Chapter 9 Convenience
Convenience
“Hunter! Hunter! Hunter!” I hear Emma repeating my name over and over again, as I regain consciousness.
When I open my eyes, I realize I’m still on the floor, but I feel too disoriented to even sit up.
I see Emma, naked, on her knees, hunched over me, her left hand cradling the back of my head and her right hand shaking my shoulder.
“Stop,” I say, because she’s making me dizzier than I already am.
She releases the grip on my shoulder and says, “Oh, thank God.”
Then all of a sudden the memory of what just happened seizes my mind: I accidentally stuck my cock in Emma’s ass. The embarrassment I feel is so huge that I wish I were still knocked out cold. Or dead. Maybe it’s just better to be dead.
“You’re bleeding,” Emma says.
I move my hand to my head, where I feel pain, directly behind my right earlobe, and I realize Emma is pressing a cloth or a towel or something against my skin, presumably to stop the flow of blood.
I’ve never faked amnesia before, but now seems like the perfect time to do it.
I let out a little groan. “What happened?”
“You fell.”
“I don’t even remember that. One second we’re kissing, and now I’m here. How long have I been out?”
“Not long,” Emma says. “Maybe a minute.”
“How did I end up here?”
Emma hesitates. Then: “I don’t know. Like you said, we were kissing, and I think you slipped and fell and hit your head.”
That’s kind of sweet of her. She thinks I don’t remember. And because she doesn’t want to shame me, she’s willing to pretend that nothing happened. I guess that’s the best approach for her anyway because, really, it’s not like she would just blurt out, “You penetrated my butthole, you idiot!”
As Emma and I are heading to the curb to get into my car, we see a thin blond-haired guy walking toward Mr. Hilton’s house. I recognize him as a server at a restaurant named Sizzler that I sometimes go to with my friends. Mr. Hilton’s wife works there too.
My friends and I love Sizzler because of the all-you-can-eat salad bar, which also has different soups and pasta and a bunch of other food.
When I go with Oscar and Blanca, they both skip breakfast and lunch and don’t eat anything all day, so when they get to Sizzler they’re super hungry and go back for seconds and thirds and fourths and dessert.
I always pay, of course, because I can and because I want to, but I appreciate how every time I’m with Oscar he reaches for his wallet like he’s going to contribute to the bill.
He knows I won’t accept his money, but the gesture is nice.
Blanca never reaches for her purse. She just, like, expects me to pay all the time like I’m everyone’s sugar daddy. Fuck Blanca.
When Emma and I reach my car, the Sizzler guy notices us for the first time, and he freezes, like we just caught him doing something wrong. He quickly turns around, gets back in his car which is parked across the street, and drives away.
“Who was that?” Emma asks.
I shrug. “That was weird.”
Once we’re in my car, Emma in the passenger seat, I drive away from my house.
“It’s not that cold tonight,” Emma says.
I nod. “It’s nice.”
“Yeah.”
This small talk we’re making: it’s so awkward. It’s like we’re forcing ourselves to speak about mundane stuff, just so we don’t get anywhere close to addressing tonight’s failed attempt at sex.
Emma puts her hand on the side of my head, where there’s now a bandage. “That’s good the bleeding stopped. But do you think you should get it checked out by a doctor? What if you got a concussion?”
“I’m all right. Maybe I’ll see the school nurse on Monday. I mean, I won’t be able to get a doctor’s appointment over the weekend anyway, and I don’t want to go to the emergency room for a little bump.”
She asks, “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”
“I’m fine. Really.”
On the rest of the way to Emma’s house, we both remain completely silent. She occasionally strokes my thigh. I occasionally reach over and run my fingers through her hair.
Once we’re parked in the driveway of her house, she leans over and gives me a soft kiss on the lips.
She smiles. “Hang out tomorrow?”
“Yeah. I have to go to the Verizon store to see if they can fix my phone. Come with me?”
“Sure.” She gets out of the car. “Love you.”
I casually bite my lower lip. I know I can’t say nothing.
I mumble, “Love you too.”
My words come out at such a low volume that anybody else would ask me to repeat what I said.
But it’s good enough for Emma. (Maybe she knows she shouldn’t push it.) She turns around, walks to her front door, gives me a little wave, and goes inside.
I release a huge sigh. Thank God this night is over. Thank God I didn’t have to go through with having sex with Emma, even if I completely made a fool of myself.
Now how am I going to get through the rest of this school year?
I mean, it’s still the fall. Emma wanting to have sex: it’s going to come up again.
How am I going to avoid it next time? And the next?
And the next? I can’t keep accidentally shoving my dick in the wrong holes and banging my head so hard that I pass out.
On my way home, I stop by a convenience store, 7-Eleven, because I’m feeling a bit dehydrated. I should’ve drunk more water after I banged my head.
Out front, there’s a homeless woman wearing a wrinkled pink sweatshirt and baggy pink sweatpants that have holes in them. She looks like she’s in her forties, and her unwashed black hair has, like, chunks of Rice Krispie Treats in them.
She asks, “Got any change?”
I pull out my wallet and hand her a twenty-dollar bill.
Her face almost explodes from happiness. “Oh, my God! God bless you!”
I nod at her.
Then she says, “Thank you, Nash! Thank you!”
Wait a minute. What? I lean toward her. “What’d you call me?”
“Nash,” she says slowly and clearly. “I called you by your name. Nash.”
I say, “You’re welcome,” and go inside.
That’s strange. I mean, yes, I know my brother comes to this 7-Eleven, but you would never mistake me for him. You can tell we’re related, but we clearly look different.
I go to the refrigerated section and grab a bottle of Smartwater.
Standing near me, looking at the soft drinks, is a classmate of mine, a chubby Black boy named Carter T.
Douglass. (For some reason, everybody calls him by his full name, “Carter T. Douglass.” I think there’s a story behind it, but I don’t know what it is.) He’s pretty nerdy, especially with his thick black-framed glasses and elevated speech.
We’re not a part of the same circles, but I do enjoy talking to him because he knows a lot about computers and technology. And he’s really kind. I like kind people.
“‘Sup, Carter T. Douglass?”
He turns to me. “Hunter. What a coincidence. I didn’t notice you standing there. Smartwater? Good. It has electrolytes. I suspect that a track athlete like yourself must keep well-hydrated.”
“Yeah,” I respond. “What’re you here for?”
He pushes up his glasses because they were sliding down his nose. “I was watching movies at home, and I suddenly craved a soda pop.”
Did he really just say “soda pop”?
“The problem is,” he continues, “all the ones I desire have caffeine in them. And if I consume caffeine this late in the day, I’ll have trouble falling asleep. Even if I do manage to doze off, my slumber will be restless.”
After he chooses a bottle of Sprite, we walk to the front counter together.
I take the Sprite out of his hand and say to the cashier, “I’ll pay for both of these.”
Carter T. Douglass says, “You don’t have to do that.”
“But I want to.”
I like doing nice things for people. Also, I know Carter T.
Douglass and his family don’t have a lot of money.
He rides an old, beat-up bicycle, and his dad works, like, two jobs.
(His mother is dead.) And they live below the train tracks, which has always been a clear demarcation between the “working class” (below tracks) and the “better off” (above tracks).
As much as my parents argue with each other about money, I understand that compared to most families mine is doing pretty well.
“Thank you, Hunter. You’re one of the kindest people I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. What are you doing tonight?”
“I just dropped off my girlfriend, and I think I might hang out with Oscar for the rest of the night.”
As we walk back outside, he says, “I would like a girlfriend someday. Perhaps there’s a girl out there who can see past physical appearance and be attracted to good personalities.”
He’s not outright saying it, but I can tell he’s uncomfortable with his weight.
Again, I don’t like it when people cut themselves down, so I say, “Don’t underestimate yourself. You’ve got a lot of great qualities. There are girls out there for you. There’s somebody for everybody. It’s all in the timing. That’s all.”
Carter T. Douglass gets on his bicycle. “That’s good to hear. Thank you again for the soda pop. Good night, Hunter.”
“See ya.”
He pedals away.
Before I can get into my car, I hear the homeless woman: “Don’t worry.”
I turn around. “What?”
“I’ve told you before, Nash, and I’ll tell you again. Your secrets are safe with me.” She starts laughing hysterically. “Your secrets are safe with me!”
Then, all of a sudden, she stops laughing, and her face goes blank. She doesn’t move. It looks like she’s frozen.
I hop into my car and drive away as fast as I can.