FirstLineFiction beta

from Contest #3

I read about it in the paper, in the subway, on my way to work. She said this to me in the morning, avoiding eye contact.

 

“What do you mean?” I said, incredulous. “In the newspaper? Are you serious? You’re joking, right? How did it get in the paper?!”

 

“Look, I’m really sorry,” she said. “I know it was a tough decision for you, I do. And I appreciate that you told me first so I had some warning.” She raised her head briefly and flashed me an apologetic look before quickly walking down the hall back to her cubicle.

 

I was left there standing in shock, the coffee cup still in my hand, the tie around my neck beginning to feel a little too snug. My mind was forced into warp speed: How had it gotten in the paper? I didn’t understand. This was supposed to be between just Tommy and me. I only told Melinda the night before because I was beginning to feel guilty, but now she comes back saying it’s in the paper? I loosened my tie. I threw my cup of coffee in the trash and ran for the elevator. There was a newsstand just outside the office building. Whatever this was, I’d find out for myself.

 

*

 

It was pouring rain outside, nothing like the warm early summer weather last night when Tommy and I were getting ready. I remembered cursing the weather last night, how warm it was and how uncomfortable it would be to wear our outfits. But now I cursed the rain as I thumbed through every newspaper looking for the one that Melinda had read on the subway to work. And there it was, on the second page: She was right. There was a picture of Tommy and me at last night’s high school soccer game. You could clearly see our faces too, despite our outfits. The bastard photographer left nothing to the imagination!

 

“Hey Bill!”

 

I looked up to see who it was. It was Ming, the receptionist.

 

“I saw the picture in the paper!” she said. “The media is really awful, isn’t it?” she trilled.

 

That was it. I put my hand in my pocket to search for some bills. I pulled out just enough to buy out the incriminating evidence from the newsstand. By the time I carried the stack to the trash bin, they were soaked with rain. In the article photograph, not only were our faces obvious, but you could also clearly see that Tommy and I were wearing large hot-dog costumes--bun, mustard and all. Tommy told me that all the hot-dog vendors at the soccer games wore hot-dog costumes and that we’d fit in. I should have known we were doomed from the moment we entered the field and everyone stared at us. This was the last time I was ever going to listen to Tommy.

 

*

 

It really was his idea, Tommy’s. He meant well. He was my brother after all. He just felt sorry for me, for Melinda really. He liked her because he knew I liked her and Tommy was loyal like that. The first time he heard about Melinda’s daughter, Caroline, he was committed to the cause.

 

It was simple: We’d show up at Caroline’s soccer game. We’d dress like hot-dogs because Tuesday night was Hot Dog Fundraiser night, where all the parents sold hot-dogs at the game and the money went to the graduating class. We’d fit right in and we’d be allowed right on the field. Or at least that’s what Tommy said. I’m not sure why I thought he’d know so much about high school soccer anyway.

 

“So, as soon as that little brat gets close to us, we start cheering like mad, okay?” Tommy explained. “We’ll be cheering on the sideline then, when nobody is looking, we’ll foul her up.”

 

In retrospect, I suppose it sounds horrible. The idea of two full-grown men sabotaging a young girl’s soccer game was decidedly ridiculous. But I wasn’t thinking. All I could think about was that Melinda had cried in front of me. She had looked me straight in the eyes and said, “What can I do for my daughter?” The only thing I could say was, “I’ll take care of it.”

 

*

 

A few people stared at me on the elevator. I couldn’t tell if they were nodding in disapproval or if I was just being paranoid. I had to find Melinda. Now that I’d seen the newspaper she’d spoken of this morning, I had to defend myself, explain. I didn’t care about any of the stares I received as I jogged down the row of cubicles.

 

“Great pics!” chirped the mail boy, giggling.

 

The accountants hissed as they saw me go by.

 

I rounded the corner to Melinda’s cubicle. But she wasn’t there. “Where’s Melinda?” I demanded of the girl sitting in the cubicle next to her. The girl looked at me in bewilderment for a moment, the slow register of familiarity hitting her.

 

“Wait a second,” she said. “Are you that guy who dressed up in a hot-dog suit and beat up some little girl at a soccer game last night?”

 

I couldn’t believe this was happening. Already, the rumors were starting. We’d only pulled the girl’s ponytail for crying out loud. Tommy might have kicked her when she was down on the ground, but it wasn’t like a hard kick or anything. We didn’t know anyone was taking pictures.  Besides, if they only knew what that brat had done to Caroline. Nobody would feel sorry for her anymore!

 

“Where’s Melinda?” I demanded again.

 

“She went home,” said the girl, looking at me in disgust. “She said she didn’t feel so hot.”

 

But Melinda would always be “hot” to me. I had to leave work. I had to find her.

 

*

 

Caroline was walking home from school one day when the girl from soccer practice caught up to her. It was the girl with the really long ponytail, the one that yelled the loudest. Caroline didn’t like this girl. “Hey Caroline,” the girl said. “Why is your name ‘Caroline’ when you don’t look white.”

 

Caroline turned red, embarrassed. “I’m half white,” she said while she walked faster. “My mom is German and my dad is Egyptian.”

 

“Egypt? Like those people that wear turbans?” the girl giggled. “Towel heads?”

 

Caroline was shocked. And ever since that day, the girl from the soccer team had been taunting her, calling her all sorts of names until Caroline would cry. It was hard enough that her parents got divorced, but this was too much.

 

Or at least that’s how Melinda told me it happened.

 

*

 

Melinda and her daughter lived in Queens. I had been there before to drive Melinda home from work, each time wishing she’d invite me in. I knocked on her door. No answer. I knocked again and rang the doorbell. Still no answer. “Melinda!” I called out, banging on the door. “It’s me! It’s Bill! I’m sorry! Please open the door.”

 

I heard a window slide open. I looked up and she looked down at me from the open window on the second floor. “I can’t believe you, Bill,” she said.

 

“I was trying to help,” I pleaded.

 

“If anyone ever finds out you did this for me, I will never forgive you,” she said.

 

*

 

It felt so simple at the time. There we were on the soccer field. Sure, we were the only ones wearing hot-dog costumes this year, but the audience loved us. During breaks, we held babies while parents took pictures. The costumes were top-notch—this much I had to credit Tommy for. You could only see our faces, a small oval cut into the upper part of the sausage, each side of our face padded by a bun. We danced. We cheered along with the rest. But we had a mission.

 

I had the girl in my sights. She wore jersey #33. It was her ponytail that made her stand out. It was long and limp, a brown mass that ended at her lower back. How I longed to pull it. I imagined grabbing a fistful of the glossy stuff and yanking as hard as I could—for Carline, for Melinda who I loved so much but who did not love me back. I wanted to tear that dumb girl’s hair out and feel the bushels in my hands. It was little girls like this that made society so awful. Here was my chance to do right for once.

 

Tommy nudged me out of my reverie. He pointed at #33. She was within reach of us. She was standing practically at the sideline, waiting for the sound of the whistle to start the game again. It was our chance. Tommy stood next to me, his great hot-dog bun blocking the audience from viewing what we were about to do: I reached out and, just as planned, I pulled as hard as I could. The referee blew the whistle at the exact time and, in all the excitement for the game to continue, I thought nobody noticed. We had succeeded. The girl writhed at our plush hot-dog feet before recovering to join the game. Tommy and I had giggled all the way home, with the costumes in our back trunk. We felt young again. I felt like a knight in shining armor.

 

When I got home, I called Melinda and told her all about it, but she was not as happy as I expected.

 

*

 

Melinda slid the window shut and said she didn’t want to speak to me or be associated with me. I was a bit stricken. Why on earth would she ever think that I would utter her name if she asked me not to? I would never tell people why I did it. Never. She didn’t want people to know and I didn’t want to create more problems for her. And I already knew Tommy would never say a thing ever either. With time, Melinda would get over it. Then she would slowly be won over as she realized how much I cared. And I bet Caroline was secretly happy too, even though Melinda claimed she was not and had transferred schools.

 

I got in my car, gathering myself. It wasn’t so bad if you looked at the big picture. So what if somebody had taken a picture of me in the act of childish revenge? It was just one day’s newspaper. It would blow over.

 

Then I turned my cell-phone back on. Apparently, while I had been chasing Melinda, I had received numerous calls. I called voicemail and listened to the messages one after another in succession: They were all from the media. I wondered briefly how much money I had in savings, how much it would cost to buy out every newsstand in New York. Or maybe just the newsstands around where Melinda lived. 

back to Contest #3