Winged Shoes and a Shield. Don Bajema

wanted to tell her he’d do anything for her. Steal, lie, leave home, take her anywhere. Instead he played catch with her brother. Without showing the least effort, he threw electric blue lines that smacked into her brother’s glove the instant they left his fingers. He knew she could hear the ball hissing from where she slouched against the doorjamb. Eddie threw harder. Her brother showed his bravery, standing in front of an eighty-mile-an-hour fastball with a casual blank expression on his face, his eyes as big as saucers. Eddie spoke to her as Grant’s return throw popped into his own glove. “Hey, Sis.”

      She let his words hang in the air, timing her response to the moment before he’d think she was ignoring him. “Eddie, don’t throw so hard.”

      To show her who was king of this street, who ruled her brothers and the other boys around those canyons, Eddie jerked his chin over the back yard fence and he and the brothers vanished in silence for those canyons, and the shore breaks, and the ballparks, and the matinees, and the girls Eddie’s age. Girls he lured out at night into the canyons and behind the bushes, or into unlocked cars. Girls who removed his hands from their breasts. Girls who pressed their knees together, or crossed their legs as Eddie felt their sweating faces, and heard their strange throaty whispers telling him, “No. No. No, Eddie.” Girls he had been pretending were the bad girl from Texas, ever since she had left town.

      BOY IN THE AIR

      A stack of books cutting into my forearm, the wind blowing in my face, I’m a seventh grader walking home from school. I’ve made it a couple of blocks and am presently making my way past the high school athletic field, I’m noticing cars and kids converging with loud chatter and a certain kind of anticipation toward the wide-swung chain-link gate. There must be a couple of hundred kids flowing through that gate and taking their seats in the stands. I won’t ask anyone what’s going on, but it seems to be something pretty good, although I haven’t heard about it. I’m standing in the way, getting jostled, and doing a slow spin trying to balance the stack of books and to “get the hell out of the way,” as I am being advised. I manage to get to one side of the river of teen­agers and pretend to be doing something other than trying to find out if it costs money to get in, because I don’t have any and I don’t need the embarrassment. Most of the time I feel invisible, and in fact I never attract much attention unless I’m in the way. So I stand there shirttail-out in my Converse All-Stars, my orange hair and freckles, getting tired in the hotter-than-usual April sun. I don’t recognize any of these kids, except for one or two of the older brothers or sisters of my friends, who pass by me in silence. I know my place.

      Sitting on my books waiting for the crush of kids to lighten, I dig some wax out of my ear casually, burp loudly with a certain aplomb, spread my knees wide and pull my socks up so that my white legs don’t show beneath my khaki pants. “Fuck you guys,” I think. “I’ll rule this place in a couple of years.” One of those old Fords that have all the edges rounded out and have dusty, vomited-in-smelling upholstery screeches up and runs over the curb. The Ford is full of girls. Not three in front, and four in the back, but more like five in the front and ten in the back. All the windows are down and arms and an ankle stick out. The radio is loud. The girls are singing “Angel Baby,” as loudly and sincerely as possible. I stand up, and put my hand in my pocket. Then I sit back down, resume my former position but twist my butt over so that I can get a better view of them. By now they are untangling and swearing at each other as shoes scrape down unlucky shins, and elbows balance awkwardly and painfully in sensitive, newly formed places. More laughs, and the doors bounce open. If I look up a skirt no one notices and I am poker-faced.

      I’ve seen girls in packs before and I know that one does not want to be noticed by them under most circumstances. As they always do, they wait until their full number is standing in a close knot beside the door. Purses are found, hair is brushed, mirrors are flashing, and lipstick is borrowed. This takes twenty-five seconds. As though by genetic imprint, like a flock of birds, they make the final dress-press with hands, tilt their chins just right, and stroll slowly and silently toward the gate.

      I see their calves. Their feet are as big or bigger than mine. They have veins showing in their feet, and the calves are shaved smooth and tanned brown. I breathe deep and notice it before I sigh. I close my mouth and the chestful of air stops at my closed mouth and passes silently out of my nose. My eyes are bugging so I turn toward the opposite direction and notice that the gate area is empty and there is no ticket booth. Okey dokey.

      I turn and three of the flock are standing next to me. They are saying something to me. They are asking me an urgent question. They are expecting an answer. I am still sitting on my books. I stand up slowly, gathering my thoughts as though I were a rodeo star recovering from an eight-second ride on Oscar. I brush off my butt, why I don’t know, and I say, “Huh?” I notice that my eyebrows are somewhere around my hairline and that my voice has squeaked. I clear my throat and compose my face. It doesn’t work. The girls are looking at me with a great deal of impatience and they know I am a little jerk. One girl has already given up in disgust. Another one is saying “I said, is Rick Hanks jumping here today?” I don’t have any idea. But I know that someone might see me talking to these high school girls with their women’s bodies and I have to somehow prolong the occasion. I do not want to be lacking in anything, information about Rick Hanks, whoever that lucky boy must be, wit, or anything. I get too worked up, and the sentence I begin turns into a stammer. My mouth will not cooperate and it keeps stammering. The best-looking girl looks right over my shoulder and this makes me turn around. I hear her voice saying, “There’s the bus.” All the girls see the bus from Hoover High pulling into an adjacent parking lot. These are Hoover girls looking for a jumper named Rick Hanks.

      My moment has passed. I imagine I hear a “never mind” as the girls disappear but I am probably being kind to myself. I see Junior Osuna looking at me out of the corner of my eye. I stoop to pick up my books and try to act like maybe I’m with these girls and I follow a pace and a half behind them toward the gate. I give that up pretty quick and feel foolish. I then acknowledge Junior with a “Did you see that?” leer behind the girls’ backs. But Junior is walking across the street picking his nose. I’m still walking forward with my head turned. I am not looking where I am going, in other words, and manage to stumble in the dirt. This kicks up a fair amount of dust and sand, which coats the heel and instep of one of the girls walking in front of me. I bump into her as she empties out her shoe. I mumble an apology. She’s so happy to be seeing Rick that she smiles and says, “That’s OK.” I melt. She leaves and I look for a place to sit in the stands, which are full.

      Now I am in front of about a hundred kids and even a few adults. I am facing a sea of faces. I feel like a complete goon. I cannot stand to look for a seat for more than four seconds, I would rather sit on roofing nails. I wander off to the side of the stands and lean on a fence with the little brothers and sisters of the athletes on the field. Little kids. I move to the other side of the stands, walking behind the stands this time, and stand near some trees that obstruct most of the view. The place smells to high heaven from the piles of neighbors’ dog shit. I am alone at least.

      Hoover’s track team wears maroon sweats. They are an integrated team of Negroes and whites. They are walking in the direction of the field in knots of five or six. The home team wears white sweats and is all white. I wonder which boy is Rick Hanks. I search the thirty or so maroon figures looking for someone who could pull a carload of bitchin’ girls to see him jump. I can’t tell.

      A smallish white boy appears in the bus doorway. All his teammates are on the field. One boy with three coaches steps down the stairs. As soon as he is out of the bus, he smiles a huge smile. The girls in the stands are on their feet yelling “Rick” and waving at him. He is walking like this happens all the time. He breaks into a light trot toward the high-jump pit. This is enough to get the girls louder for a second. They sit down in silence, and then they start mumbling to each other. I can hear them. Most of the words are along the line of cute, so cute, or sooo cuuute. Well, cute I don’t know, but certainly improbable. He’s got a baby face, a Kingston Trio haircut, and with the three other guys he now walks with, he looks like a younger brother. Except for something. What, I don’t know. I look into the stands and I can tell that all the Hoover kids are feeling