The Wave [Jamaica Plain]

by Aileen Ma

Pink polo t-shirt and navy blue skort, she walks into the gym, every movement another word for the feelings worn around her wrist. A freshman, no doubt, says someone who always says things about other people as she crosses the court. Maybe it’s the way her face seems to be in between expressions, hoping no one will notice she’s trying not to smile. And yet that someone will. Maybe it’s how unaware she is of how adorable yet awkward she looks as she moves. Makes her way to the front row of the bleachers, where her friends already are. Lets a bashful look of suppressed excitement settle on her face. Toys with the clear yet shimmery strand of pink crystal beads around her wrist.

A friend nudges her, and she looks up straight ahead. There he is. Spiked dark hair, sun-kissed tan and #14 jersey, poised to free-throw. He has been sending mixed signals since last week, but the verdict as of now points him in favor of being adored. She whispers some new discovery to her friends, and a wave of giggles follow. Her face flushes a rosy pink, and imaginary subtitles run alongside to declare what everyone already knows.

She tries to ignore the ever fluctuating thoughts inside her head, and possibly the cavity of her chest. So charming, funny, and cute. So extremely like someone she’d known for years. Though of course not, they’d only met this school year, in debate class. And he’d had her confused ever since.

He must know, someone in the stands is telling the person right beside them as they stand up and are part of the wave. Doesn’t she know he’s leading her on? an ex-girlfriend thinks silently as the girl’s high ponytail gets in the way of her watching the game.

Of course he knew. But maybe she would never know. Or find out. Maybe she could be the exception, and go through life never finding out about any of it. About the wearing of masks and how lipstick made you say something other than what you really meant. Maybe her heart could be spared the loss of its virginity. Maybe…

He aims for the basket, going in for the kill. She is at her feet, hands clenched together and pink beaded bracelet glistening. A graceful arc extends beyond his fingertips. The ball ricochets off the board, and fate takes place. With full force speaking of intentions, it changes direction…

All anyone can see now is a completely littered front row. With pink crystal beads scattered everywhere. Her bracelet has been shattered.

Her wrist, bruised with an imprint less obvious than her changed facial expression, is examined by all. He comes over and stammers apologies, sweaty but chivalrous. He does not know that her heart has been strewn about the dirty gym floor. Or that his politeness crushes the tattered pieces even more.

He insists on bending down the pick up the beads, pink as always but no longer opaque as they once were.