Wanting Rita (10 page)

She flicked an impatient hand at me. “No way! A husband and wife should never sleep in separate beds. That’s something for you to remember when you get married.” She began finger-placing the loose strands. “Why are you sitting down here? Are you all right?”

I was feeling slightly melancholy and restless, struggling to sort out my chaotic feelings. Making love to Rita had shaken me. I mentally wandered from bliss and sexual excitement, to fear and confusion.

Only a few months back, I had been to a Pittsburgh strip club, with an older cousin. I saw exposed breasts and round bare asses, bouncing and grinding under strobe lights. One glorious redhead, with pouty lips, had even swooped down, whipped her massive breasts in my face, and set the silver tassels spinning in perfect symmetry. Yes! I was ready for her. But she threw me a sassy kiss and strutted away in her red glittering stiletto heels, to a much more handsome guy. I had fantasies about her for a week.

I’d kissed two girls in my life, and I had seen my fair share of porn magazines and movies. I understood attraction and lust and I liked them. But I did not fully understand the naked, tumultuous and emotional effect that Rita had had on me. What did I mean when I told her I loved her? When she didn’t respond, what did that mean? I’d felt foolish, exposed and small. I felt like a boy, not a man.

My mind flooded with the sight and smell of her. Violets! My emotions were in riot, remembering our second love making, in the backseat of the Dodge Intrepid later that night after inhaling a medium pizza.

When I entered Rita the second time, I felt like a prince, a pirate, a hero. It was a playful and bewildering experience; the pleasure scintillating and elaborate; my emotions volatile. The hard rain striking the car gave us the furtive intimacy to explore. We finally arched in a perfect cadence and drifted to rest, legs and arms tangled, hair tousled, mouths open, gasping air.

Afterwards, Rita was silent. I could feel her rapid pulse and soft breath on my neck and I said, “I love you, Rita. … I do.”

But when Rita remained silent, seemingly unmoved, there came the inevitable thought: Why me? Why did Rita go out with me? Make love to me? Am I good enough for her? Is this skinny, nerdy kid good enough?

My mother was watching me with keen interest. “How was your date with Rita?”

I was guarded. I did not want any expression or gesture to reveal the slightest emotion. I shrugged. “You know, fine.”

“Just fine?” she asked, with a gentle lift of her chin and a dubious gaze.

“We had a good time.”

“What did you do?”

“You know…movie. Pizza.”

“What movie?”

I was prepared. “
A Time to Kill
…with Sandra Bullock. It was good.”

I looked away.

“Did Rita like the movie?

“Sure.”

“Does she like you?”

I grew uncomfortable. “I guess.”

“Did you kiss her?”

“Come on…” I protested, turning aside.

“Did you make another date with her?”

“We’ll meet at Jack’s… On Wednesday.”

I admired my own self-command. When I’d dropped Rita at her door, I’d asked her out for next Friday night. She gave me a carefree, innocent smile. “I don’t know, Alan James. Let’s meet at Jack’s on Wednesday. I have a story I’m working on I want you to read.”

Then she left me in a light rain. Her mother had watched us, silhouetted from behind the screen door. I pictured her stern and somber face and accusing eyes, because Rita’s hair was long, frizzy and sexy. Obviously, Rita had let it down for me.

On the drive back to the house, as the wipers slapped the windshield, I played back the events of the evening. An unpleasant thought appeared. I wondered if Rita had planned the entire night. She was so very theatrical and erratic. Maybe she had simply been acting—playing one of her roles; the role of beauty queen, seducing the poor, homely nerd. Maybe it was research for one of her stories? Maybe she’d tell others: that asshole D. J. Jeremy Peels; the Boston lawyer; her girlfriends!

I hated the thought and it sickened me. I felt the rise of cold rage and, with it, came the beginning of a dark plan. I decided to be icy and indifferent to Rita at our next meeting on Wednesday. I’d even tell her that I hated her story, whether I did or not. She’d be confused and off balance by my behavior, but I’d just let her dangle and fret.

“You seem a little upset, Alan,” Mom said.

“No…not at all. Just sleepy.”

“Go to bed then.”

I nodded, looking at her again, with slow probing eyes. “You know what? You got all the good looks in the family.”

Mom smiled, modestly. “There’s nothing wrong with your looks, Alan. Nothing at all. You have your father’s coal black eyes and strong chin. I find those very attractive.” She winked at me. “I bet Rita Fitzgerald does, too.” She started for the door. “Good night, Alan.”

At school on Monday, I was cool toward Rita and she was remote. That confused and unnerved me. We met at her locker as she gathered books for her next class. She wore a peach-colored sweater and designer jeans. We stood near the tall window where a shaft of sunlight framed her, and she seemed to glitter.

“You didn’t call yesterday,” Rita said.

“Your mother hates me.”

Rita shrugged. “So?”

“So, I don’t like her. She’s a bitch.”

Rita shot me a disapproving glance. “Don’t call her that!”

“Okay, fine. Whatever. She’s a wonderful woman,” I said, sarcastically.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing.”

With a little shake of her head, she slammed her locker and walked away, leaving me there, humiliated. Students passed, whispering, snickering, turning to watch Rita’s hasty retreating steps, and then commenting. Dusty Palmer strode by, with good looks and confidence all about him like a blessing.

“Hey, Alan. How’s it going, man?”

I ignored him.

He stopped abruptly, left the two beefy guys he was with, and wandered over. My postured improved, as I tried to gain height. Dusty was 6’ 2”.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked me over curiously. “You dating Rita?”

I dropped my voice, aware that mine was already naturally lower than his. “Yeah. I am,” I answered, proudly.

But he already knew that. He’d seen us at Jack’s and everyone at school knew what Rita was doing and who she was dating.

“I dropped math,” Dusty said, scratching his long sandy hair. “Just not good at it. Did okay in geometry. Algebra knocked the shit out of me, you know. But calculus, hey no way, man, no way. Mr. Burkett said I’d still graduate if I dropped it. That did it, man, I dropped it quick…like fast and quick, man. Fast and quick.”

I waited, observing his broad handsome face working on another question. “So, Alan…” He said, standing awkwardly, “You’re good in history, right?”

“Yeah…and math, too. I’m excellent in math,” I said, watching him squirm and enjoying it.

“Yeah, well, I was kind of wondering if you could, you know, maybe give me some help…you know, pointers or something with history. I’m…well, I can’t drop it. I’ve already dropped math. I can’t drop history too and graduate, and I figured that history has got to be easier to pass than math. You know what I’m saying, man?”

I nodded, silent.

“I’m not stupid or anything…I just don’t…I don’t like it, Alan. It’s so damn boring, man. I mean dates and names and all those places. Shit, man, I don’t get the need for it. Nobody out in the world cares whether I know where some damn revolutionary battle was fought or what Andrew Jackson did in the Civil War.”

“Andrew Jackson didn’t fight in the Civil War,” I said, with a haughty little sniff.

“Okay, Alan,” he said, brightly, as if to hammer in his point. “Okay, you see, I need some help with this shit. So can you, you know, tutor me a little? I mean, I’ll pay you. I don’t expect nothing free. I just need to pass a couple of tests and then I don’t give a shit. I’ll pass the course with a C or D and that’s okay with me, man, because I’ll graduate. What do you say?”

I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I was dating Rita Fitzgerald, and now, Dusty Palmer, the All Star Quarterback, who was said to have the eye of a couple of pro team scouts, was asking me to tutor him.

I made a long sad face. “I’m sorry, Dusty. I just don’t have the time. I get so many people asking me to help them all the time and, if I helped all of them, I’d never have the time to study myself.”

Dusty blushed from the roots of his hair, meek and wounded. It surprised me. I’d expected anger or hard, sneering words. I had braced for them and even had a retort. I was going to say “Hey, buddy, what can I do? It’s a time thing. No hard feelings.”

But Dusty softened into vulnerability. “Hey, yeah, man. Hey sure, I can dig that. You’ve got your own shit to get together. Okay…Yeah and I’m gonna just bend my head around that shit, Alan. I’m gonna just do it. Hey, maybe this is what I really needed…somebody to kick me in the ass a little.”

He held up a hand to high five me. I hated doing it, but I did. We slapped hands and he lumbered away, head down, shoulders hunched.

The hall had emptied of students, but it echoed with muffled voices, filtering through open classroom doors. I heard the shuffle of books, the shrill ringing late bell and the final slam of a locker. I was late to math, but I didn’t care. I’d already completed the week’s assignment. Mr. Burkett, as always, would be impressed. The students jealous. I swaggered off, feeling a little nauseous. The nausea intensified as I thought about the conversation with Dusty. I grew so nauseous that I skipped lunch.

Chapter Six

On Wednesday afternoon, Rita and I sat in Jack’s Diner, avoiding each other’s eyes, as well as the mound of overcooked french fries. Rita was wrapped in an elegant gloom and had said little since we’d arrived. The diner was quiet. Don McClean sang an old song,
Starry, Starry Night
. Outside, winter dropped in with a harsh wind and a light dusting of snow that sugar-coated the world and augmented my bad mood. The low gray clouds and snow mocked that thrilling autumn night—only four days ago—when Rita and I had made love in moonlight. My first time. My first love. The lover introduced to love by a Goddess.

Now, with the damned cold weather, the whole episode seemed to have been an elaborate fantasy: something oddly imagined or witnessed, but not experienced. Rita and I were further away, not closer, and I didn’t understand why. The longer I searched for reasons, the further from her I felt. I was desperate to return to the magic.

The wind rattled the windows. Rita finally lowered her eyes on my story. Rita’s story lay before me, like a bad omen. Neither of us wanted to read, but we did, because we’d lost the thread of a dismal topic of conversation and couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“It’s kind of an essay/short story,” Rita said, raising her chin slightly with uneasy pride. “It’s kind of an experiment. Ms. Lyendecker made some suggestions when she read it yesterday.”

I noticed her perfect posture; her brooding, insecure eyes.

I began Rita’s story.

Riding The Fence

by

Rita Fitzgerald

She never liked making choices, because every choice she’d ever made led her to the realization that the “Yes” or “No” of any choice always led basically to the same place: to the experience of something utterly regretful or astonishing. Therefore, she stopped making choices some time ago. Now she observed that love or rejection never boomeranged back on her in either disappointment or satisfaction, because she simply rejected the idea of making a choice.

It seemed an absurdity to make any choice at all, when every one led to a basic unknown anyway. What was the point? To grow? Then, surely, any choice would accommodate. Or, no choice would also do. The weights and balances of the heart would decide, or, not decide. A balance of experience would supercede the “This and That.”

And so it was that when she met Oliver, she did not kiss him on the first date, not because it was a conscious choice, but because she was deft at reading boys’ intentions the way an astrologer reads the movement of planets or the truly inspired minister interprets the Bible.

So she did not kiss Oliver, but it was not a choice to not kiss him. No. She knew that, with that first kiss, he would demand another, and finally another, until the long humid evening would climax in a slapped face and a disagreeable departure. That would happen. It was a fact. It was a natural outgrowth of the friction of two “hot” people in one space. And yet, she wanted Oliver to kiss her. Another complexity. A contradiction of choice.

But she would turn away from Oliver, indifferent, smoke and brood. She would strike a balance between the “ify” choice of this and the firm choice of that. She would, simply, wait and just BE. Let the choice of BEING and NOT BEING grind together in a friction of possibility, so that she could truly be born into a LIFE of BEINGNESS, and not be a slave and a whore to choice.