Free Weeping Underwater Looks a Lot Like Laughter by Michael J. White Page B

could’ve stated my crude thoughts loud and clear, casually, without any embarrassment, and in fact I did. The question is if either of the Schell girls ever heard them.

Nine
    Over the following two months the St. Pius Dragoons suffered a series of rivalry-intensive dual match losses that more or less devastated the season, despite our last-minute comeback to place fourth at the state tournament. In standing with previous seasons, I finished with a dual match record of 10-10 and a healthy collection of tournament medals for third place, which in Coach Grady’s opinion weren’t worth mentioning because they only highlighted my unrealized potential. But the disappointment of proving myself a varsity-level failure was almost immediately nullified by the news that the triptych Emily and I produced as a main requirement of our arts course (picture Emily’s three winged warriors in broad strokes, goggle-eyed and fat as senatorial gluts, resting by their spears and breastplates of gold-leaf gilt, my Masonite panels and leather-bound framework) won the art department’s award for best collaborative work. What was most significant about this achievement was that our triptych was displayed in the main hallway with our names rendered below it in roman calligraphy on goatskin parchment, courtesy of an unnamed parish house artisan.
    This final detail, in combination with a glossy photo of Emily half blushing with her head against my shoulder, gave several of her devotees the notion that I’d finally consummated our relationship. This meant that for the time being they were better off gunning for Christina Walters, St. Pius’s own Cinderella, who in the last year sprouted forth from horsey faced obscurity to local goddess. (While I admit to attending more than my fair share of volleyball games and even allowing Christina the occasional minor role in the burlesque striptease of my bedtime self-abuse, I never considered her horny little strut any match for Emily’s talent, which inspired a much greater volume of jealousy than any of us would have wished.) In addition to the suggestion of our publicized art, the student body’s assumptions could also be attributed to a few of my nonverbal, but undoubtedly coy, responses to their prurient queries concerning the depth of our communion. After one such response, in a rare moment of religious self-criticism, I accused myself of chickenshit disloyalty and vowed never again to succumb to such weaknesses of my Davenport past when I’d exaggerated sexual encounters that in reality amounted to no more than fumblings with girls I didn’t care much for—savage tongue attacks at the movies, a few dry humps behind the couch in Kevin’s basement, a dizzying hand job in shouting distance of bare-legged teachers and hyperactive volunteer lifeguards at a school anniversary pool party.
    I would like to think that the decision not to overplay my relationship with Emily reflected a budding sense of maturity and self-confidence. Unfortunately, this is not the case. In my heart I knew I was acting on base superstition, the feeling that even the most minor duplicity would sow a seed of bad luck that would grow and spread and consume everything around it. For the time being I took nothing for granted, knowing it was possible that Emily had greater plans for us, but equally possible that I would remain no more than her most devout supporter whom the impending business of college and real life would all but erase.
    For better or worse, in the weeks after the state tournament Emily and I returned to our idle afternoons, wandering trails at Walnut Creek, catching matinees at Billy Joe’s Picture Show, or simply people watching and eavesdropping at the coffee counter of the Flying J truck stop. Katie joined us for at least half of these outings, whenever she wasn’t tied up with physical therapy, or debate team, or any number of tutoring sessions related to her vast array of academic ambitions. On these