I the only one who saw it? The slight sucking in of her lips? The teasing eyes? I burst into laughter.

Her eyes met mine and she cracked a smile.

The shock on Mrs. Stargell’s face didn’t help me sober up. She withdrew her hand from Xanadu’s waist like human contact with
this foreign body might be hazardous to one’s health.

No one else was laughing. Why not? They had to have figured it out by now.

“Thank you, Xanadu.” Mrs. Stargell’s voice chilled. “You may return to your seat.”

Xanadu clomped back to Bailey’s desk. Flopping down with a huff, she swiveled around again and said, “Is she for real? God
help us.”

I figured God was doing His part for me today.

After class, as I was exchanging my math book for my cleats, that same dusky perfume bit my nose. I wheeled around.

“Hi,” she said, hugging her books to her chest. Her very fine chest. “I just made that up about my parents, like on the spur
of the moment. Can you believe it? I freak under pressure. My parents are so totally straight; they’d die if people thought
they were meth-heads. God. I can’t believe I actually said that out loud. Can you?”

“No,” I admitted.

She smiled. My insides melted.

“Apparently no one else got that I was just blowing her off. Nobody even laughed.”

A couple of people passed us in the hall and glanced back over their shoulders, checking her out. I couldn’t blame them. We’d
never experienced anything like Xanadu at Coalton High.

“I wasn’t serious,” she said. “Did people think I was serious?” She peered after them, curling a lip.

“No,” I said. “They knew. We’re not as dumb as we look.”

Her eyes swept the floor. “I didn’t mean that.”

My face burned. “No. Me neither. I knew you knew.” Had I offended her? Hurt her feelings?

She raised her eyes to mine and we melded together. I could feel it. Her chest heaved and she expelled an audible sigh. “God.”
She lowered her chin to her chest. “I am so lost here. So out of my realm.”

I’ll help you find your realm, I thought. I’ll ride you to the castle on a tall white steed and slay every dragon in your
path.

“I guess you know my name.” She tilted her head up and crossed her eyes at me. “I’m sure the whole school does by now. What’s
yours?”

“Mike.” I cleared my windpipe.

“Mike.” She bumped my shoulder with hers. Coy. Flirty. God, give me strength. It was suddenly a hundred and ten degrees in
here.

“’Scuse me,” I stammered. Setting my cleats back on the shelf, I pulled my sweatshirt over my head and hung it on the hook
in my locker. When I turned back, she was staring at me. And not at my face.

“Sorry,” she said, her jaw slack. “I… I thought you were a guy.”

“Yeah.” I tried to smile, but the smile twisted, like my stomach. “I, uh, get that a lot.”

I
stood at the pulldown station, balancing the handlebar at crotch height, studying myself in the wall-to-wall mirrors. Mike
Szabo, I thought, you are one ugly girl. If I had to be born a girl, why couldn’t I at least have been a regular girl? Attracted
to guys, like every other girl in the world?

“It’s all yours, Mike.” Armie sat up, straddling the flat bench. He swabbed his dripping neck and chest with a towel, then
caught his own reflection in the mirror and sucked in his gut. The hair on his back was all matted with sweat—gag—and the
bench was slimy now. Darryl accused me once of wanting to be a guy. He was wrong. Guys physically repulsed me. Maybe when
I was younger I wished I was a guy, but I got over it.

Armie said, “Is the bench press next on your circuit?”

“Yeah.”

He bunched the towel around his neck and crouched to replace the plates. “How much you lifting?”

“Eighty,” I told him.

“With reps?” He whistled. “That’s about your limit, I’d say.”

So he thought. I hadn’t reached my limit.

“Baby, the sky’s the limit,” Dad’s voice sounded in my head.

Shut up. Is that what you were reaching for when you jumped?

“I’m only loading sixty for you,” Armie said.

Damn him. I lay prone on the bench, my knees bent, feet flat on the floor. My fingers curled over the dumbbell, caressing
it. I loved the smooth feel of the metal, the cool slickness in my palms. I spread my hands apart, deltoid distance, the bar
directly over my chest. Armie fastened the second collar and stood. “I’ll spot you,” he said.

“Not necessary.” I could press sixty in my sleep.

He spotted me anyway.

I concentrated. Converted the solid steel plates into bone and muscle. Mine. I closed my eyes and pictured her, Xanadu. She
hadn’t run from me, exactly. More like took off fast when she figured me out.

Up and off the rack. Damn, she was beautiful.

Inhale. Down. I wanted her.

Exhale. Up. She’d never be mine.

Inhale. Down. Why not?

“Slower,” Armie said. “Make each rep count.”

Focus. Concentrate. Exhale. Up, up, and hold. If I believed it, I could have it.

Dad again. “Believe it, baby. Believe it and it’s yours.”

Stop it. Down. Stop talking to me. My muscles contracted, quivered. Block it out, Mike. You’re strong. Feel the power. Let
it grow, radiate. Exhale. Up, up, and up.

“Anything is possible.”

Shut up, Dad.

“Anything.”

You’re a liar. Remember?

Armie reracked me.

“Hey—” I was on the verge of my adrenaline high.

“You’re shaking,” Armie said. “Take a break.” The phone rang and Armie headed toward the office. Over his shoulder, he added,
“Do some curls.”

I waited until he was out of view and pressed another set. I needed my high.

As I was toweling off the bench for the next person, Armie reappeared. Swinging a clump of keys on a shoestring around and
around his wrist, he looked at me and shook his head.

“What?”

“You’re the best advertisement I got for this place,” he said.

I exaggerated a smile. He was right about that. I struck a pose like Mr. Universe, which made Armie laugh. He ruffled my hair
and headed over to the Nautilus.

After Armie blew out his knee playing football at K State, he found his way back to Coalton. Guys like him always did. Townies.
People with deep roots. His family had been here longer than mine, lucky for me. Lucky for all us jocks. Armie’d bought up
the old VFW building at the end of Main and remodeled it into a weight room on one side and tanning salon on the other. The
gym was totally equipped: a multi-station machine, Nautilus, flat and incline benches, squat rack, barbells, dumbbells, a
treadmill, couple of stationary bikes. He called it Armie’s Hut. It’d always be the VFW to us. When you’re used to something,
it’s hard to change your way of thinking.

Dad and Armie were old drinking buddies from way back. Dad had bailed Armie out of the drunk tank more than once, so I guess
Armie felt indebted when he’d offered to waive my membership fee. I told him forget it. I’d pay my way.

I took a quick shower, then poked my head into the salon, thinking I’d catch Jamie in the tanning bed. It was open and empty.
Renata Pastore, Armie’s live-in girlfriend, was cleaning out the spigot on the espresso machine. “Hey, Renata,” I called to
her.

She whirled around. “Oh hey, Mike.” She smiled, her head tilting at an odd angle. I knew what was coming. “How’s your Ma?”

“Doin’ good,” I lied. “You seen Jamie?”

“Not yet. That cheerleader jamboree was today.”

It should’ve been over by now. That was the reason I was here instead of softball practice. The visiting squads were hogging
the field.

“We’re sure having a gorgeous spring, aren’t we?” Renata said, rinsing out her dishrag. “It’s warm for April, though. Bet
we’re in for a long, hot summer.”

“Probably.” When wasn’t it long and hot in Coalton?

Renata had on a tie-dyed psychedelic skirt with an embroidered peasant blouse. Jamie called her a throwback to the sixties.
Renata’s sister, Deb, who was in my class, was sort of retro too, except I think it wasn’t by choice. She mostly wore Renata’s
hand-me-downs. My eyes strayed to the watch on my wrist—Dad’s old Timex. Crap. If I didn’t haul ass, I was going to be late
for work.

Thompson’s Feed, Seed, and Mercantile was a historic landmark in Wallace County. A couple of years ago lightning had struck
the original structure and burned it to the ground. Everett Thompson, the proprietor (as he liked to call himself), managed
to salvage one charred beam, which he extended vertically from the roof with the new Mercantile sign. You couldn’t miss it
from the highway, not after he attached the rotating pig on top.

The pig lit up at night. You could see it clear from Goodland. The town council had been after Everett for years to take down
that beam with the turning pig. Coalton was more than a pig on a spit.

Everett met me at the open barn door in back. “Mike, where ya been?” He didn’t give me a chance to answer. “I need you to
take this order up to the Davenport place. You know where it is?”

“Out by the main power line past Blaylock’s Dairy.”

Everett nodded as he rubbernecked around me into the gravel parking lot.

“Darryl needed the truck.” I answered his unspoken question. Fire me, I prayed. Fire me. Set me free. Give me an excuse to
kick Darryl’s ass for losing the family business.

Out the side of his mouth, Everett spit a stream of chew. “Think you can handle the flatbed? I gotta stick around here for
an order of well pumps and troughs coming in from Dallas.”

“Sure, no problem.” Okay, that’d be fun. I’d ridden along with Everett’s son, Junior, enough times on delivery runs to see
how all the gears worked. If June could drive the flatbed, there was no reason I couldn’t.

“Here’s the order.” From his apron pocket, Everett pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and handed it to me.

I scanned the list. A pallet of horse feed, bottle of dewormer, two bags of dog chow. Everett’s handwriting was all spidery
from his Parkinson’s.

“Faye specifically wants the Profile Horse Feed and not the Purina. She says Purina gives her mares the bloats.”

“Got it.” I started for the feed aisle.

“If you need help loading the truck—”

“Got it,” I said over my shoulder, flexing my biceps.

Everett chuckled and shuffled off. He was a good guy, but I still hated this job. I never thought I’d be working at the Merc.
Never thought I’d need a job. I had a job. A career. A purpose in life. But that was gone now. All of it. Thanks, Dad. You
knew Darryl couldn’t be trusted.

The keys to the flatbed were in the ignition. I backed up to the rear of the Merc, maneuvering as close as I could to the
pallets of feed. At least it’s physical labor, I thought as I tossed up the first bag of Profile. And I got to work outside,
stocking feed and garden supplies. It wasn’t
what I loved to do; wasn’t what I thought I’d be doing the rest of my life. It wasn’t what I was born to. If I had to work,
though, this job was better than the Dairy Delite or the Suprette, where most people ended up. I could never work at the Dairy
Delite. Couldn’t bring myself to wear that candy striper shirt with the cow on the breast pocket. Jamie loved it, but that
was Jamie.