Chapter 2

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1998

Victor Manning continued orbiting my solar system like a distant insignificant planet. He was not my sun, or my moon, or my north star but more like Pluto – an obscure and questionable acquaintance who I was dimly aware of but seldom made a difference in my life. Life and development had been good to him, what had started out as a smooth and attractive boy had slowly morphed into a muscular and handsome young man. Clocking in a six-foot two, he was an Adonis with hair so black that it stood out starkly against his skin. His eyes were still and always would be a rich brown, down-turned, a sharp contrast against the chiseled jaw. Yet it wasn't so much how he looked; it was how he walked. He became one of those people that early on realize they are worthy of love and attention. He was good at sports; his large body was ripe for High School football and it was his name that was chanted on Friday Nights.

Our paths diverged at some point but not too far. It took me a bit longer to find my own group, my own solace, and the girl who had come from Miami in winds and destruction was soon gone replaced by a bright and shiny disposition. I had polished myself. A lot had to do with friends, I now had friends, I was part of a vital nucleus of people.

During that time my heart was placed firmly in the unwilling hands Clemente Cruz, the star of the baseball team. Clem was my closest orbiting moon, the path of my life, the compass that guided me in each step of my day. It was not love, I was not capable of it, but it was obsession and like most obsessions I did not see anything of the bad. According to most, Clem was ugly, but it didn't matter to me, my heart beat solely for him and the small moments that he would spare me a glance. Clemente Cruz literally floated on a cloud; he had more talent than any other boy in our school and just being around him made me break out in cold sweat. It was rumored that Clem was being scouted by the Tampa Bay Rays, even in high school. He was that good. Legendary, at age seventeen.

"He looks like Arnold," Yahaira said. She rolled her eyes and studied the cuticles of her nails.

"He does not."

I watched Clem cross the basketball court to joke with Victor. They greeted each other as young men did; slap, curl, chest press, release. The homogeneity of it all lost on them, their ease friendly and open like boys who have never questioned their sexuality. Touching was not uncomfortable, and smiles were easy and delightful.

"Yes, from Hey Arnold." Yara laughed and tossed her thick bleached blonde hair over her shoulder. She was so beautiful it hurt at times to look at her. Her eyes were wide and turned colors depending on her mood and for whatever reason two years ago we had become the closest of friends. I felt like a rolling sausage next to her and she would clutch at me and assure me that beauty always came after High School. It was easy for her to say, if she had wanted Clem, she would've gotten him.

I turned back to Clem, his long legs encased in jeans, his blond hair slicked back. Why couldn't Yara see how sexy he was? How the paths of lights moved around him? The years and hours spent swinging bats had carved out of the boy a hard man from the squared jaw to the sinewy forearms. He was edged perfection, sprinkled with a bit of danger that called to my placid and stable life. He was Mr. Rochester and Yara would not know because she had refused to watch the film. My eyes must have glassed over because Yara's laugher broke through my thoughts and it captured the boys' attention.

"You are ridiculous," she said.

"Shit, they're looking at us!"

My stomach erupted in pain. I had nothing to say to him, no clever and witty statement. Nothing. Victor turned and waved sardonically and I responded by flicking him off which only served to make him grin.

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