Teenie (3 page)

“Now see, Teenie!! I told you that dress was hot. Look at you.”

Cherise has a huge smile on her face, even though her eyes are bloodshot red.

“Thanks.” I’m blushing, trying not to look too nervous.
She blows her nose into the most saturated snot rag I’ve ever seen. I hand her a Claritin pill and take some tissues out of my book bag because the paper towel she’s using is on the verge of disintegrating. Cherise and pollen spores don’t get along at all.

“Thanks,” Cherise says. She leans toward me and says, “In like five seconds, turn your head and look on the other side of the train.”

“Okay.” I wait, and when I turn, I see some boys standing on the other side of the train. There are a few of them staring at me, licking their lips and tilting their heads to the side, trying to look sexy.

“Don’t stare too long ’cause they ain’t that cute, but that’s what it’s gonna be like today. You watch.”

A few years ago my mother sat both Cherise and me down and explained to us why we should stay away from the bad boys, the thugs that every other girl seems to lose their mind over. She told us that those boys were at their peak and that they had no room to grow. They won’t have anything going for them once we get out of high school.

Her little speech worked on me, but Cherise loves her some thugs—only the pretty ones, though. As long as they come with the basics, starting with fresh shape-ups and crispy sneakers, they got a chance to get some vibes from my girl.

I don’t know what kind of boys I like, but I know the kind I
don’t
like. Unfortunately for me, those are exactly the types that always come up to me. Either they’re supernerds like Garth who know the square root of every number from one to one thousand, or they have their pants hanging off their butts and their breath smells like goat cheese.

It’s not like I want boys to talk to me anyway. I wouldn’t have any idea of what to say because, well, I haven’t had much practice. On the rare occasion that they do speak, it’s to tell me to take my fake green contacts out. I guess I’m a little too homely for them to believe that my eyes are real. One kid said I reminded him of his mother, like I should be in the kitchen baking some cookies or something. He looked confused when I walked away from him. I guess he thought that was a compliment.

Today, it’s a different story. I’m sharing the spotlight with Cherise. Usually, when guys come up to us, I am the one that they have to keep busy while they work on her. They talked to me because they had to. I didn’t mind playing second fiddle, so I guess it’s only natural that I feel uncomfortable with all the attention. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn this dress.

“Ugh, my allergies are killing me,” Cherise whines, blowing her nose. “My eyes feel like they’re about to explode.”

Cherise must be blowing a little too hard, because the lady next to her starts cowering away and covers her nose with her finger. Cherise is busy cleaning up and doesn’t notice. A seat opens up across the aisle, and the woman jumps up from where she’s sitting. She knocks a man’s video player out of his hand, and he yells, “Damn, lady! Take it easy.”

Cherise looks up just in time to catch the woman giving her a dirty look. “Why is that lady looking at me like that?”

“She was covering her face and looking at you like you had swine flu.”

“For real? Whatever.”

I keep my eyes on the woman, and sure enough, she looks
up at Cherise again, shaking her head with disgust. I don’t know what her problem is, like Cherise having allergies means she’s radioactive or something. I can’t stand people like that. I wish there was some way I could get back at her.

I smile when I realize what she’s reading. I turn to Cherise and whisper, “I read that book.”

“Which one, the one that lady’s reading?”

“Yup. It was good too, one of those thrillers where they keep you guessing right up until the end.”

“Really? How did it end?”

“The main character’s family dies in a plane crash, and he jumps off a bridge.”

“Word?” Cherise gets a look on her face like she’s plotting something. As we get up to leave the train, the woman flashes one last nasty glance in our direction; exactly what Cherise was waiting for. On our way out of the door, Cherise leans over to the woman, points at her book, and says, “He dies in the end.”

It feels like ten thousand eyeballs are following my every move. Brooklyn Technical High School, Tech for short, is a
ginormous
structure, one city block wide, two deep, and eight floors high. Four minutes never seemed like enough time to get to class, but today I can’t wait to get out of the hallway. The older boys lurk around every corner and flirt with me one after the other. I thought I would enjoy it more, but the way they look at me makes me feel like they can see right through what little I have on.

There are boys grabbing at my arm,
psst
ing at me, trying to
get my attention. I try to keep my head down and walk as fast as I can. Cherise is no help. She is relishing the attention, which today is even greater than normal because of her tight dress.

I can see the doorway of my class. There’s one more group of boys coming down the hallway, the only thing standing between me and that door, my forty-one minutes of safety. I go to drop my eyes, hoping they won’t notice me. My eyes never reach the ground. I stop, and stare. The sight of him, the glow, the way the light hits off his face, the boy in the middle with the sleeveless V-neck sweater. His name is Gregory Millons.

He’s six foot four, senior captain of the basketball team, and hot to death. He’s smiling at me. The dimple on his left cheek draws my attention for a second, but then I lock eyes with him again. My feet are stuck to the floor. I don’t think I would be able to move even if someone pushed me. My mouth is hanging slack and my eyes are open wide, really wide. I can’t take them off him, let alone blink.

“Yo, son, come on.” The boy who was standing on his right is talking from somewhere behind me.

“Y’all go ahead. I’ll catch up.” Greg never stops looking at me.

He’s walking over to me, leaning down to talk to me. I can smell his cologne. It’s making me dizzy; it’s Issey Miyake. I bought it for Beresford last Christmas, but he never wears it. He should, because it smells sooooo good. My knee buckles when Greg leans in, reaches for my hand, and says, “Hi, cutie, what’s your name?”

If I open my mouth, I’ll throw up.

“Her name is Martine.”

Cherise comes over to save me from embarrassing myself. He’s looking at her and now at me. He says, “I’m Greg. I haven’t seen you before, Martine. What year are you in?”

“She’s a freshman, like me. I’m Cherise.”

Now I’m looking at them, following their conversation about me but not participating at all. God, he is beautiful, and he’s smiling again, a different expression this time, amusement maybe? Does he see me staring at him? Can he hear my heart pounding? He looks at me funny and says to Cherise, “What’s wrong with her, she don’t talk or something?” because I’ve suddenly become mute.

I try to take a chance, save some face, but pay for it with a dry heave. Cherise helps me out again.

“She has laryngitis. She won’t be able to talk for a week or so.”

I would never have thought of that one. He lets her finish, then turns to me, studying me. I like how he looks at me. I feel sexy.

“Hmm. That’s too bad. I was gonna ask her for her math, but since she can’t talk, guess I’ll have to settle for her MySpace.”

“She doesn’t have one.”

“Facebook?” he asks. Cherise shakes her head to that one too.

My brothers cyberstalked me right off MySpace, so I never bothered setting up a Facebook account.

“Well, I guess her screen name will work,” Greg says.

He’s so smooth and quick. He knows I can’t talk, so getting my phone number would be pointless. Don’t know that I’d give him my number anyway. I’m not trying to give Beresford any reason to start with the yelling.

I fumble with the pen Cherise shoves into my hand. I write my email address and Instant Messenger screen name and pass it to her. She looks at me like I’m retarded before giving Greg the small piece of paper. He looks it over and puts it in his wallet, satisfied, I guess. His eyes are on me. The smallest, sexiest grin breaks at the corner of his mouth.

“Appletini, huh? I’ll link with you later tonight, sweetheart.”

Cherise lifts my arm and helps me wave as he walks away.

Cherise starts running in place, smiling like crazy. I’m still in shock, so she sort of guides me into my seat. We have a couple of classes together, and first-period American studies is one of them. I still can’t believe that Greg talked to me. It doesn’t seem real, but every time I look up at Cherise, she has a dorky smile on her face. Now I have the same dorky smile on my face because the reality of it all is finally hitting me. Gregory Millons talked to me; that’s right, to
me
.

I don’t even groan with the rest of the class when Mr. Speight springs a pop quiz on us. He’s one of my favorite teachers, so it doesn’t bother me that he tries to keep us on our toes. He swears he’s a comedian, and is always cracking some lame joke. The class is American studies, but on our schedule cards it says “American Stud,” to save space. The first day of class
Mr. Speight pointed out, “Hey, they wrote my name on the class schedule twice.”

Corny, but from there, I knew he would be different. It’s not hard to do well, since he keeps the material interesting.

This quiz is a joke, to be honest. Question 6 asks:

Easy stuff, if you pay attention. I remember the funny story he had used that held the answer to this dumb question. He told us that it’s politically incorrect to refer to Native Americans as Indians. First of all, the land of the so-called New World was nowhere near India. Second, he said, the people here were so distinct in culture and practices that it was unfair to lump them together with that incorrect name.

Mr. Speight mentioned the Blackfoot, the Sioux, and the Hellahwee as examples. Everyone in the class wondered out loud about the Hellahwee, having heard of the previous two nations. He said, “Yeah, the Hellahwee. The folks that get lost in the desert and say, ‘Where the Hellahwee?’ ”

Everyone laughed. That’s why I like him. He’s not a prude like my other teachers.

I breeze through the quiz and look up to check on Cherise. She was one of the students who groaned the loudest when he
sprung the quiz on us. Her pen just happens to be hovering over question 6 as she searches for the answer. Wow, I have to cough to keep Cherise from circling a. Oh my God, she needs me to cough again to keep her from circling b. She circles c. I stay quiet. Beresford always says she ain’t wrapped too tight.

C
herise and I meet up again fifth period for gym. Today is field hockey out in Fort Greene Park, so we both fake an injury. Her head hurts and my ankle is sore, or is it the other way around? The gym teacher (I can never remember his name) doesn’t seem to care and leaves us on the sidelines.

Cherise has that dumb smile on her face again. “I know your head is all swoll up from Greg coming up to you today. Did you see what he had on?”

“Yeah, he looked nice in that sweater.” Those chiseled arms have been on my mind all morning.

“The sweater was alright, but I was talking about his jeans.”

“His jeans were nice.” I really didn’t notice them.

“Nice?! They were True Religion.”

True who?

“Brand-new, limited-edition True Religions.”

Nope. I still don’t get it.

“They cost like three hundred dollars.”

Oh! “Oh yeah. They were some hot jeans.”

“Ice in his earrings and some hot Louis Vuitton shoes. He’s fine, girl.”

She stressed “fine,” sounded more like “foyne.” I was too busy looking at Greg’s face to notice his jeans, but if Cherise says he was wearing three-hundred-dollar jeans, then he was. She knows more about fashion than anyone I know.

“He plays ball and he’s a senior. Mmm. You’re so lucky, Teenie.”

Her eyes are staring up and to the left, at nothing in particular. I can tell she is in her fantasy world, probably doing some naughty stuff with Greg. Cherise is a bit more … advanced than I am, too damn fast, according to my pops.

“Why’re you so quiet, Teenie?”

“No reason. Just chillin’.” I haven’t said much since this morning. I guess I’m still a little out of it.

“I know you’re nervous and all, but you need to relax. Greg’s probably gonna want to chat tonight. You can’t be acting like no scaredy-cat.”

The more I think about it, the more nervous I get. I know that tonight I will have to communicate with him. My “laryngitis” won’t save me. “I … I don’t even know what I’m gonna say to this guy.”

“Just be yourself. Just write.”

“About what?”

“Whatever comes to your mind.”

“Why is he interested in me? Why does he want to chat with me?”

“Cuz you look good, dummy.”

I swallow hard and say, “Cherise, I’m really scared.”

She starts laughing at me and says, “Yo, what the hell is wrong with your face?” but starts patting my arm when she sees how upset I am. “Teenie, calm down. I got you. Don’t I always have your back?”

I nod. Cherise always looks out for me.

“Well, here’s what we gonna do. How about I sleep over tonight and I’ll help you respond?”

I’m smiling like crazy. “That’s a good idea. I’ll call Beresford later and ask him if that’s okay. Don’t forget to ask your mother if you can stay.”

Cherise waves off my comment. “Please. She don’t pay no attention to me. She’s all into her new boyfriend, Braxton.”

I laugh at the way she says “Braxton.” There’s an uppity twang to her voice. Cherise forces a smile, but I know she wishes her mother were around more.

The other girls are heading back inside. Cherise and I start to race back to the building and draw a curious glance from the gym teacher, Mr. What’s-His-Face. I stop running and start limping. Taking my cue, Cherise holds her head and her belly, unsure of what BS she told him. Maybe I should be the one holding my belly, because I’m hungry as hell.