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Fiction & Fantasy > Kyra's Story
Look Inside - Kyra's Story
"No, look! Across the street! Getting into his car?" I pause for effect.
Miranda Sanchez is sitting beside me in the booth. She's the closest to the window and presses her nose below the
backward yellow letters spelling out Tiger Den. The Den is one of the two places open on New Year's Day in Macon,
Iowa.
"Who do you see, Kyra?" Miranda asks, cupping her long fingers around her blue eyes. Her eyes are her least Latino
feature. She's a head taller than I am, with long dark hair I'd kill for. She's wearing sweats and a shirt straight
from the Helen Keller school of design.
"It's Adam Sandler," I announce, leaning back in the orange booth and folding my arms in front of me.
Across from Miranda and me, Jamal Jackson and D.J. frown out the ice-laced window. Snow has piled in the corners like
mini-mountains. D.J.'s the reason we're all here, although I'm the only one who knows it. I decided it's high time for
D.J. Johnson to ask Kyra James out. Sammy tipped me off that D.J. and Jamal were chowing down at the Den.
Ten minutes later, so were Miranda and I.
It hasn't taken much to draw the three of them into my personality-spotting game. We have never had a famous person set
foot in Macon, so I hunt look-alikes and pretend. Passes the time.
Miranda turns back around in the booth. "Kyra's right, you guys. What's-his-name? Gleason? Guy from auto parts? He's a
dead ringer for Adam Sandler."
"No way," D.J. mutters.
He's not articulate, and it comes out "Nway." But it doesn't matter. D.J. Johnson is ripped. So ripped, but laid back.
Think long legs and bendable, like all his joints and points have been worn down like river rocks, like you knew his
mother had to be one of those "D.J., no slumping at the table," "D.J., sit up straight" kind of mothers before she
gave up.
"Okay. They look kinda the same," D.J. admits, taking a second look.
"Yeah," Jamal says, dipping a curly fry into ketchup and downing it, "but all you white guys look alike."
I grab two fries and scarf them down like I'm not even noticing.
D.J. notices. I can tell. He takes a fry. I take two.
Research. I've done my homework on D.J. Johnson. He's the only major datable left to conquer in our fair town. In five
months we graduate from Macon High. Good thing. I have history with just about every male Maconian. D.J. has three
sisters-"good eaters," Gram would have said. I know he's used to seeing girls eat hardy. Picky, girlish eaters would make
him uncomfortable.
Exact opposite of Manny, the big football star, who prefers girls to be little more than feminine decoration. When I
targeted him, I made sure I never finished anything and never, ever ate fries or desserts.
"Can I have a bite?" I ask, leaning across the table and taking a big bite of D.J.'s burger. Burger with onions, I
discover. I'll have to skip dinner and breakfast to make up for this.
"How do you eat so much and keep so skinny, girl?" Jamal asks, playing into my hand. "My sister counts every calorie she
puts into her mouth."
"I never thought about it," I lie, taking D.J.'s pickle. I raise my eyebrows in a silent plea for it. He nods. "I just
eat when I feel like it."
"No fair," says our waitress, as she rips off our bills from her little pad. Laurie's worked at the Tiger Den since before
we were born. She's plump, but in a way I think looks good on older people. "Skinny little thing like you?" She plops our
separate bills on the table, lining them in a straight, upside-down row. "Anything else?"
"Maybe later?" I smile at her and get a wink. It makes me think she remembers my other dates here, when I left most of my
meal on my plate.
The door opens. An icy gust fans in as the bell over the door rings-like anybody would need announcing in the Macon Tiger
Den. Dylan Gray rushes in, pulls off his stocking cap, and waves it at us.
"Hey, Dylan!" I call, motioning him over. No sweat if he joins us. Everybody and their brother know Dylan and I don't date.
We've been buddies since before kindergarten. We fought over the same toys in the church nursery. Our families even took
vacations together a couple of years in a row. We stopped when Bethany, Dylan's little sister, was born with too many
medical problems for the Grays to risk getting far from her doctors.
Miranda scoots over so I can make room for Dylan next to me. "You missed Lucille Ball, Cher, Drew Barrymore, Austin Powers,
. . . and Tommy Lee Jones," Miranda says.
Dylan does his half-grin, making his dimple. He knows the personality game. I used to make him play it with me. In those
days, we spotted Mr. Rogers, Barney, and that Home Alone kid. Dylan's hair is long, a day away from the barber, and his
glasses are fogged. He's the only guy I know, though, who looks great in glasses, better than without them. He played
freshman and sophomore football but dropped out last year to keep up his grades and work in his dad's lumberyard.
Jamal slides the plate of fries to Dylan. "You also missed Adam Sandler."
"Ah. . . ." Dylan shakes his head no to fries. "But I'm in time for Gary Peyton." He nods to Jamal, so I figure it's some
sports hero. "Ben Affleck." A fair assessment of D.J., only D.J.'s more of a stud. Dylan grins at Miranda. "Sandra
Bullock." He turns to me, eyes narrowing. We lock stares, Dylan and I. When we were kids, I used to know what he'd say
before he said it. Not anymore.
"Hmmm." He rubs his chin, touches his glasses, and sighs.
I'm ready to kick him if he says I'm somebody D.J. will think is ugly or uncool.
"This is a tough one." Dylan tilts his head for a better look at me. "Blonde, green eyes. . . . It's either . . . a thin
Marilyn Monroe or Brittany Spears with soul. Hard to say."
Not bad. Even Dylan's working for me tonight. "So, Dylan, how was your New Year's Eve? Where did you go again?" I know
before he answers that it has something to do with church and the youth group I haven't gone to since junior high.
Dylan still invites Sammy and me to things a couple of times a year. Sammy usually goes.
"We had a New Year's Eve party that ended up in the church gym with a great Christian rock group. I think you would have
liked them, Kyra."
Come on, Dylan! Ask me what I did.
"What did you end up doing?"
Yes! "Don't ask," I say, taking the last fry. "Horrible date. Only good thing about it is that it was my first, and it'll
be my absolutely last date with Tyrone." Hear that, D.J.?
"You serious?" Miranda asks.
"Is Barbie thin?" I answer, wishing I'd gone for a basketball analogy. D.J.'s into ball.
Dylan takes a sip of my Coke. It makes me sad. I think I'm remembering when we used to be so close we shared school lunches.
Or maybe the weird feeling I'm getting is just my body's way of telling me it doesn't like French fry grease.
"I can't keep up with you, Kyra," Dylan complains.
"I thought you and Tyrone were going out?" Jamal leans back in the booth. His legs stretch to our side and then some.
"Never." I risk a glance at D.J. He's looking at me but shifts his eyes back to his empty plate. "That was our first official
date. And nevermore, as the Raven said." Stupid! Barbie and Poe? I have to read up on basketball quotes.
"What happened?" Dylan's studying me now, his brown eyes slits behind wire-framed glasses.
I shrug. "Let's not go there, okay?"
I see that D.J.'s finished his burger and is reading the milkshake flavors written in black marker on the white menu board hung
over the counter, like something new could actually appear there.
I nudge Dylan. "Scooch! Lemme outta here! I'm still hungry." Of course, I'm not hungry. But I have to get D.J. by himself. He's
not brave enough to ask me out in front of Jamal. Couldn't take the razzing if I turned him down, which I won't. But he doesn't
know that.
"D.J.?" I give him my best smile. "C'mon. I'm thinking milkshake, a new flavor creation . . . chocolate definitely, with maybe
fudge, and possibly peanut butter?"
He gets up. His tennis shoes are so big they catch on the table leg.
I manage to bump into him when I slide out. "Sorry." I grab his arm to steady myself. Clumsy me. I don't come up to his
shoulder. He's way taller than my brother, and Sammy is six-one barefooted. Jamal and Sammy are the best players on
Macon's basketball squad, but D.J.'s not half-bad.
D.J. and I walk to the counter, me still holding his arm. Not holding exactly, just touching.
"So, D.J., did you have a great New Year's Eve, like everybody seems to have had except me?"
He shrugs.
I know he went out with Tressa. We're cheerleading buddies, but all's fair in love, plus I know they didn't have that great
of a time. I told you I did my homework.
Laurie the Waitress-who's probably younger than my mom but looks 10 years older because she's a smoker without the benefits of
Mom's oils, masks, and ointments-is the only one on duty tonight, except for Mr. Fisher in the back. She's refilling coffee
for a man. I should know his name. He drives a truck and has a son who used to be friends with Sammy.
"I wish I'd broken my date with Tyrone and just gone by myself to see that new Vin Diesel movie like I wanted to."
Bingo.
D.J. stops reading the flavors and frowns down at me as if he's never seen me before. "You like Vin Diesel?"
"Who wouldn't? The Fast and the Furious? Triple X? Classics!" I'm hoping he won't ask me about the movies because all I know
is what Sammy said after he saw them with Jamal and some other guys. I hate car-chase movies. But they are so D.J.
"Vin is tight! I loved Fast and Furious!" It's the most he's said since he ordered his meal.
You've hooked him. Easy now. Reel him in easy. "They say that new movie's his best," I claim, thinking the guy's best probably
isn't that hot. "It's playing at Clarinda, but I'll bet you anything it only runs through tomorrow night. If I miss it, I'm going
to be so bummed."
"Me too." He's thinking. I can almost hear the wheels turning. "Hey, you wanna go see it?"
"Of course," I answer, pretending I don't get his meaning.
3Like with me? Tomorrow before it leaves Clarinda?"
"Tomorrow night?" I repeat. "Sure."
Ta-da. Mission accomplished. Operation D.J., a success!
I order a large chocolate-peanut-butter-fudge milkshake just to be on the safe side. And I get a lid so D.J. won't notice I'm
not actually drinking the stuff.
It's all I can do not to strut back to the booth. I want to tell Miranda, but she's arguing with Jamal about something. I hear
her say "Sam" and I'm about to ask her what they're talking about when the bell rings and the door opens.
Jamal and Miranda stop arguing. D.J. and I, halfway back to the booth, stop walking. It feels like all the air is sucked out
of the Den, vacuum-packing us together.
You wouldn't have to have grown up in Macon to know the guy who just walked in isn't from around here. Nobody here has a long,
cashmere overcoat like that. Nobody in all of Iowa has a tan like this guy's-rich and golden even though it's the dead of
winter. And that hair-brown, thick, brushing his forehead-was not cut in the Macon Unisex and Shears Shop on Main Street.
I've never seen anyone this handsome this close up. He's not high school, but not old. Maybe college. Maybe out a couple years.
Someone drops a fork, and the clang of it jump-starts the room's heartbeat again. D.J. moves toward the booth. Jamal laughs.
Dylan stands up to let me slide back into the booth.
The tanned wonder orders coffee, black, and thanks Laurie in a voice as low and warm as coffee.
Laurie stands there staring at him until he has to ask her how much he owes her. "Fifty cents," Laurie says, even though coffee
at the Den has been 55 cents since last Easter.
"Thank you," he says. "It smells perfect."
Nobody in Iowa would say that.
He turns to leave, but he pauses-just a second too long-and glances at our booth, sizing us up, one after the other.
Dylan clears his throat. Miranda bites her nonexistent thumbnail. Jamal brushes crumbs off his lap. Even D.J.
sits up straighter.
I stare back. And something happens between us. I feel it inside, deep in the spaces between my bones. And I think he feels it,
too. Who is he?
The door shuts. Who was he?
Miranda breaks our awkward silence. "Kevin Costner? No! Harrison Ford in that first Star Wars movie."
"I haven't seen him around before," Dylan says, leaning in front of me to peer through the window. The night has turned pitch-
black, without a single star breaking through. "Man, take a look at those wheels! What is that, Jamal? Porsche 911?"
In the background Mr. Fisher's scratchy radio is playing an old country-western song. I try to hear the lyrics, straining for
the words wailed from the kitchen, as if they hold secret meaning, a code woven around ordinary words.
Dylan leaves. Then Jamal. So there's only Miranda, D.J., and me. The slurp of D.J.'s straw is our only contribution to the
Den's audio track.
"So what time, Kyra?" D.J. asks.
It's a second before I realize he's talking to me, asking me something. "What?" I look up from where I've twisted my straw cover
into a wrinkled ball.
"What time you want I should come pick you up tomorrow?" D.J. asks.
Miranda punches my leg under the table.
I try to focus. D.J. Pick me up. The movie. "Six," I say. But I can still smell him-something tropical, totally not sold here,
a fresh scent filled with promise and mystery. And I think if I don't see him again-the tanned, brown-haired stranger with
eyes that bore through me-I think I'll die.
Published with permission from Thirsty[?]
Copyright 2004. All rights reserved.
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