Visiting a Boy’s Room
There aren’t flowers in Darnell’s yard, just big rocks. He unlocks the door and says, “Take off your shoes.” I do as I’m told.
I’m wearing Vans. White Girl Shoes. At Holy Spirit Academy, Black girls wear Lugz, Fila, and Nikes. White girls do Sketchers, Keds, and Vans. Everybody rocks Adidas and New Balances. No one wears Champions. I’d wanted British Knights until Tamika said BK stands for Blood Killers, and if I wore them, I’d be called a Crip. The Vans are a betrayal, but I prefer being outcast over having my ass whooped. The first time I wore them, Tamika let me borrow her aunt’s Fashion Fair lipstick. Armed with a crimson-lipped confidence, I forgot I had anything to lose. No one said jack about my shoes. Not to my face.
Darnell picks them up, sticks a hand in each one, and bangs them on the ground. Then he puts them next to his red and black Jordans and sniffs his hands. I hope my feet don’t smell all gym, popcorn, and funk.
I’m thirteen. He’s fourteen. Days separate us from The Final Summer Before High School, before corn-on-the-cob, the State Fair, fireworks, and rebel night-owl suns. I’m geeked for Kool-Aid popsicles, flip-flops, sleeping in. For becoming the girl I want to be before high school. For having my own Fashion Fair.
I like Darnell. He knows all the answers in history and runs so fast we call him Sonic.
“You ever wish people wore shoes on their hands?” He’s weird. And cute.
“Not really.”
“What if you could go around barefoot all the time? Would you?”
“I’m used to shoes.”
“Want to see my room?” He grabs my hand.
There’s a poster of Tupac over Darnell’s dresser. This is my first time in a Real Boy’s Room. My cousins don’t count. Every other girl I know has gone home with a boy. They’ve schooled me on blow jobs. I was worried about my braces, but they say you don’t use your teeth.
“PlayStation?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I hope he has good games.
“Tekken?”
“Sweet.” I’d rather play Street Fighter, but whatever.
Darnell hands me a controller. “You like my room?”
“You have so much stuff.” Pretty soon, I’m kicking his butt. Is he letting me win? I press the same key a million times in a row.
“Loser has to suck the winner’s toes,” Darnell adds while I’m way ahead. He’s probably going to start getting more points to beat me. Sucking his toes sounds easier than sucking anything else. I guess. Luckily, I win three levels in a row.
Darnell turns off the console. “Guess I have to suck your toes?”
He crawls to me, peels off my socks with the care of people who reuse wrapping paper. He picks up my foot, brings it to his mouth. I don’t know where to look, how to act. His tongue is heavy. If I moan, will it sound ugly? No one at school talks about feet stuff. Did he come up with this on his own? Is this what he likes? Does he want me to feel good? Could he like me? He licks the balls of my feet, my ankles, kisses up my calves, behind my knees. He’s mid-thigh. I want to kick but resist. I don’t want to have to tell my diary, my friends, that I messed this up.
He sits up. I’m relieved he’s taking a break before whatever comes next. I want to say I’m nervous but can’t. Why can’t I just grow the hell up? If I don’t get comfortable with boys now, I’ll be even weirder by high school. So weird they’ll kick me out of prom, and I’ll be the first person that’s ever happened to. It’ll be all anyone ever remembers about me.
“Why don’t you shorten your uniform skirt?” he asks.
“I forgot.”
“You forget every day?”
We are not following the plan. In Nina’s interactive introduction on being with boys, she straddled me and pressed her lips to mine. I fumbled and ached when we switched places. If I reenact that now, I’ll probably fart, burp, and spill Tahitian Treat everywhere. I’ll never finish eighth grade.
“You’re not into this. We don’t have to tell. We can pretend we did other stuff.”
“My bad.” I want to offer him my summer. But he probably has other plans with girls who are ready.
“It’s cool. Wanna play another round of Tekken?”
“I sort of want to go home.” This, the truth, is not what I mean to say.
“Did I freak you out?”
“Noooo.”
“Did it feel good?”
“It tickled.”
“Tickled? You’re funny, Cairo.'‘ He looks at his fingernails. They’re neat.
We laugh.
When we get to the front door, he circles my palm and thanks me for coming.
“Someday I would definitely drink beer out of your high heels.”
“You love you some feet, don’t you?”
“Nah. Wouldn’t it be funny if I did, though?” He shrugs.
At home, Grandma is sitting on the porch. “Where you been, baby?”
If she finds out I’ve been to a boy’s house, she’ll lecture me about how being fast rushes you through life, taking time you can’t get back. Then she’ll go on about how she’s already too young to be a grandma, let alone somebody’s great-grandma. How everybody wants to be grown but nobody wanna pay grown folks’ bills. I keep quiet.
“Been waiting on you.” She strokes my back.
“I saw Tamika and got caught up talking.” Does she notice my socks are missing?
“You just as sweet as you want to be, ain’t you? Smart, too. Stay like that forever and always, okay?”
I catch our reflections in the glass door. I don’t look like a girl who lies to her grandmother. But maybe I’ve changed. Our arms tangle. “Yes, Grandma. Forever and always.”
sheena d. (@bookofsheena) was born in Ohio and now splits her time between Brooklyn and South Florida. She is an MFA candidate in Creative Nonfiction at The New School and has a strong attachment to Muji’s black Gel Ink Ballpoint Pens (0.38mm, of course) and Tombow’s Dual Brush Pen Art Markers. Some places her words have appeared or are forthcoming include The Delacorte Review, The Rumpus, Zone 3 Press, and Ms. Magazine.