Matt was gone.
Away from school.
Away from town.
Away from me.
I almost gave in.
Almost relented.
Almost submitted.
Almost said okay.
But I remembered.
Kyle is a stoner.
Kyle is a player.
Kyle is Matt’s best friend.
I THINK OF THEM BOTH
As I lie in bed, body
asking for sleep
while my brain insists on
flashing
cerebral photographs.
Phffft. Matt and me,
last summer, making
out
like there was no tomorrow.
Love that phrase. Because
without tomorrow,
what’s wrong with
some
spectacular today? Phffft.
Kyle, touching me,
in a totally different
kind
of way than Matt could
even imagine. Phffft.
Matt, a solid dream
of a
guy telling me, I love
you, as we lie together
in a tall field of wheat.
Warning!
The next photo is X-rated.
And when I wake, I am still
warm from the night before.
MAYBE WHAT I NEED TO DO
Is make us a threesome.
If I belonged to some weird
religious sect, that’s what
I’d do. Except don’t all those
weird religious sects expect
two girls to a guy, instead of
the obviously better way to go?
What is wrong with women,
anyway? Two dudes. One you.
Yeah, baby. That’s what I’m
talking about. It’s stupid
as hell to think that way,
but WTF? It’s my effing
daydream, isn’t it? I keep
dreaming it right through
breakfast. On the short bus
ride to school. But then, as
I pace the sidewalk, waiting,
a sudden realization hits. Two
guys. One girl. Can’t do that.
If I did, I would be my mother.
I WATCH THE PAIR
Of them now, coming up the walk, cutting
through the herd trying to make first bell.
Matt is two inches taller. So why does Kyle
loom larger? Why should that matter at all?
Kyle spots me first, waves. There is much
in his smile that Matt can’t see. But I can.
Matt says something to Kyle, slaps his shoulder,
turns away from him, heads toward me.
I love the confidence in his stride,
goal in sight, no hint of hesitation
until he reaches it. Reaches me. Hey.
Not exactly eloquent, but that’s okay.
Lips have better uses. The kiss they bring
is autumn rain—wet, warm, wished for.
Matt bracelets me with strong arms.
He smells clean, but not perfumed,
like Tide detergent and Ivory soap.
I am safe here against his chest,
where his heart thumps desire.
This is all any girl could want.
So why do my open eyes stray over
his shoulders? And why am I satisfied
to see Kyle staring back at me?
He gives a little shrug, continues
inside, just as the first bell blares.
Matt pulls away reluctantly. Guess
that’s our cue, huh? He gives me
another quick kiss, slides his arm
around my waist, hustles me toward
the door and the long row of lockers
just beyond. At the far end, Sierra
Freeman has cornered Kyle. Only
his body language loudly says he’s
not exactly frantic to get away.
MATT WALKS ME
To my first-period class—
AP English. Thank God
for advanced placement.
The regular curriculum
would drive me bonkers.
I taught myself to read
before kindergarten.
I lived with Grandma Jean
and Grandpa Carl then,
and books were everywhere.
Grandpa helped me learn
to count. After that, math
was easy. Two grandparents,
take away one (goddamn
cigarettes got him too young)
leaves one. And when that
one goes just a little crazy
having lost her husband
of thirty-nine years,
two grandparents take away
one equals zero. Anyway,
words and numbers have
always been easy for me.
And even without people
who care, my grades rock.
Matt, who is clueless
about much more than
my relatively curvy
exterior, likes to tease
me. Who knew a brainiac
could be so much fun?
is one of his favorite
lines. “Fun,” meaning
I let him cop regular
feels of those curves.
He knows I take all AP
classes, but somehow
has no real idea just
how brainy I am. Okay
by me. It’s an advantage.
Hunter
SATURDAY
The alarm blares again.
Second snooze cycle?
Third? Behind my eyelids,
morning is bright. Eightish?
I roll over and open one eye.
Almost nine. Damn. Up I go.
I’ve got to land an earlier
air shift, at least if I have
to keep doing remotes.
Live broadcasts are fun.
But it’s not good to do them
with bags under your eyes.
Not if you want to look
like a radio star. Okay,
maybe I haven’t reached
“star” status. The stars do
morning or afternoon
drives. I pull ten p.m. to two
a.m. twice a week. But
they are weekend nights,
so at least a few people
are up late, listening.
I even have groupies.
Hey, maybe I am a star.
THE REMOTE
Is at the football game.
The UNR Wolf Pack versus
the Boise State Broncos.
Boise is a powerhouse
team and generally cleans
our clock, but UNR has got
one radical quarterback
this season, plus an all-state
running back. Never know.
We just might take ’em.
Wolf Pack fans are ready to howl.
The game should be packed.
Which means I’d better
get a move on. Traffic
will be a bitch. A glance
out the window confirms
it’s a crystal-edged October
day. Perfect football weather.
I shave. Shower. No time
for breakfast, a quick brush
to excise morning mouth.
Jeans. Long-sleeved blue tee
sporting the X logo. It’s a little
wrinkled, but the black leather
bomber will camouflage that.
Socks. Socks? My sock drawer
is empty. Oh, well. Yesterday’s
shouldn’t be too bad. Mom’s always
griping about my dirty laundry.
All you have to do is get it from
your room to the laundry room.
Twenty-five steps total. How hard
could that be? The word isn’t “hard.”
It’s “organized.” Not my best thing.
Yesterday’s socks it is. New pair
of Nikes, barely scuffed at all.
Out the door in twenty minutes.
If I’m lucky, I won’t be late.
IT’S A HALF-HOUR DRIVE
To the station. Another forty
minutes to load the remote
broadcasting equipment
into the company van.
Just about the time
I’m ready to roll,
a beater Pontiac burps
into the parking lot.
Oh, no. It’s Montana.
Her real name is Corrine,
but she wanted her air
name to play off
Hannah Montana.
Don’t ask me why.
Morning, she breathes,
in her best “I’m trying
not to sound like
the dingbat I am” voice.
(Not that it works.)
Awesome day, huh?
“Uh, yeah.” I load
the last speaker. “Well,
I’m about ready. As soon
as Rick gets here …”
Montana’s head swings
side to side. Didn’t you
get the message? Rick
has a major flu bug.
She moves closer. Too
close. Her lips are four
inches from mine when
she says, It’s me and you.
No, no, no! It’s bad
enough working a remote
with Rick the Brick Denio,
whose “I’m God’s gift
to the world” attitude
has thirty years in radio
to back it up. Montana’s
“hey, I’m the shit” pose
comes from bottled
blond hair and way-
too-round-to-be-real
36DDs. And, fake or
no, those babies were
designed for Montana
Disney (no lie!) to steal
the show wherever she goes.
ESPECIALLY FOOTBALL GAMES
Especially with those DDs
encased in a gray angora sweater,
and her equally impressive ass
advertised by a short, tight navy
skirt. Wolf Pack colors are silver
and blue. She’s a one-of-a-kind fan,
one every guy walking by can’t help
but notice. It’s irritating, but what
really pisses me off is how she just
stands there, flaunting fuzzy silver
and tight navy blue, while I do all
the work, setting up the X tailgate
party. Even Rick would have helped.
At least we have a designated
parking spot in the alumni lot. People
are parked down the hill, a half mile
or more away. By the time they reach
us, they’re huffing and puffing.
Montana sympathizes. Long walk?
Well, come on over here and have
a hot dog and soda, on the X.
MOST OF THEM
Are already drinking beer.
But they take the dog, if only
for the chance to stand that
close to those amazing ta-tas.
I have to admit, Montana
is great advertising, if a mediocre
on-air personality. She knows
jack about music. She’ll probably
go on to fame and fortune as
a spokesmodel or something.
Anyway, I watch her work
the mostly male crowd until,
finally, a couple of cute girls
wiggle up to me. Are you Hunter
Haskins? says the curvy redhead.
’Cause I really love your show!
Yeah, agrees the slender brunette.
I listen every weekend. You’re good.
My turn to flirt. “Sweetheart,
I am so much better than good.”
Then I remember, “Hey, are you
interested in a hot dog?”
The girls dissolve into laughter,
and I realize how that sounded.
I flush, hot despite the nip in the air.
“Uh, I meant a Polish sausage.”
That makes Red laugh even
harder. Is Haskins a Polish name?
The brunette’s eyes are watering.
And just how big is that sausage?
Wow. Obnoxious. So why does
the thought of a threesome
cross my perverted mind?
“I’ve never had a complaint,
if that’s what you mean.” A gasp
behind me makes me turn….
AND THERE IS NIKKI
And not only that,
but there is Nikki with
her parents, UNR alumni
and rabid Pack fans.
But not exactly fans
of Hunter Haskins.
Surely they realize this
is part of the radio
personality game?
“Oh, hey!” I reach for
Nikki, who shrinks
back a little. “Great
to see you all here.
How about a …”
Shit. If I say hot dog,
my groupies are gonna
howl. I turn my back
on them completely.
“Want some lunch?”
I gesture toward
the gathered X fans
all happily munching
Polish sausages. Nikki,
red-faced, shakes her head.
Her mom, all stuck-up,
slides her arm around
Nikki’s shoulder. No.
Her dad looks slightly
amused, but his voice
is stiff. We already ate.
“Oh. Okay.” How do
I make this right? “Nik,
can I talk to you a sec?”
She starts to say no,
but if I don’t fix this
now, it might be unfixable.
“Please?” I take her
arm, pull her away
from her mother’s grasp
Those girls are listeners.
You are the one I love.”
I NOTICE HER MOM AND DAD
Watching us. Standing
a couple of feet apart,
as if they want nothing
to do with each other.
And I remember. “So,
are your parents back
together?” I know her
answer before she says,
Not really. He claims
he wants to come home,
but he still wants to work
with … with her.
His boss. And maybe
the woman he loves
more than he loves
his wife and daughter.
There’s a big alumni
party today. They only
came together to keep up
appearances. She starts
to tear up again, and
I pull her into my arms.
Kiss her forehead softly.
“It will all work out. I promise.”
WHY DO I PROMISE
Shit like that?
Then again, it
will
all work out.
Just not necessarily
the way she wants
it
to. I look at her
mom, rigid as iron,
suspicion written
all
over her face. And
why not? Her husband
has blatantly
come out
about falling for
someone else. Why
wou
ld she want him
back, anyway?
In the
final analysis, their
marriage will forever
be stained. In the long
run, stay or go, it’s a
wash.
IN MY ARMS
Nikki sways, relaxes
just the slightest bit.
I take the opportunity
to repeat, “I love you.”
Love you, too. Her whisper
is shaky, like aspen leaves
in a bold autumn breeze.
They’re waiting for me.
“I know. But I’ll see you later,
right?” Her answer is slow
coming. Finally she gives
me a lukewarm, I guess so.
We turn back toward the X
lunch line. My groupies, thank
God, have wandered off.
Nikki’s mom watches us
with relentless eyes, unlike
her dad, who is focused on Montana.
That fact does not escape
Nikki. God. He’s such a dog.
HE DOES KIND OF LOOK
Like one—a basset hound,
maybe, or a cocker spaniel.
A dog with dopey eyes.
Nikki pulls away from me,
pushes between her parents,
forms a three-link chain.
They start toward the gate
just as the cannon fires,
signaling first kickoff.
Hot dogs in hand, the X fans
disperse, leaving Montana
and me to watch the stragglers.
After a while, Montana turns
to me. Pretty girlfriend, she says.
You two serious, or what?
Without my telling them to,
my shoulders hunch into a shrug.
“We’re not, like, getting married
or anything. But I like her a lot.”
Her question was out of left field,
my answer bordering on evasive.
Looked more like love to me.
Meaning, I guess, that she was looking.
Mind if I give you a little advice?
Advice? Who does she think
she is? Dr. Phil in drag? But
what the hell. “Uh, guess not.”
Radio is entertainment, or should
be, anyway. Your jock persona
should feel real to your listeners.
But never forget that it’s fabricated,
created in the name of entertainment.
Once you start thinking it’s real,
start taking the fake you too seriously,
the truly important things in your
life will vanish. Believe me, I know.
I do believe her. But why?
Montana is schlock to the n th
degree. “Do you want to elaborate?”
Her smile, sad, makes her pretty.