Page 16 of Hunter's Hidden Camera
“It’s not that cold tonight,” Emma says.
I nod. “It’s nice.”
“Yeah.”
This small talk we’re making: it’s so awkward. It’s like we’re forcing ourselves to speak about mundane stuff, just so we don’t get anywhere close to addressing tonight’s failed attempt at sex.
Emma puts her hand on the side of my head, where there’s now a bandage. “That’s good the bleeding stopped. But do you think you should get it checked out by a doctor? What if you got a concussion?”
“I’m all right. Maybe I’ll see the school nurse on Monday. I mean, I won’t be able to get a doctor’s appointment over the weekend anyway, and I don’t want to go to the emergency room for a little bump.”
She asks, “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”
“I’m fine. Really.”
On the rest of the way to Emma’s house, we both remain completely silent. She occasionally strokes my thigh. I occasionally reach over and run my fingers through her hair.
Once we’re parked in the driveway of her house, she leans over and gives me a soft kiss on the lips.
She smiles. “Hang out tomorrow?”
“Yeah. I have to go to the Verizon store to see if they can fix my phone. Come with me?”
“Sure.” She gets out of the car. “Love you.”
I casually bite my lower lip. I know I can’t say nothing.
I mumble, “Love you too.”
My words come out at such a low volume that anybody else would ask me to repeat what I said.
But it’s good enough for Emma. (Maybe she knows she shouldn’t push it.) She turns around, walks to her front door, gives me a little wave, and goes inside.
I release a huge sigh. Thank God this night is over. Thank God I didn’t have to go through with having sex with Emma, even if I completely made a fool of myself.
Now how am I going to get through the rest of this school year? I mean, it’s still the fall. Emma wanting to have sex: it’s going to come up again. How am I going to avoid it next time? And the next? And the next? I can’t keep accidentally shoving my dick in the wrong holes and banging my head so hard that I pass out.
On my way home, I stop by a convenience store, 7-Eleven, because I’m feeling a bit dehydrated. I should’ve drunk more water after I banged my head.
Out front, there’s a homeless woman wearing a wrinkled pink sweatshirt and baggy pink sweatpants that have holes in them. She looks like she’s in her forties, and her unwashed black hair has, like, chunks of Rice Krispie Treats in them.
She asks, “Got any change?”
I pull out my wallet and hand her a twenty-dollar bill.
Her face almost explodes from happiness. “Oh, my God! God bless you!”
I nod at her.
Then she says, “Thank you, Nash! Thank you!”
Wait a minute. What? I lean toward her. “What’d you call me?”
“Nash,” she says slowly and clearly. “I called you by your name. Nash.”
I say, “You’re welcome,” and go inside.
That’s strange. I mean, yes, I know my brother comes to this 7-Eleven, but you would never mistake me for him. You can tell we’re related, but we clearly look different.
