Authors: T. Glen Coughlin
“I'm boiling.” His cheeks are heated and his mouth dry. “Is it hot in here?”
“We can't control the heat. The landlord cooks us for the entire winter.”
His stomach rumbles.
She lifts her hips and pulls down her jeans, so that all that separates his fingers from her is a two-inch-wide thong. His belly makes a noise that sounds like a door closing in a horror movie.
“Are you all right?” Her voice is breathy and distracted.
His throat bubbles. “I feel like I'm gonna heave. That turkey burger.” He stumbles from the room. Food is coming up fast. He spins into the bathroom doorway and drops to his knees. Oh, God!
Jane comes to the doorway. She's already dressed. Gloria stands behind her. He waves them away, but they watch as he retches into the toilet. He wipes strings of spit from his mouth and stands.
“Are you okay?” asks Jane.
“Do you have mouthwash?”
She pulls a bottle of blue mouthwash from the medicine cabinet.
Embarrassed, he gargles, feeling weak, but better. “I'm not eating there again.”
Gloria backs down the hall toward the kitchen. Diggy follows Jane into her room. The urgency has drained out of him. Part of him wants to go. Part of him hates her for luring him to this room. Now he's screwed either way. If he stays, she'll believe this is more than just a hookup. She might jump right to boyfriend/girlfriend status.
Her vanity table is crowded with makeup and creams. He imagines her looking into the mirror trying to cover the birthmark. She begins picking up her laundry from the floor. Each time she lowers her head, the birthmark darkens to purple, then lightens as she stands.
Her eyes narrow. “You're looking at me funny.”
“No I'm not.”
“It bothers you, right?” She touches the lower edge of the birthmark.
“I didn't say that.”
“But it does.”
He can't tell her. Of course it bothers him.
“Believe me, you're not the first guy. I know what those dimwits at school call me.” She is a foot from his face. “Jane the Stain, right?”
“You ever see that plastic surgery show on MTV?” he says. “They had a girl with no jaw....”
“Do you really think I'd keep this on my face if I didn't have to?” Her lips are hard, eyes set.
He feels ridiculous and mean. He's living in the Hills with his pool and Jacuzzi and he hurt her already, without trying. “I'm outta here,” he says.
“I know you heard the stories about me,” she says. “Are you here because you think I'm easy? Is that why you're here? Don't lie.”
“What if I am?”
“If you are, then you can leave, because I was drunk. Nothing weird happened.”
He doesn't know what to say. She sits on the bed with tears filling her eyes. “Diggy, I was in the tenth grade. I was the only girl there. The guys had beer in the rooms.”
“You don't have to tell me,” he says.
“They wanted me to do funnels. To this day, I don't know why I agreed. They put the tube in my mouth.” She shakes her head. “I shouldn't have done it. My mother took me to the emergency room and had my stomach pumped.” Jane looks up at him. “Then I heard the rumors.” Her cheeks are wet with tears.
“Did they, you know?” he asks softly.
“No. Diggy, I swear, nobody raped me, if that's what you're asking.” She wipes her tears on her sleeve.
He thinks about her on a bed in a darkened dorm room, boys mocking and cheering.
“Diggy, no one forced me to do anything. I swear nothing really bad happened.”
But how could she know? And maybe nothing
really bad
happened, but what happened must have been bad for her all the same.
“I have to make dinner for my sister.” She stands and opens the bedroom door.
“I'm sorry,” he says. “I'm a jerk.”
“You definitely are.” She smiles at him.
Before he can stop himself, he leans in and kisses her. Their noses bump. She turns her face, and then it's okay, amazing, a kiss he's thought about a dozen times, but never had the nerve to complete.
He follows her past the kitchen, through the living room.
“Feeling better?” asks Gloria.
Diggy nods. “Bad turkey.”
Gloria opens her mouth and sticks out her tongue. “Gross!”
Jane and Diggy step into the night. Music pumps from a Civic with its hatch open. The cool air feels refreshing.
“I always thought you were beautiful,” she says.
“Beautiful how?” He feels himself getting hard again.
“Like in every way.” She takes his hand. “You can call me,” she whispers, moving her face toward his. She slips her tongue in his ear and turns it around, then they are kissing again and he's holding her incredibly hard butt.
He trots to his car. Inside, he releases a breath and starts the engine. What did he just do? She's
Jane the Stain
!
I
N THE HALLWAY, BOYS STUDY THE PRESEASON MATCHUP BRACKETS
printed on eight-and-a-half-by-eleven paper, taped at the corners with masking tape. Fourteen weight classes, 106 to 285. Today is when Greco gets to see who's for real and who's a skater.
Trevor finds his bracket. Damn! Greco put him at 170, and damn, he pulled Armbrewster.
170-Pound Matchups
Match 1: Trevor Crow vs. Richie Armbrewster
It's insane to think that he can beat Richie Armbrewster. Last year, Armbrewster came in second in the districts, while Trevor had a pathetic JV season. Why would this year be different? He'll be pinned in the first period.
“Hey, Crow, you got lined up with Arm-buster right out of the gate,” says Little Gino.
“Awesome,” shouts Bones. “We're gonna have ourselves an old-fashioned ass kicking,” he says with a country drawl, cracking everyone up.
Trevor shrugs and moves away from the crowd. At the end of the hall, he pulls his cell from his sweatpants pocket and calls his mother.
“Secret Keepers, can I help you?”
“Mom can you get away for an hour to watch me?” If he loses, she'll be able to give him a ride home. He won't have to wait around like a humiliated loser.
“Honey, we have three rooms that turned over and I've got two check-ins. Harry is fixing a roof leak, so I'm flying solo in the office.”
“Flying solo? Is that one of London's stupid expressions?”
“Trevor, I can't talk now.”
“When can you talk?”
“This is my first weekend here.”
“How's Whizzer?” he asks.
“Harry had to tie him up.”
“Why?”
“He was chewing the paneling.”
“Tied where?” he asks.
“He's outside the office under the awning. He's fine. He has water and his blanket. Listen, someone's here checking in.”
“Mom, I'm wrestling one-seventy.” He hears her shuffling papers. “The guy I'm wrestling, he's all sucked down. He probably weighs one-eighty during the week.”
“Trevor, just do your best.”
“You don't know anything about wrestling!” He clicks off the phone. He walks to the end of the hall and presses his cheek against the cold window glass. Snow falls softly and is sticking to the grass. He calls his mother back and says he's sorry.
“I know you're under a lot of stress.”
“No, I'm not. I just want to win my warmup. That's it.” Silence. “And Mom, it's snowing. Bring Whizzer inside.”
“Hold on.”
He takes a deep breath. She's talking to someone in her phony cheerful work voice. He watches the snow blow across the parking lot.
“Okay, I'm back,” she says.
“Just let Whizzer in, okay?” He doesn't care that he sounds annoyed as hell.
“You're right, I will. Honey, don't get hurt. Okay? That's the most important thing. Good luck, love you.”
Luck? Wrestling has nothing to do with luck. His father never wished him luck. Wrestling is skill, strength, and determination, even courage, not luck.
Diggy struts up with his headgear hanging from a shoulder loop on his pulled-down singlet. His T-shirt says “Pinners are Winners.”
“How's the lip?” asks Trevor.
“Healed. The mouth heals about three times as fast as the rest of your body.” He looks up the hall, then at the posted matchups. “You're going one-seventy today. I'm glad you wised up. I told you there can only be one wrestler at one-fifty-two and everyone on the team wants me to be it.”
“Today doesn't count against my record,” says Trevor. “I don't mind wrestling one-seventy.”
“You don't mind.” Diggy smirks. “That's funny. You don't have a choice. Greco set this up. You're the one-seventy wrestler so suck it up.”
“I may have to wrestle you off,” says Trevor. “It's my senior year too.”
“My dad's already contacted some of the big wrestling colleges. Do you think they're interested in me because I'm Thomas Edison splitting atoms?”
“Edison?”
“Whoever the dickhead is.” Diggy turns, then stops. “You know what your problem is, Crow? You think that someone owes you something. You think that because your dad died, everyone is going to treat you different. Well, count me out. Do whatever you have to do, call on some of your Indian spirits, I don't care.”
“Keep your mouth shut about that.” Trevor's heart rages in his chest. He places his palm flat on Diggy's chest.
Diggy's eyes soften. “Forget it. You're not worth it. You're always going to be the no-friends weirdo.” He stares into Trevor's eyes. “Right?”
“Get out of my face.”
Diggy wiggles away. “Let's just wrestle today.” He extends his hand. Trevor automatically goes to shake it. Diggy pulls it away. “Sucker,” he says in a singsong voice.
The team forms two lines into a clap tunnel. Diggy charges through the Minute Men, slapping five with everyone.
Kevin O'Malley waits on the other side of the mat. Trevor heard Greco tell Diggy “not to take him lightly.”
Diggy shakes O'Malley's hand. The ref sounds the whistle. It's on.
Diggy starts his normal routine. Hand tap, move. Hand tap, move. Trevor's suffered through it in practice. Diggy strikes O'Malley's head and face again and again. Diggy pushes O'Malley's head, slaps at it, paws it, then dances away. Diggy continues the punishment, until the referee blows his whistle and holds his fist up, issuing Diggy a caution.
Trevor knows it's all strategy. Diggy is blowing O'Malley's game plan. The ref sounds his whistle, restarting the match. O'Malley is wild with frustration. He leads with his arms, trying to grab Diggy's head and shoulders. Diggy shoots in and under for a two-point take down. The match continues like that, Diggy stepping away, O'Malley off balance, struggling for a point.
Diggy wins, six to two. The applause is subdued. Diggy's father smacks a newspaper in his hand. He comes down from the stands and rubs Diggy's shoulder. Diggy pulls away and points back at the stands.
Jimmy's up next.
Trevor finds a team chair next to Pancakes. “I give that guy eighty seconds,” says Pancakes.
Jimmy steps to the center of the mat. Mr. O'Shea and a few of the Minute Men Varsity Dads clap loudly. Jimmy's wrestling Bobby Longo. Trevor's seen him before. He's hardcore. One knot of muscle from shoulders to calves.
At the whistle, Jimmy attacks like a praying mantis with quick stabs of his hands, trying to get a good hold on Longo. Jimmy comes in low. Longo's sprawl is too late. Jimmy has a double-leg takedown. Two points.
“You see?” says Pancakes.
Jimmy “throws legs,” winding his legs around Bobby Longo's legs. Jimmy extends and holds tight to Longo's shoulders, stretching him like he's on a medieval torturer's rack. Jimmy wedges his arm under Longo's elbow, then reaches and grips Longo's neck, achieving a solid half nelson. He makes it all look easy, like it's something that needs to be done quickly, without fanfare.
Jimmy tests his weight on both sides of Longo's back by flipping his legs to one side then the other, then begins cranking the half nelson by walking his legs around in a flat circle. Longo's face clenches in pain and resentment. It's like watching a snake squeeze a mouse. No escape. Jimmy flips him to his back and immediately goes for the pin.
“Lift the head,” yells Greco.
Trevor stands. Everyone is screaming. Jimmy slips his arm through Longo's leg and his other arm around his neck. It's pin time. Longo is trapped in a cradle.
Students stomp their feet. “Pin him,” can be heard all over the gym.