One day in autumn, Sam and Armen were eating lunch alone together in the school cafeteria. Sam’s farm equipment cap sat next to his tray. Amid the cafeteria cacophony, a girl’s twangy voice rang out, “twenty-four!” and Sam jumped with recognition. That was his jersey number, the number his coaches would sometimes bark out to get his attention. The tapping of boots rose rapidly from behind, and a girl appeared. Her black hair was just long enough to hop easily on and off her shoulders. She wore dark shades and orange lipstick. Her facial muscles seemed charged; making her face seem angular but not without the soft curves of her youth. No youth to the boys, though: she was a senior classman, sure enough, dressed as she was. Her black jeans and racing-orange tee were well occupied; a tight, black leather jacket partly unzipped as though that was as far up as the zipper could go.
“Say, hey!” she began. “If it ain’t Loose Man Sam.” She declared with an Okie twang and a firm pat on Sam’s back that made him jump off the bench. “Don’t seem too loose to me,” she observed.
The two freshmen were accustomed to anonymity. Even Sam was unknown, new as he was to organized sports. He was no football hero, and he wasn’t cut out for this kind of attention. It didn’t help that she appeared to know the connection between his number and Willie Mays. She already knew him too well. He wasn’t fond of familiarity. He feared that familiarity would expose his deformity. Except for the blonde hair that had so aggrieved his father, Sam didn’t have a corporeal defect like Richard III, Cyrano de Bergerac, or Ahab, but he had his mark, just the same. One only need look a little closer.
The girl sat down next to Sam on the aluminum bench with her back to the table, and she leaned back and set her elbows on the edge. She paused with a smirk, then turned, grabbed Sam’s cap, and put it on her head.
Japanese tiger, Edo Period
Sam’s body suddenly remembered to breathe, and it turned away in the hope of finding an escape route. Finding none, Sam timidly turned back in the girl’s direction.
“Num-ber Twen-ty Four,” she intoned with a heavy Howard Cosell cadence. She inspected him through her sunglasses, sweeping over his frame with a casual scanning motion.
Sam swallowed. Armen swallowed.
“Sue,” the girl continued. “That’s short for Suzanne. Coswell. Got that?”
“Got that. I—got it. Cos—” Sam choked on his reply.
“Not Cosell. Coswell.” Sue issued the preemptive correction as though Sam could ever mistake one for the other.
“Coswell” Sam acknowledged obediently.
She tipped her shades and winked over the frames, grabbed the bill of Sam’s cap, and transferred the cap from her head to his. She pulled out a braided leather key strap with the orange, white, and black Harley Davidson logo on display, and whipped his thigh lightly with it. “You ever need a ride, you come and see Sue.” She stood up, whipped the back of Sam’s neck with the strap, and strutted toward the cafeteria doors, well within Sam’s field of vision. All the orange and black and white—she seemed as much tigress as girl. Sam looked down at his lunch as if praying to it for deliverance.
Armen searched desperately for something to break the tension, which only seemed to increase with his efforts to relax. Sam felt the blood rushing to his face.
“You stud.” Armen called upon his best Bill Murray. Sam didn’t seem to hear his attempt at humor.
“You—” they each began, and Armen finished. “Do you know her?”
“No!” Sam shot out before Armen could deliver his answer.
“Coswell … Coswell” Armen chewed on the name. “Does that name sound familiar to you?”
“Yeah. Farmers. Family operation. You know, like the mafia.”
“Serious?”
“Nah. They’re just loaded. That’s all.”
Armen turned to check the cafeteria’s double doors to make sure she was really gone. Other kids cast curious glances at Sam and Armen from all directions. Armen turned back to Sam. “She certainly is.”
“Is—is what?”
“Loaded, Sam. Gifted, Sam. Endowed. Blessed. You listening to me?”
“Yeah. Listening to you. Yeah. … Blessed?”