FIRSTS Stories: The Boys Tell All

Orlando Lamar

I drain the last of my beer and stand up, stretching my arms over my head. At six-five, I'm the tallest guy in the room. Of course, the coaches were all over my ass to join the basketball team when I started at Milton four years ago. They dogged me about it and bugged me to try out each season, but it's just not for me. I'm a lover, not a player.

"Hey," a girl voice says from behind me. "Orlando, right? I just wanted to say, that pro-abortion speech you gave during the debate? So epic."

I turn around. She's small and blond and not in any of my classes. "Thanks, Britney," I say. "Much appreciated."

Her eyes widen. She's surprised that I know who she is, but I know her name because I know everybody's name. "I guess we've never actually formally met. I'm Britney Ames." She holds out her hand and grabs mine, and her handshake's actually decent for someone so tiny.

"Orlando Lamar," I say. "Yeah, there's a lot of issues I could talk about for days. I just think women have the right to choose. You know?"

She nods like the bobblehead on the dashboard of my car. Her head looks too big for her body. That's the look for girls these days, I guess. Not for Clara. Clara's got a bit of meat on her bones, and I like that. There's nothing like running your hands down a woman's hips, cupping her butt in your hands. (Well, Clara only let me do that once. But there was nothing like it.)

"Well, Orlando, I'd listen to you talk about anything, any day. I'll be at the next debate, for sure."

"I sure hope so," I say, right as my eyes flicker up and see Clara frowning at me from across the room. I hold up my hand in a wave, as if to say girl, chill out, because that's one thing about Clara I'm not crazy about. She gets jealous. Maybe it sounds like flirting, but it comes out naturally. I'm like that with every girl. Students, teachers, crossing guards, salespeople at the mall. My old man calls me a charmer and says I'm just like him. "I told your Ma we should've named you Romeo," he once said, "but she loved As You Like It. I knew she got the wrong Shakespeare play."

Britney's still talking about the debate, yapping a mile a minute with her hands clutched around her Solo cup. I'm looking at her but not listening because now I'm thinking about my dad, about what my Ma said when she moved out. You're just like your father.

I nod and smile, because that's another thing I got from my old man. Perfect teeth, the kind people pay for. After Clara and I had been dating for a few months, we were walking home from a movie date and she hopped on my back like a little kid, with no warning at all. "You know," she said. "If we ever have kids, we'd make the cutest babies ever. And they'd have your smile."

I had laughed, even though it was really random and not something I liked to think about. The whole idea of growing old and settling down and having kids freaks me out. Anything that advertises itself as for life can only fall short. If there's one thing my folks taught me, it's that nothing lasts forever.

"Anyway," Britney says, whipping out her phone. "If you give me your phone number, I'll invite you next time."

I say the numbers automatically. I don't want to be rude. Plus, this means nothing. But then, as she's asking me how to spell my last name—"is it Lamar like Kendrick Lamar, or like La-More?"—Clara comes up behind me and wraps her arms around my waist, just a little too tightly.

"Babe," she says. "I need to talk to you. Outside."

Ouch. Outside is never a good thing. She's pulling me by the hand, across the basement, out the walk-out screen door, practically yanking my arm off. My girl's a lot stronger than she looks and when she digs her nails in, that shit hurts.