Page 17 of Tainted Love

My head whips to the left in surprise, searching for the owner of the familiar name. Dammit, Landry is still in the way. It’s like trying to peek around a building.

Frustrated, I rock forward on my toes and strain to catch another glimpse of the stranger with the unforgettable name. But once again, Landry blocks my view and I am left feeling disappointed and oddly drawn to this mysterious person who holds such a powerful effect on me.

“Here,” the intriguing stranger replies, sounding bored and slightly annoyed that he has to answer. His voice is deep and smooth, like dark chocolate melting in my ears.

Tazman. The name echoes in my mind as I roll it over on my tongue. Could it be Michael Tazman? It’s an unusual name, but the chances of it being my childhood friend are high. Memories flood back to me in a hazy movie montage: playing on the swings at the park, the distinct smell of rubber mats we used to nap on, digging in the sandbox for buried treasures, and our favorite snack—peanut butter, banana, and marshmallow fluff sandwiches. I can almost feel the hot tears that spilled down my cheeks when he had to move away.

Lost in my thoughts, I lean back this time, rocking back on my heels and craning my neck to catch a better glimpse of the stranger’s profile. But before I can get a good look, Landry shoves his big face in front of mine. “Whatcha doing, Sash?” he asks with a mischievous smirk. His interruption of my plan to discreetly stalk the new hockey player catches me off guard and causes me to lose my balance, nearly falling on my butt. But just in time, a large hand grabs hold of mine and pulls me back to steady ground.

“Dammit, Landry!” I scold, scanning the area to see if I’ve caused a scene.

“You are trippin’ today, Bell,” he says with his usual amount of enthusiasm.

“Whatever,” I say, shifting my legs to try to get rid of the wedgy that’s committing assault on my vulva.

Coach Lowe finishes the roll call and tells us to fan out to do some calisthenics. Great. That’s just what I need to be doing with no sports bra: jumping jacks.

He calls the members of the hockey team up to the front of the line to lead the stretches and exercises. Now I’m facing these guys, with this Taz character facing me just off to my right. At least I can get a better look at him from here.

We drop down into a runner’s stretch, and while his head is turned toward the guy next to him, I study his profile. It’s difficult to know for sure if it’s him. Age has sharpened his features, and the bleached hair doesn’t help, but those eyes…those eyes haven’t changed.

We go through our stretches and calisthenics, my boobs shimmying under my shirt like jello being jiggled back and forth in the car on the way to a family picnic. It manages to draw the attention of almost every guy in the vicinity. I even catch Landry looking at one point. That damn tree. I’m going to punch him later.

We finally completed our array of exercises thirty minutes later. I gave it about fifty percent effort, so I’m not a complete mess, but my bangs are matted to my forehead in gelled sweat.

Coach announces we have ten minutes to get back to the locker room and change, so we all move toward the gym. Suddenly and without any thought at all, I hear my voice ring out across the field. “Michael?” I yell. And then I want to die.

The guys he’s walking with keep going, but his step falters, and he looks over his shoulder curiously before turning on his heels and approaching me with his head tilted to the side.

Crap. I rub my sweaty hands on my ugly black gym shorts and meet him where he’s standing. His eyes look me up and down, but they’re emotionless. “I’m sorry,” he says, “Do we know each other?”

The air is sucked out of the space surrounding me. It’s him, and he doesn’t remember me. And why would he? That was so long ago. We’ve both changed so much in the past eight years. I do the only thing I can think of at the moment to let us both off the hook.

“You looked familiar, and I thought I did, but I guess not.”

He shakes his head like he doesn’t know if he believes me or not. “How did you know my name?” he asks.

“Oh, I heard someone say it.” I lie. Again. All you have in this life is your integrity, Sascha Bell; my mom’s voice rings in my head. Sorry, Mom.

“Huh,” he says, his tongue jutting out to lick his lower lip. “No one calls me Michael except my grandma. It’s Taz,” he says.

“Got it,” I nod. He stands for a moment, probably waiting for me to give him my name, but I’m embarrassed enough for one day, so I say, “See ya,” and trot off like I have somewhere to be. Lame.

Chapter 8

"Photograph"

Sascha - Age 13, 1983

“Hey, Mom,” I say, standing next to her in the kitchen. She leans over the counter, slicing carrots for dinner. “Remember Michael from kindergarten?” I ask, snapping green beans into a bowl.

She stops slicing and sets down her knife, wiping her hands on the towel beside her. “I do,” she replies. “You two were two peas in a pod.” Her voice takes on a hint of sadness as she continues, “He had such a tough time with his family.” She looks at me with sympathy in her eyes.

I shift my weight and cleared my throat. “I think he's back at our school,” I offer.

Mom glances at me, her eyes scanning my face with interest. “Have you spoken with him?”

My stomach churns as I remember the embarrassing encounter. “I did,” I admit, wincing.