Hard
83 Hard PETER SEARS I hang at the high school bike stands and lock my bike and then, pretending not to like my spot, unlock my bike and move it to another spot and lock it up again. I do this a couple of more times to come to homeroom with her already in her seat up front so that I can pretty much stare at her the whole homeroom period without anyone noticing. My friends, if they find out, will work me over. So I am careful sneaking good looks at her, like I’m putting a cape over her and drawing her to me, saying things to her that I can’t even hear. After homeroom, I probably won’t see her again until after lunch. That’s okay. Lunch is dicey because I sit with my friends, who gawk around, crack dirty jokes, and guffaw. So that means I don’t see her until Latin, sixth period. She’s terrible at Latin. When she is asked to translate, I just die. She doesn’t know anything. I doubt she cracks a book. I love Latin. I love her. If only I could save her, swoop her up in my arms and carry her down the hall to, like, shop or study hall, or maybe right out to the ball fields, murmuring Latin love words. That way she wouldn’t understand a word and would have to ask me what I’m saying. I’d just smile. But maybe I can’t carry her that far, she is bigger than I am. Peter Sears 84 In Latin, when I am called on, I try not to speak too enthusiastically. I don’t want everyone thinking I am doing it for her. I am doing it for her. I do everything for her. Have you heard of the ablative absolute? Well, that’s what the Latin teacher asked her about. She sat there. I wanted to stand up and shout, Ask somebody who knows! Like me! Ask me! But I cowered there, for her, for me, for everyone crushed by an ablative absolute . We don’t even have the ablative case in English. The teacher is just mean. I should be grateful, I guess, I am not in any of her other classes. English class could be worse because when they didn’t have enough copies of The Merchant of Venice, they switched to Romeo and Juliet. What if I had to read Romeo when she read Juliet? I’d commit suicide. Well, pretty close. What if someone else got to read Romeo when she read Juliet? I’d hate him, I’d challenge him to a duel and he would probably say, “You’re crazy,” and my friends would laugh their asses off. I’d like to ask Romeo about his baggy pants and what about dancing with Juliet, pressing her to him? What I’d really like is to get taller. Coach is asking me about it. We have this play where I set a screen for the other guard, but I’m so short the guy guarding me can just reach over me and block the guy’s shot. So I don’t get to go in for that screen play anymore. I’m sent in now only to foul guys, to keep our starting players from fouling out. The ref likes to yank my jersey up to see my number and holler it out. He says he’ll call a technical foul on our team if I can’t keep it tucked in. I don’t believe him, he can’t be that mean, but coach believes him. Coach likes to say, “I ask you to take one foul, not two,” and look around as if he just made it up. I would much rather keep my jersey tucked in anyway because, when it hangs down over my shorts, it looks like I only have a shirt on. That’s what my friends say, laughing their asses off as usual. The cheerleaders look away, embarrassed for me. I could die. But I can get up and down the court faster than anyone. They call me Butterfly. They call me Speeding Bullet. They call me Winger. I dribble too hard, the ball comes up too high. I outrun the ball, but one thing about playing, I don’t worry about what my crazy body is doing. The problem is I don’t get into the game...
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