Way to Hustle

(continued)

By Wes Prussing

“Super,” Joan says.

She nudges the stick into first and we glide down the street and head for the parkway. After fussing with the radio for a minute or so, she settles on a soft rock station: Mamas and Papas. James Taylor. That sort of thing.

Is this what she likes? I wonder. I try to guess her age. She’s driving, so she’s got to be at least seventeen. I glance up at the rearview mirror, tying to catch a glimpse of her face again. I’m careful to avoid any eye contact, but it’s not easy. My feet are straddling the hump. It’s uncomfortable, but I want to stay in the center of the seat. When we speed up, I lean forward and let her hair tickle my cheek. She’s wearing a flowered sundress that dips down her back, exposing a half-moon of freckled skin. At the center of her back, just above her shoulder blades, I can make out a thin, feathery line of gold-tipped hair that travels straight up to her neck where it darkens to a warm ochre. Her hair flutters over the headrest like a pennant. Her perfume sweetens the air racing past me. I drink it in.

She’s twenty, I find out later. I’m fifteen—almost sixteen. She may as well be fifty.

As we exit the parkway, I catch her eyes in the rearview mirror. “How we doing back there?”

“Fine,” I say.

“Gets kinda windy, doesn’t it?”

I grope for words. Nothing. I just blurt out, “Feels good.”

We stop at my corner, and I hop out.

“See ya,” Mark says.

“Yeah, see ya.” I say. Then to Joan, “Thanks for the ride. I would have had to take the bus. I’d probably still be waiting for it.”

“You’re very welcome, Leslie.”

I feel a rush at the way she says my name: Lezzz-leeee. Like we share a secret. My face must betray what I’m thinking because she suddenly asks, “You’re the first Leslie I’ve ever meet. Do you use your full names or do you prefer Les or Lee or...”

“No. Leslie is fine.”

“Good. I like that name… Leslie.”

I swallow and manage, “Well, bye.”

I watch the convertible speed away. I head for home and the whole way I can hear her saying my name: Lezzz-Leee. No one has ever said it quite the same way. It echoes in my head all through supper and late into the night.

Weeks later Mark and I are shooting baskets in his driveway. It’s July, and we shoot baskets almost every day. Turns out we both have a lot in common, even if we’ve existed in nearly separate universes since grade school.

He spots me eighteen points in a game of Twenty-One. I lose repeatedly. The sun is merciless. In three weeks, I’ve sweat off almost ten pounds. My stomach flattens, and my endurance increases dramatically. Mark, too, grows even stronger and more imposing. His arms and legs swell with new muscle. Veins ripple over his forearms coil around his calves. Every morning before we shoot baskets, he bench-presses 220 pounds, thirty times. I can never catch up, but at least I’m not as fat and slow as before. When I’m at Mark’s, I watch for Joan all the time. I want her to notice me shooting baskets. See me hanging out. Mark’s buddy.

One afternoon we play four games of Twenty-One without a break. We collapse on the porch steps and watch rain clouds gather in the summer sky. Joan makes Kool-Aid and serves it to us in plastic cups. She is wearing pink shorts and a yellow blouse that ties in the back. Her hair is pulled back and bound with a scrunchy. Her skin is a buttery tan, except where her bikini straps loop over her shoulders. I catch a peek of the milky white crescents at the top of her breasts when she leans over to refill our cups. She is so beautiful. While we chug down the KoolAid, she tries teaching us Hearts — a game she’s picked up in college. We try to act interested but end up flicking the cards against the garage door, just like we do with baseball cards. Undeterred, she brings out a beach hat and makes up a game of high card; winner gets the Hershey bar hidden in her purse. She dumps the deck into the hat and holds it out. When I reach in to pick a card, she delicately slips an ace into my groping fingers. I leave my hand in the hat, making it look like I’m still digging around. My thumb hooks around her fingertips. I catch a fleeting glance; it’s a brief, ephemeral moment, but it makes my skin pebble and my face flush.

My circle of friends narrows. My circle of acquaintances expands. We’re back in school. Sophomores now. Mark makes the varsity basketball team. He gets me into the big games for free. I hang out with some of the players. Some are juniors and seniors. I follow Mark and his teammates around like a slave. I run errands for them. Help out after practice, put equipment away — anything to be part of the group.

Mark is dating Heather. She’s a cheerleader, beautiful and stacked. They’re both popular. Just being around them makes you feel important. I date Callie. She lives across the street from me. Her real name is Catherine but I’ve been calling her Callie ever since I was 5 and had trouble pronouncing Catherine. Somehow the name stuck. Even her mother calls her Callie sometimes. She doesn’t seem to mind. She’s really thin and has mousy brown hair, which she wears in a sort of pageboy style. We make out a lot but that’s about it. Every time things start to heat up the passion melts away. Maybe I’ve just known her too long. Maybe we can’t get past being friends. I don’t know. I’m confused all the time. I think about Joan more and more — even when I’m making out with Callie. Something’s wrong. I can’t waste time. No one seems to understand this.

Joan is in her third year at city college. She dates a lot and seems to spend hours getting ready for dates. I see guys come by to pick her up when I’m over Mark’s. I’m extremely jealous when I see this. I study them. I critique them. They’re all losers, if you ask me. Her current boyfriend, Lawrence, has a chopped-up Harley. Not Larry, you understand: Lawrence. How many Lawrences ride choppers? Joan says he’s in advertising, and he works in Manhattan. He’s tall and thin and has long sideburns. He is very pale and always looks like he needs a shave. Joan seems to enjoy riding with him. Sometimes he gives me and Mark a ride while he’s waiting for Joan to get ready for their date. Mark tells him that he is saving for a bike, too. They talk a lot about motorcycles. They talk about ape hangers and sissy bars. I’ve no interest. I sit and wait for Joan just to see what she’s wearing, just to hear her say my name. Lawrence calls her "babe." She calls Lawrence "Lawrence." I really don’t like this guy, but what can I do?