ALONG CAME A SPYDER

“Why do you keep staring out the window at that girl?”

“Huh?”

“You keep looking at that girl. Boy, we moved here almost a month ago. You see her everyday and all you do is Peeping Tom her little behind from this window. What are you afraid of? Go over there and say something to her.”

Having your mother ask if you’re afraid of girls doesn’t do much for a teenaged boy’s self-esteem. Then again, Momma always believed in tough love. She always told it like was, unfiltered, even if it left a psychological scar. I developed a thick skin as far as that goes. It’s a good thing, too. My parents had just ended their 23-year marriage with a nasty, sudden divorce. My father made me choose who I wanted to live with. When I chose Momma, he said I’d never see him again.

I chose my mother more for her than for myself. She needed me, her only child. What kind of a son would I be if I let my 43-year-old mom start over in a new town all by herself.

“I’m not scared to talk to her, Momma. I’m just waiting for the right time.”

Momma walked over to the window and stared at the long-legged lass, clad in jean shorts, a t-shirt and sandals. Her red hair in pigtails, she was not the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. But she had some sort of entrancing quality. I could not take my eyes off her.

“That child know those britches are too short,” Momma muttered to herself. “It’s a good thing she’s skinny. If she had any booty at all, it would be hanging out for the world to see.”

She turned to me and frowned.

“Her? That bony thing got you all tongue-tied? You start school next week. You’ll meet a lot prettier girls than her.”

Momma was probably right. But, those prettier girls, undoubtedly, wouldn’t be playing basketball in ripped shorts, a crop top and sandals. What kind of a girl would shoot hoops in sandals?

“Son, you want me to call her over here?”

Mom’s question slapped me out of my trance. As she stepped toward the door, I panicked.
“No, Momma. Don’t.”

She laughed out loud.

“You’ve got to stop being so scary,” she told me. “You’re a smart, good-looking young man. You’re the last person who should be nervous about introducing yourself to a young lady.”

Momma grabbed my shoulders and turned me toward her.
“You hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Girls like confidence,” she said with a wink.

I nodded.

Momma took one hand off my shoulder, quickly opened the screen door and then shoved me outside. I completely missed the steps and fell face first onto the grass. Before I could look back, the door slammed loudly behind me.

It was just like Momma. Crazy and impulsive were two of the nicer descriptions my dad had for her. She embarrassed him a lot, too. My father and I were a lot alike in that way. If she could, she would want me to be more outgoing, more aggressive, less like my father. I knew I was way too timid but what could I do about it?

Sprawled face first on the ground, I didn’t dare raise my head. My mom had locked the door behind me. She was probably cracking up laughing as she glared at me through the window. In the distance, I did not hear a basketball bouncing on the concrete court.
Maybe my new neighbor had gone inside?

“Are you okay?”

The voice was stronger, deeper than I had imagined. I heard footsteps approaching on the grass. After a few steps, pale pink toenails appeared just a few inches from my face. Slowly, I pushed myself up to a kneeling position. After a deep breath, I dared to peer into the girl’s face.

“Huh?”

“Are you okay?”

“Oh, yeah. I just tripped on the steps. I guess I was a bit embarrassed. Thought I’d just lay on the ground for a minute since I couldn’t dig myself a hole to crawl into.”

The girl smiled and, with the ball under one arm, extended the other hand to help me to my feet.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Elias.”

“Hey, Elias. I’m Spyder.”

“Spyder?”

“Yeah, don’t ask.”

I could tell from a distance the girl was tall. But, now I could tell she was almost six-feet with unusually long legs and arms. Her face had sort of a Mona Lisa quality, plain but attractive, if that makes sense. She looked much prettier up close than she did from the window.

“So, it’s just you and your mom?” she asked. “Where did you guys move here from?”

“Out of state,” I answered, although I wasn’t sure why I was being so vague.

“Why?”

“Huh? Why what?”

“Why did you move?” she asked impatiently.

“Oh. My parents got divorced.”

The girl nodded as if she understood. She stared at me for a second.

“So, what’s up?” she asked with a shrug.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’ve been ogling me through your freaking window for, like, two weeks. Now, you’re acting all shy. Obviously, you saw something you liked or you wouldn’t have been staring at me like a perv. What’s up, shy boy?”

In my head, I could hear my mom laughing hysterically.

“I wasn’t ogling you.”

She laughed.
“Yeah, right. You play basketball?”

Spyder tossed the ball to me and began walking back to her yard, where the court was. My legs, completely on their own accord, followed her.
The midday sun was searing. A patch of trees on the opposite side of the court left a lovely canopy of shade. I wanted to keep walking but she stopped on the court and glared back at me, waiting for me to take a shot.
I’d watched her shoot baskets and she was very accurate. At first, I thought she was only good for a girl. But, I soon realized she was probably a better shot than me.

“Shoot it, shy boy.”
Just my luck, the first pet name I would get from a girl was condescending.

My shot, from about 15 feet out, was long and clanged off the back of the rim. She quickly ran to the edge of the court and retrieved the miss. In one motion, she turned and smoothly lofted a shot from more than 20 feet away.
The net seemed to mock me as the ball swished through.

“Why do you play in sandals?” I asked.

She shrugged.
“I’d rather be barefoot, to be honest. The ground is so darned hot. And, I don’t like wearing shoes in the summer. These sandals are so comfy. They’re like a really soft leather or rubber or something. I go for runs in ‘em sometimes, too. Plus, they look cute on my feet.”

Spyder bounced the ball to me. I clanked another shot. She bounced it back. I clanked another.

“Let me guess, basketball is not your sport, huh?” she said with a snort.

“I usually shoot better than this,” I answered.

“What’s wrong? You nervous?”

“Huh? No.”

She dribbled the ball out to the edge of the court, turned and netted another jump shot.

“Do I make you nervous, shy boy?”

“I told you my name was Elias.”

“Yeah, but you don’t act like an Elias. You act like a shy boy. So, that’s what I’m going to call you until you start acting like an Elias. You got a problem with that, shy boy?”

This girl?

“Actually, I do have a little problem with it,” I answered. “What kind of a name is Spyder, anyway? Is it because of your long legs and stuff?”

“I told you not to ask,” she said. Suddenly, she turned and briskly skipped toward her house. Over her shoulder she yelled, “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
She disappeared and I fired up another shot. Of course, that’s when I made it.

Spyder came back outside with two slices of watermelon. She grinned as she handed one of them to me.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Watermelon. What does it look like?”

“Looks like you’re messing with me.”

“What?”

“You’re giving a black man watermelon? Are you joking?”

I saw a look of confusion in her light eyes. She pondered my question and then shook her head.

“My mom bought it. It’s cold and really good. It’s so hot, I thought it would cool us off. It’s really sweet. What’s the problem?”

“It’s a stereotype. Black folks eat watermelon. You don’t know that? It’s insulting.”

“Sorry, I didn’t get the memo,” she said sarcastically. “If you don’t want it, give it to me. I’ll eat it. Jesus, try to be nice to some people.”

“No, never mind. I’ll eat it.”

It was so hot. And, she was right. The melon was cold and sweet. The juice dripped down my chin and mingled with the sweat.

“So, it’s true,” she said with a grin.

“What’s true?”

“All black people really do love watermelon,” she responded before laughing out loud.

I felt a rush of liquid fire pour through my veins. I threw the melon to the ground and began to storm back to my house.

“Relax dude, I’m joking,” she called out after me. “Hey, come back. It was a joke. Where are you going?”

I actually didn’t want to leave. I wanted to confront her. I’d dealt with racism my entire life. My grandfather on my dad’s side used to tell me stories of his childhood. The pictures he painted weren’t pretty and they stuck with me. The racism I faced wasn’t anything close to my parents and certainly not my grandparents. But, I was determined not to put up with any of it.

“You think racism is funny?” I asked Spyder as I walked back to the court.

“No. Racism isn’t funny at all. Dumb stereotypes are funny. The watermelon and fried chicken stuff is so ridiculous. It doesn’t make sense. I love watermelon and chicken and I’m pretty sure I’m not black. I don’t understand why that would upset anybody.”

She had a point although I wasn’t going to admit it.
“Well, you’re right. You’re not black,” I answered.

“Why are you so sensitive? I give you a cute nickname and you act like you’re going to cry. I make an innocent joke and you storm off in a huff like a girl. You’ve got issues, shy boy … I mean, Elias. What’s going on with you?”

I wasn’t sure why I was so defensive. Growing up, I had always been rather laid back. Lately, though, small things had started to irritate me. It was if I had started looking for reasons to get angry.

Spyder walked slowly toward the shaded area. I followed suit and grabbed a seat in a lawn chair that had been folded up. She squatted on a plastic bucket she’d turned upside down.

“Since you guys moved in, you’ve stayed locked up in your house like it’s a prison.”

Spyder’s stare toward me intensified.
“It can’t be about the watermelon,” she said thoughtfully. “What are you really mad about?”

“My folks just got a divorce.” The words just spilled out of my mouth, seemingly, without my consent. “They made me choose who I wanted to live with. I chose my mom and my dad got pissed. He left. I probably won’t see him again.”

Spyder’s face softened. Her eyes narrowed as she focused on what I was saying.
“Wow, that’s rough,” she said. “They made you choose? That’s not fair. They shouldn’t do that to a kid. What did your mom say?”

“I think she understands. I chose her because I know how much it would’ve hurt her if I didn’t.”

“Of course,” Spyder nodded. “You miss your dad?”

That was a good question. I wasn’t sure.
“Not really,” I answered.

“If your old man loves you, he’ll come and find you. You wait. He’ll show up and he’ll be sorry for how he acted. In the meantime, you and your mom need each other.”

She was right, of course. She didn’t say anything I didn’t already know. But, it felt different coming from someone other than my mom. Actually, she was the only person I’d talked to about my situation other than my mother.
It felt like a weight had been lifted from my gut.

“It’s too bad your old man is gone, though. He could’ve taught you how to play basketball.”
She grinned mischievously.

“I made a shot when you went into the house.”

“Yeah, right. Sure, you did.”

Sitting on that bucket, her knees almost came up to her chin. A girl sitting in that manner, it looked silly but was, somehow, feminine. There was something about her that seemed to knock down my emotional barriers. Maybe it was because she was such a smart ass. But, she was a good listener who seemed to genuinely care.
A devilish girl with an angel’s heart.

“So, why do they call you Spyder?”

“I told you not to ask,” she said.

“I opened up to you. It’s your turn. How’d you get the nickname?”

She rose to her feet and leaned against the tree.
“Can you keep a secret?”
“Sure.”

“You’d better.”

“It’s not a nickname,” she said after a pause.

“Spyder is your real name?”

She nodded.
“I was conceived on the hood of a Porsche Spyder.”

I wasn’t sure I heard her right.
“Huh?”

“It’s a car, genius. That’s where I was spawned, on the hood of a car.”

“Your mom told you that?” I asked.

“No, I was there. I wrote it down.”

“Why are you snapping at me?”

“Because, I told you not to ask. I mean, my mom is … well, she’s not going to win Mother of the Year.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s a prostitute and a drug addict,” Spyder said sharply.

Her response shocked me. I saw a bit of anger in her eyes. Or, was it hurt?

“What about your dad?”

“Don’t know my dad,” she answered.

“Oh. Wait, I thought you said it was in a Porsche Spyder?”

“Not in a Porsche. On the hood. And, she didn’t know who my father was. It could’ve been one of five guys.”
Her words rattled around in my brain but they weren’t in the right order.
“Five? But, that doesn’t make … oh. Oh.”

“One of them was an athlete, a high jumper or something,” she continued. “Because I’m tall and athletic and stuff, Mom assumes it was him. But she was too high or too stupid to have a blood test done.”

“Why don’t you find the guy and make him take a blood test? It’s not too late.”

Spyder shook her head.
“It’s way too late. You’re not chasing your dad, are you? I’m fine without him. I’ve got one more year of high school and already I have six scholarship offers to play basketball. I’m going to get a lot more this year, too. You’ll see. I’m doing fine all on my own.”

Her tone was defiant and confident, qualities that I could’ve used myself. I realized it was those qualities that made her so good looking. She wasn’t the prettiest girl I’d ever seen but she was easily the most attractive.

The conversation stalled for about a minute. Spyder finally scooped up the basketball and started spinning it in her hands, staring at it as if it offered some sort of emotional release.
“I told you not to ask,” she said finally.

“I’m glad I did,” I answered.
Spyder smiled.

“I’m glad your mom finally shoved your ass out the door.”

“What? You knew she did that?”

She chuckled slyly.
“Did you think your windows were made of one-way glass or something? I was watching you, watching me. Why do you think I was wearing these slutty shorts all the time?”

I could feel my face splitting into an ear-to-ear grin. I wished I could control it. But, I couldn’t.

“Momma said if you had a booty, it would be sticking out of those shorts,” I told her.

“Got your attention, shy boy.”

“I guess so. And, uh, call me Elias.”

Spyder gave sort of a coy shrug and smiled softly.
“Okay. I will … shy boy.”