Hisa was sitting on the porch, reading an Anne McCaffrey novel—every girl I knew back then was reading an Anne McCaffrey novel, or an Anne Rice, or fucking Anne of Green Gables; they loved their Annes. At any rate, Hisa was right there as I raced by into the quiet street.
“Hey,” she shouted, a giggle in her voice.
I ignored her and kept running. Sadly, I made it about twenty feet before I was doubled over, hands on my knees, panting, about to retch. I couldn’t help but look at my crotch: I was still hard.
Behind me, Hisa’s Chucks slapped against the pavement.
“Where are you going?” she said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Jesus, Ian, you’re going to give yourself a heart attack.”
“If I die,” I said, panting, “it’s on you.”
“How so?” she said. “Isn’t it Ashley who got you all hot and bothered?”
I stood up and glared at her. Part of Hisa’s charm was that mischevious glint in her eye, but when you became the target of her mischief—that was another story.
“Everything she did,” I told Hisa, “she did on your orders.”
“You think she goes after the fat kid if you don’t put her up to it?”
She poked me in the chest, her finger bouncing off of my flab. “She was fat, too,” Hisa told me. “You ever think about that?”
“So, what?” I said. “This was sympathy? That’s better somehow?”
“Haven’t you heard not to look a gift horse in the mouth?” she asked me.
Now it was my turn to scoff, and I did. “Yeah,” I said, rolling my eyes, “look how well that turned out for the Trojans.”
I was about to go on, to say something else, when I spotted something over Hisa’s shoulder that struck me dumb. It was Ashley, the setting sun reflecting off of the buttons on her leather jacket, which she’d thrown carelessly over the lingerie. She was stomping toward us in her bare feet, a scowl on her face.
To be continued…