Double Dutch Jumprope m/f

[calebtras]

Double Dutch Jumprope
A couple of weeks into the school year a new student came into our sixth grade classroom. We all stared at her as Mrs. Steiner wrote down her name, gave her books, and led her to her seat. She was black. Back then, in my Irish neighborhood in Brooklyn, my mother only reluctantly accepted Poles and Italians as Catholic, grumbling about the one Puerto Rican family attending Mass.
At lunch out on the playground I climbed up to the top of the bars. Yvonne, the new girl, stood by herself watching the little kids on the swings, boys on the basketball court, girls at hopscotch or talking. She stood with her back straight, taller than the other girls. Her blue flower dress was faded like a hand-me-down, hanging above her knees—if we had been a Catholic school instead of public she would have been sent home.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Brendan Sullivan walking slowly toward her with his chest puffed out. Brendan liked to come up behind me in the hallway and kick my feet out from under me, knowing I wouldn't fight back. My mother said I was going to be the priest in the family (I'm not a priest.) Brendan would sneer as I picked up my pencils and books, then strut away.
The older boys on the yard stopped to watch. Brendan eyed Yvonne and she stared back. "Well," he said. "Look's like Mrs. Steiner brought somethin' for the sixth grade class—a pet monkey."
She took a quick step toward him. In a flash I saw Brendan double over and crumple to the ground gasping, her punch so fast I didn't see it. Yvonne was the Warrior Princess I'd dreamed of having.
When she returned after three days suspension, no one messed with her. Some of the girls let her into their jump rope games, and one day she brought an extra long rope and taught them Double Dutch, teaching them how to turn the two ropes, jump, and chant rhymes. When it was her turn, she told the girls turning, "Faster," rocking back and forth to the rhythm, then jumping in, long brown legs pounding, switching feet, spinning, so even the boys playing basketball stole glances.
Unlike the Irish girls, her under-size dress stretched tight over developing breasts, giving her cred with the older boys and girls. One day she got in line to be chosen for the kickball game. None of the boys told her girls, especially black girls, don't play kickball. She was chosen last. When she was up, she kicked the ball over the swings, an automatic home run. She never played again.
She was polite, accepted by a group of girls, but had no friends. I had only acquaintances, spending my time reading books on King Arthur, the Hobbits, living in my imagination. Long before fantasy movies and fan fiction, I wrote my own magical medieval comics, in warm weather on the roof of my building that I called my Castle. I yearned to bring Yvonne there so she could share my magical Kingdom. She would reign as my Captive Warrior Princess in a Realm of our own making.
Then one Saturday morning when I was sitting on the stoop in front of our building, Yvonne turned the corner, her jumprope looped around her arm.
"Hi, Yvonne," I called.
"Oh, hi, Terry," she said smiling. She was wearing navy shorts and a light blue blouse, hair back in a rubber band. She was probably happy to see me; even an adult might mutter something mean to a colored girl on our block.
"I wanna show you somethin'."
"Goin' to the park," she said, holding up her rope.
"It's real cool. Up on my roof."
"What?"
"You'll see." Though my heart was pounding, I turned and walked in the door as if sure she'd follow. I was ecstatic when I heard her footsteps behind me.
I led her up the five flights of stairs to the roof. Our building was the tallest and you could see the whole block, Hudson Bay, Staten Island. "Bend low and don't make noise," I whispered.
I led her to the low parapet that ringed the roof. As we neared it, I touched her arm, pulling her lower. We knelt, heads just below the top and slowly raised so we could see.
A teenage girl lay on her stomach on a red beach towel wearing a pink bikini bottom and nothing else, as she did every warm Saturday afternoon. A radio played rock and roll and her strawberry blonde hair wafted in the breeze.
Yvonne smiled and asked, “Is she nasty?”
“She's a hippie. She always says to me, 'Yo, Terry, howz it hangin'?' You know what she means?”
Yvonne shook her head.
I dangled my forefinger down. “The ding-a-ling.”
“She is nasty.”
“She sees me by myself up here. She's telling me it's okay to be different.”
Yvonne studied the girl with new interest. “Different is good. But what about God watching? And you, Terry. Didn't 'spect that from you.”
I was so close I could smell her, like a flower from a distant land.
She asked, “You ever seen her titties?”
“Yeah.”
What color the . . .” she made a circle in the air.
I had glimpsed her breast once, so I guessed. “Pink.”
"You lyin'."
"Pink."
"I wanna see."
"Okay, wait for her to raise up, change the radio.”
"I ain't waitin' on no roof." She rose up on her knees and called out, "Hey, girl . . ."
I clapped one hand on her mouth, the other around her waist and pulled. We both tumbled back, her on top of me.
She laughed, mmphing, twisting and thrashing, but not hard. I was happy and excited, feeling her giggles under my hand, her taut stomach in my arm. It was the first time I heard her laugh. I held her tight until she lay still.
"Promise not to yell?"
She mm hmmed and nodded. I took my hand off her mouth. "That was so rude."
She turned wide-eyed toward me and put her hand on her chest. "Girl lyin' nekkid on the roof and I'm rude?"
She struggled to sit up. "Take your hand off me, boy."
I reluctantly withdrew my arm. This was the first time I'd held a girl, felt her breath on my face; it was an electric thrill.
She was coiling her rope that had been tangled in our struggle, getting ready to leave. Sweeping my arm across the roof, I said, “This my Castle.”
She glanced at the tar roof, exhaust vents, tv antennas, and nodded.
“See ya Monday in school,” she said turning toward the door.”
“Can't you stay a little longer and talk?”
Almost at the door, “Goin' to the park.”
“I really like you a lot, Yvonne.”
She stopped and looked over her shoulder.
“You're the fastest kid in the whole school and the best fighter, and you don't giggle or act stupid. All the kids secretly admire you.”
She snorted. “I know what they call me behind my back.”
“Because you're different. I'm different, too.”
Her whole face tightened. “Terry, you don't know how it is for me.”
When she started for the door again I grabbed her jump rope and pulled.
“What you doin'?”
I braced my feet and pulled harder.
“So tha's how it is.” She yanked and I stumbled.
“Let's play tug-of-war.” I said. Before she could object I tied the rope around my waist. When I reached to tie the other end around hers, she brushed my hands aside and tied it herself. Holding the rope over my shoulder, I led her to the middle of the roof.
She called, “Ready . . . Set . . .”
Before she could say “Go” I jerked hard, and she almost fell to her hands before regaining her feet and pulling hand over hand. I was letting her reel me in when she let go so I fell on my butt. Now I pulled for real, but she was stronger and pulled me toward her. I stood straight and fell forward, wrapping my arms around her.
“Boy, what you doin'?” sounding exasperated.
I picked up the rope and wrapped it around the two of us, pulling it tight and tying it. I talked fast. “Out in the World they pick on us, but my Castle is my Realm, where I alone can weave Spells and Incantations. If you join me as my Princess, the Unicorns and Elves will be loving to you.”
She looked at me quizzically for awhile, figuring me out. “I think I know what you're sayin', Terry.” She looked away, over the roofs. “When I'm sad, I think about my Grandfather's place in South Carolina. Me and my cousins go swimmin' in the crick, catch fish and Grandma cooks 'em up. We got a rope swing where I can jump farther out into the water than my fourteen year old boy cousin.” She looked to see if I believed her.
“See, same as me. Yours is real, but I can come here to mine anytime I want. Stay with me here and help me make it real for you.”
She tilted her head and said softly, “Terry, if my Momma was here, she grab my arm, drag me down those stairs sayin', 'Girl, what you doin' alone wit' that crazy white boy.' When we get home she whup me but good.”
“You're safe here from the World. I'll order my army of Trolls and Giants to protect you.”
“You, Terry? Protect me?” But not sneering; more sad. She untied and unwound the rope around us.
I reached up and stroked her cheek. “Please don't leave me. You're the only person I can't imagine up for myself. You're so beautiful. ”
She knit her brows. She didn't know what to say.
Her hair had come partially loose from her rubber band. I touched her hair, squeezed it.
“Even my big brothers know not to mess wit' my hair.” But she didn't stop me.
I combed her hair out with my fingers into a cloud around her head. “Like a crown. In my castle this is the way you'll be—my Princess.”
“Shows how much you know 'bout black girls' hair,” she said with a sweet smile as she combed and pulled her hair back into the rubber band.
I said, “Don't bring the way they treat you in the World into my Castle. That's why the Magic isn't working for you.”
“The magic.” She looked me over, then with a sad smile, “I believe you, Terry. I wish everythin' you sayin' be true. Even wish it was in my head like it in yours. But it ain't.”
Before I could say a word she had opened the door. I felt a rising panic. She had a Power over me that I wasn't matching. I knew what to do. “Let me tie you up. You'll be my Captive Princess.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Tie me up with my own jump rope?”
“When you escape your bonds, you can leave. If you never escape, you will stay with me until Happily Ever After.”
She studied me. “You tie up a girl before?”
“Yes, but it wasn't Magical like with us.” I had always loved tying up girls, boys, being tied myself, and never knew why. It had all been leading up to Princess Yvonne. She had ensnared me with her Magic, but in my Castle I could bind her to me.
“White girl?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I let you tie me up and I escape, means your magic don't work on me. You don't never talk a
'bout it again. You see me at school or on the block, you go, 'Hi, Yvonne,' and I go, 'Hi, Terry,' and we done.”
I smiled with relief. “Okay.” She was pretending it was just a tie-up game, but she knew I was one of the Good Ones, kinda strange, but gentle and trustworthy.
She handed her rope to me and I took her hand and led her in front of the air duct in the center of the roof. She took a deep breath and brought both hands together in front. I took one wrist and walked behind her, crossing her wrists. I wound one end of the long Double Dutch jump rope cross ways, over, and around. I tied it not enough to hurt, but tight with three knots. I willed the knots to hold. I wrapped the rope up her arms, pulling her elbows together, tying it again below her shoulders. There was a lot of rope left, and I stepped in front of her to figure it out.
She wriggled, testing the knots, shooting me a defiant look. With her shoulders pulled back, her breasts pushed against her blouse. I wrapped the rope around her chest above, between, and below her breasts, around her waist and tied another knot. A loop and knot above her knees, wrap down her legs, and the last knot at her ankles. I stepped back.
She was so proud and unafraid in her bonds. I helped her sit on the duct, and sat beside her. She immediately began to struggle against the rope, pulling her arms, pumping her legs back and forth. I closed my eyes and chanted silently, “May the bonds hold 'til her heart becomes Captive.”
She had forced the rope around her chest up her shoulders so they hung loose. I looked behind her and the knots had tightened but she'd worked slack and was squeezing one hand out. The Magic wasn't ready. “I wish I had chains.”
She stopped moving and stared at me with frightened eyes.
I explained, “This is an ordinary jump rope, but iron chains can hold a Magic Incantation.”
“You want me be your slave,” Yvonne said. She leaped to her feet and fought frantically against her bonds. “Oh, God, a crazy white boy!”
"No!" I was stunned. “Not a slave. My Captive Princess.”
Tears streamed down her face as she struggled frantically.
“Stop! You'll hurt yourself!”
She toppled backward and I grabbed her around the waist.
“Let go!” She screamed.
Someone in the World would hear. Everything was falling apart. I shut my eyes tight, pulled her to me, and kissed her.
She went silent and froze. Both of us did.
The thing is, Yvonne was a bit taller than me, so I'd pressed my lips into the indentation between her lower lip and chin. But I was locked in place.
I tried to say, 'I'm sorry,' but no words came out. My fingers stroked her back gently. I felt her jaw soften, arms relax. I touched her cheek, damp from tears. Her smell enveloped me, just as I had wanted, to bind us together forever. But too late. I had lost her. I felt so foolish. I squeezed her in a last hug.
I was building the courage to let go and step back, resolving to keep my head down and never look her in the eyes again, when I felt her move. A nod, her head tilting downward. Her lips slid down and met mine. They were so soft and round. I realized I had been holding my breath and inhaled deeply, sucking in her warmth, my chest pressing against the swells of hers.
A tongue probed my lips; quivering, they parted as if on their own; now a moist push against my teeth; I opened my mouth and her tongue slid in. Tentatively, I touched the top of her tongue with mine, and she sucked, gently, pulsing, until my tongue rolled into her mouth, then hers into mine, filling me with liquid fire. A sound fought to free itself from deep in my throat, a sigh that pulsed into a cry of joy.
I ran my fingers from her forehead down her face, her long neck, her shoulders, down her arms, over the ropes wrapped around her wrists. She gripped my hands tightly in hers.
At some point, still kissing, eyes closed, I undid the knot that bound her hands, the ropes around her arms. She wrapped her arms around my waist, I laced my fingers behind her neck, and we kissed lightly again and again and again.
Then she hopped back, bent and untied the knots at her waist, knees, and ankles. She coiled her jump rope. I stepped forward arms out to her, but she put her fingers lightly on my chest. She shook her head 'no'. Without another word she walked to the door.
What had happened? I was so sure the Magic had worked. I heard her footsteps tapping down the stairs. I wanted to run after her, but what could I say? She'd broken the spell.
In a daze I walked to the edge of the roof. Yvonne was walking down the sidewalk toward the park. I willed her to turn and look at me, send me a message. She rounded the corner without a glance and was gone.
She had chosen the World, where I was a quiet, nerdy outcast and she was the dark-skin girl, where we could never touch, never share what we'd had, ever again. My Fate—doomed to wander the World, unprotected and alone.
I turned toward the door. The antenna, duct didn't feel at all like a Castle; just a roof. Yvonne was gone and with her the Magic.
Yet, deep inside I felt a warm throbbing. Yvonne had taken down not only the Magic but the frightened little boy who needed it. Our kiss had been with our real lips, a worldly kiss with real tongues, and all my joy was no longer in my imaginary adventures, but pulsing in my heart. I walked with confidence toward the door, readying my new resolve and spirit to journey into the world.