Page 23 of Playworld
In the rearview mirror, the cabdriver caught my eye and winked.
The next day, for no reason I understood, I felt compelled to tell Naomi about the date the moment we parked.
“Well,” Naomi asked, “is she your girlfriend now?” She said this with just a hint of pettiness. I was not prepared for how much it hurt her.
When I said she wasn’t, Naomi added, “I think I’m jealous. Which is crazy, I know.”
When I said she shouldn’t be, she asked, “Why’s that?”
I considered her question. When I spoke, I did not recognize my voice. “I don’t talk to her like you.”
“No?”
“I don’t talk to anyone like this,” I added. Which was true.
In response, her face went through a moon phase: first, a sort of frown, her lower lip pressed forward, as if she might cry; followed by a smile that was warm and blooming; and finally, an expression that was slit-eyed and wicked.
“Kiss me like you did her,” she ordered.
This I knew how to do. We kissed for a long time in the dark.
“Oh,” she said, finally pressing herself away from me, “it’s so nice to feel desire.”
When I did not respond, she said, “What’s on your mind? Got somewhere else you need to be?”
No, I said, but I had something to tell her. I had been keeping the news like a secret. Tonight, I explained, would probably be the last time we’d see each other for a while. “Oh?” she said, and in a tone of concern asked, “Why is that?”
“Because Friday night is Halloween,” I continued, “and on Monday, wrestling season begins.” Practice ran until six, I said, and she and her girls would be headed home by then.
“Huh,” Naomi said.
She was watching me, I could feel it, but I refused to look at her, lest she see my relief.
“Have you decided what you’re gonna dress as?” she asked, too brightly, to change the subject. “It’s probably your last year to trick-or-treat, I’m guessing.”
“I’m going as Peter Proton,” I said. The symbolism was not lost on me. Nor, I knew, on her. “I should get home.”
“I’ll drop you off,” she said, and hurried to adjust in her seat to face the wheel.
“That’s okay,” I said before she turned the key, “I’ll walk.”
“Well,” she said, “good luck with your season.”
“Thank you,” I said, which felt like not enough somehow, and I exited the car.
When Naomi turned east at the end of the block, she was going fast enough that her tires squealed.
—
Flash-forward several weeks. It is a Thursday in mid-November. On one hand, I can count every meal I’ve eaten since Monday. The rest of Boyd Prep’s varsity and I are standing in our locker room with the Riverdale wrestling team. It is our season’s first dual meet. We have formed two lines for weigh-ins. We are arranged from lightest to heaviest before the scale. Some of us are in our underwear; some are naked. We do not speak. There’s a reverence that attends moments like this one. Even Kepplemen, who is formally dressed—blazer, tie, black loafers—pitches his voice so low it barely overtakes the hum of the fluorescents. We study one another’s bodies. Some boys have acne on their chests. Some have sprouted chest hair. Some are hairy as fathers. Some are studies in disproportion, with outsized forearms or hypertrophic calves. Others are as ribbed as the Christ. The opposing coach says his competitor’s name and weight class, which Kepplemen writes on a sheet, and then the boy steps onto the scale. He does this as we all do, delicately, respectfully, carefully, as if the Detecto’s platform were an altar.
The boy I’m to wrestle is so big compared with me, his back so wide and shoulders so broad and musculature so comparatively developed, it seems impossible we are the same weight. And then there is his name. “James Polk,” says his coach. “One hundred and twenty-one pounds.” Kepplemen, who sets the scale, nods at him with great respect; it is almost a bow, as if he actuallywerethe president. Polk steps on. He tucks his chin into his neck and stares at the balance with such concentration it appears as if he’s trying to control it with telekinesis. In spite of his size, it does not budge.
The wrestling gym is a space just off the cafeteria, low-ceilinged and half its size. As the home team, we make our entrance second. We race through the room’s double doors and then circle the mat’s ring several times. Next we do our warm-ups, led by our captains. We count out our stretches and calisthenics, so loudly they are like war cries. Ten rows of foldout chairs are full, and there is standing room only at the back. Parents are in attendance. Girls from every grade. Teachers as well: Miss Sullens, Mr. Damiano, Mr. McElmore, Mr. McQuarrie, even Mr. Fistly. At 121 pounds, I am fifth up. Two matches ahead of mine, I retreat to the practice mat and shoot single-leg takedowns, fire stand-up escapes,and execute sprawls, hoping my heart, which seems made of tissue paper, might settle into a more even rhythm.
Something thunderous and final occurs behind me, at which point Kepplemen calls out my name and waves me over. I snap my headgear’s chin strap and run to face him. The crowd is going apeshit. Coach screams something about “moving, always be moving,” and smacks each ear guard and then slaps my face. My spit is as pasty as Elmer’s glue. I feel a nearly uncontrollable urge to pee. Before I step onto the mat, the three captains—Pat Santoro, Roy Adler, and Brian Dolph—huddle around me to bark advice, which I do not hear, and then push me toward the ref. I give a final look over my shoulder. I am loosed and untouchable. Kepplemen suddenly seems tiny. Naomi is not in the audience. The gym is raucous; the cacophony is a kind of silence. The ref gives me a green anklet that I fasten. Polk stands at the mat’s center and I am directed to shake his hand. Then the ref blows his whistle.
Polk takes me down. It occurs with blinding suddenness, like having a trapdoor open beneath you. As quickly, I pull a switch, a move that reverses our positions. It is half instinct, half desperation. It is perfect. From a great distance, I hear the crowd roar. With my arm wrapped around his waist, I chop at Polk’s elbow. It is as stiff as a parking meter’s pole. I pull at him with all my strength. He feels as big as a sofa. I cannot say what happens next, but he rolls,weroll, and it feels as if I have been launched in the air. I find myself on my back. How soft and pliant I suddenly am. Howrelaxed.I have never taken the time to stare at our gym’s overhead lights, which, I now notice, are housed in metal cages. Riverdale’s team, out of their chairs now and on their hands and knees, pound the mat, chanting “pin, pin, pin” in unison, until the ref, on his belly perpendicular to me, with great finality, slaps the mat too. He takes our wrists as soon as I stand and then raises Polk’s arm in victory.