Alix T, Do You Love Me?
The dribbly frosting wasn�t quite warm by the time Randy got home with the cake. After all, it was his birthday, so the nurse and his teacher and the principal sent Randy Evers home with the birthday cake he would have shared with his class, had he not punched Tony Randall.
Tony was being his usual mean self, picking on all the small kids and puffing out his chest in front of the girls. He was black, and those white girls were all over the newness of the ebony colors � they poked and prodded and squealed that he was just like those guys on BET, and how lucky Beyonce was, and how pretty, and how come they didn�t get more of these superstars (it came out just like that, superstars, with no trace of irony to be found) out here in god knows where, a little slice of redneck heaven.
Those girls, spreading out over the steps (like the aged hippies draping themselves over the next radical issue � in big block letters � even though their own cause is and was and will ever be just another dried up prune, frozen in its time) and giggling and screaming and piercing the mind with the chitter chatter, like typewriters, going on and on and on with their monkey writers over the general ebullient living chaos of recess. They were not quite 13, with overripe lip gloss on underripe lips and protruding gels in the cups of their jaunty sports bras, and just the least bit of tension on their face, as if they were daring the next man to use them, abuse them. Just like the songs said. Right before they cut the video clips at the girl saying �no, I can�t, I�m too young, baby. But maybe when I get out of these duds into something comfortable.� Like a few more years.
Here he was, coming down the stairs three at a time. That was how he was. Big Tony takes big steps. He�s gonna stack the cash, he�s gonna play the hustle, you can�t match his muscle. And he would. He, who would one day be a full tackle for Kettle High�s beloved football team; he, who would be the town�s only worthy entry to Comcast�s NBA Challenge when those stuffy execs deigned to come to little country towns to raise the redneck viewer stats; he, who would disappear from view after he couldn�t quite make the first draft at Notre Dame and when, coincidentally, everyone said he had started on a diet of fried pizza and heroin; he, who would show up out of a Chicago halfway house with nothing but a suitcase full of the pennies he couldn�t quite spend; and he, who would finally end his career as a manager at the town�s only Cajun Fried Chicken outlet. He was big, and gonna make it.
But not with Alexandra Twohy, Randy had thought the second Tony had touched the stairs. Never Alix, she�s mine � but he winced anyway when she began her soundless scream toward the landing. There was that little glint in her eye from the moisture on her contacts, or was it a tear? An angry flushon his own face, and Tony wasn�t even down the stairs yet. Randy with his mousy face and the speckled band across his forehead that had reminded Graham Lay of all those uneven gravel pools in the skate park that nobody used these days. There was more, even: the patched eye only a few years ago; the braces last year; the awkward game of cootie tag that had ended with him tripping into the soft brown mud in front of the trailers; the spark of firework leftovers that had fallen and burned a hole in the middle of his new beach blanket on the 4th of July; the skit where he had played a nervous, wheedling character so like himself that it was essentially not acting. And that, everyone had remembered. He was infamous for playing himself. But not in a good way.
That was my shining moment, Randy thought to himself. It was hard persuading that niggling little voice sometimes. Always thinking the worst, but then, it naturally was. Randy Evers had never had a good time in his life, as far as he could remember. Before Alix, there had been Megan, and Heather, and then before that, he hadn�t even liked girls, but he had sure loved his momma. But she loved Mr. Greg, and on some nights, Mr. Bob. When she wore the extra thin shirts (but who could mistake that for a shirt?), she loved Mr. Jeff, or �this is my friend, now go to bed, or yall �ill get it in the morning.� He came home to cereal for dinner, and cold pizza for breakfast. He would pick the pepperoni from between the random piles of ash that covered the pizza box almost like a game of snakes and ladders. His brother Alex had played that a couple times with him, but he was in the army now. The last postcard had said �Luv ya, bro. Driving a tank to kill me some Iraqis. Keep up the good work.� Dry. Nothing about the piggybacks, or the secret handshake, or the superhero they had created on a piece of paper that was still in the back of Randy�s desk drawer. Hidden, Alex had said, from all those nerdy comic guys that would steal a good idea like a thief in the night. And he himself had turned over on his bed and opened up Green Goblin for a little reading before bed.
It was his birthday, and only Graham had given him a thing, and even this he didn�t want. A magnifying glass, with some book on bugs, and assorted stuff that only Graham�s parents could have been responsible for. Even Graham was a little ashamed. �Sorry, man. I just told them to get a good gift.� That had hurt Randy a little. His best friend hadn�t bothered to go along and get the present. No matter, he thought. If only Alix would look at me, and maybe think of me a little, and say my name into the cold air of her bedroom on those mornings where it was so much better to draw the covers up over one�s head, and the radio alarm clock would play some Billy Joel, she�s always a woman to me. He got a little hard just thinking of that, and then he thought of the dream he had of having his thing out in front of the class and Alix and all her bratty friends giggling and pointing and the glitter in their hair looking ridiculous and his red face and red knob and him waking up, screaming into his covers. A shut up! from the next room, in a male voice. Male Contestant number 3, picked randomly from the Three Horses bar on Oak St. where single Ms. Evers went after work to prep herself for raising her kid. Not �her son�, but �her kid.� More object than family. To herself this morning: I die a little every time I look at him.
Alix, with her long dirty blond hair, and the hearts all over her, just shouting the XOXO�s that were her trademark since, like forever. She, with her hands on her hips, telling Graham off for touching her accidentally in the middle of gym class. Her tights, stretched a little over her calf. Pink studs in her small ears shook a little in the wind. He was in love with the downward crease in her cheek, and the dimple that sat comfortably like old friends next to that little mole � and the moondust over her eyes and the smell of lilacs and toxic nail polish and the earthy richness of the diet bars that she stole from her mom�s pantry so she too could get thin. As a pancake, Randy thought, but it was out loud and Alix had looked at him for a second. For that one second, before the faint look of disgust had registered on her face, she had the angry sort of smile that goes into the photo banks of memory. Randy remembered.
Tony: what up, nigga? Like it was cool, and they all giggled at the word, and especially Alix, and the smile that came back. The images came too fast for Randy � the stairs, the tears � Alix � her face � his birthday, Mr. Bob, this morning�s breakfast � the �R.E. loves A.T.� carved in the lunchroom tables � Tony�s face, so arrogant, the son of a bitch � she would never love him. And blindly, Randy�s arms flailed and found niches and crevices in the smooth black face in front of him, incredulous, not so special now, are you? And all these savage thoughts racing through his feverish head, and screams, and shouts, and Alix, with her hands on her hips, and the hearts all over her shirt, and her long brown hair, and the angry smile she gave to no one else but his memories, even as the principal dragged him down the hall into his office, and the teachers clucked outside and his mother drove up in her Firebird coming from the casino where she had got some old cake from the ancient-looking cook in the back kitchens, and all this so she could surprise the Kid for his birthday, poor little thing. And the blood on his shirt. A dazed smile. As he entered his house, he finally unclenched his fists and dropped the piece of paper he was still holding.
I love you, Alix T. Do you love me?