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Read My Lips(44)

By:Daryl Banner


Fucking great.

I’m so pissed. And the more pissed I get, the more my cheek throbs, as if punishing me for my anger. I suck in air, then blow it all out, ignoring the ache that washes over my face.

I take home whatever I can salvage from the bags, the fuckers dripping the whole way. I’m fuming about the incident, refusing to feel sorry for myself or see myself as some victim. Fuck that. I keep picturing that prick from the store. “Are you deaf??” Even though I didn’t get a clear look at any of them, I know it was him and his buddies who attacked me.

They better hope they don’t go to Klangburg. If I ever see them on campus, the end of my fist will be the last glorious sight they enjoy before I blind them.

I check myself in the mirror before I leave the apartment, then let out a healthy “Fuck!” as I survey the damage. I wet a washcloth and run it over my face, caring for the wound on my cheek, which is just an inch below my eye. If the fucker hit me just a touch higher, I’d have been blinded. I wonder suddenly if I have a concussion. To be honest, I can’t say whether it was fist or weapon that hit me first.

I use the washcloth over the back of my head, unsure if I’m bleeding there too. Soon, my whole face is a mess of wetness, and I have a bandage slapped over my cheek, which stings when I apply it. I run a hand through my hair and stare at my reflection, the bitterness and the fury sizzling beneath my eyes.

After I lock up the apartment behind me and make my way down the road, I curse the fact that I forgot to check the condition of my own room. It’s probably a fucking mess. I was too occupied cleaning up my face, lost in my boiling anger and picturing a hundred and twenty alternative ways that encounter could’ve gone—all one hundred and twenty ending with me standing over their bloodied bodies. Still, even wearing my anger as armor, I find myself looking over my shoulder twenty times on the way to the bowling alley. Better safe.

Just before I reach the glass doors, my phone gives a shake in my pocket, startling me. I wince as I reach to grab it, some totally new and annoying ache in my shoulder making itself known. I free the phone and lift the screen to my strained eyes:



DMITRI

Clayton! Where are you?



I sigh, ignoring it since I’m already here. I push my way in, the stench of the place dancing unwelcomed up my nostrils. The guy at the counter waves, then flashes me a number of fingers, his hands opening and closing two times to indicate lane twenty. I give him a nod of thanks, then make my way.

Brant whips around the corner out of nowhere and grabs me for a hug. I snort and wince in pain, caught off-guard by him as he thanks me profusely for coming.

Then his face changes when he gets a good look. “The fuck happen to you?” I think he asks. I shrug and wave him off. He grabs my arm, stopping me as I try to move past him. Reeling me around to face him again, he asks, “You fall down the stairs?”

I could laugh if I didn’t know it’d hurt like fuck. I lick my lips and say, “I’m fine,” with my voice sending tremors up my jaw and to my cheek. Even speech hurts.

He frowns, then beckons me over with a shake of his head. I follow him to lane twenty where I see the opposing team has set up shop. Through the crowd of them, I catch Dmitri with the rest of what I take to be Brant’s team: two Hispanic chicks—who, if I recall, are an on-and-off couple, but no one talks about it—and a computer nerd black dude named Josiah who’s a head taller than me and always seems to be smiling.

Dmitri rises from the bench the second he spots me, rushing up to my side. What happened? he signs.

I use as few signs as possible: Nothing. Fell.

He shakes his head: You should clean up. Bathroom. You’re bleeding through your bandage.

I huff irritably: It’s not that bad.

Dmitri lifts his eyebrows, which carry his glasses up a bit with them: Yes, it is. Dessie is in the bathroom. Fix yourself up before she returns.

The spelling out of her name sobers me at once. Of course she’s here already. I’m late. I move my hands: How long has she been here? How long has she been waiting? Do I really look that bad?

When Dmitri’s eyes avert, I realize I’m too late.

I turn to find Dessie standing there. My god. She gets more beautiful every time I see her. She’s wearing some cute white peasant top thing over a pair of jeans that hug her sexy, curvy shape. They hang low on the hips, leading my disobedient eyes straight to them—and my imagination straight to what smooth sexiness resides underneath.

And her pretty face … it’s evident from the subtle makeup and the pink of her lips that she fixed herself up a little for our hanging out tonight. Even with the smog of our regrettable environment, I swear I can smell her through it—lilac and fruit and something else I can’t name, something fresh and inviting.