The metal bleachers were cold against my legs. It was early March and though the sun was beginning to tear through the cloudy, lagging grasp of winter, it wasn't quite spring just yet. Still, watching our college's heretofore unknown softball team filled me with a sort of warmth. School pride? No way. My diploma wouldn't currently be coffee stained and stashed in a storage locker if I ever felt anything akin to school pride. It was just nice to see lithe bodies swinging, running, diving, squatting at the knees, stretching their polyester over bubble shaped, athletic glutes. This wasn't pride, no, it was naked desire.

            But seeing Rachel get up to bat, knock a ball into the gap between outfielders, or dive for a catch from second base, impressed on me something different. A little jump felt in the center of my chest. 'Cheer? Fear? Who knows. Wait, is she wearing the same socks as yesterday? No, that can't be right. God, she looks good in those pants. Did she know I was here? Should I call out or something? I wonder if I can smoke here. Will they kick me out? Did I submit my essay? God damn, she looks good.'

            Racing thoughts, of course. Followed by the expected self-defacement, a guaranteed encore, putting myself back in my place, or so I figured. Nevertheless, as Rachel stood outside the batter's box at her next at-bat, she glanced through the crowd, gaze finally falling and stopping on me. She pointed at me and smiled that lopsided smirk. An accusation or a salutation? She stepped into the chalk square, tensed her muscles, slid her cleat through the dirt, and rocketed the lofted ball past the fences and into the parking lot: a walk-off home run.

            “Hey!” She caught me outside the stadium, where I'd ostensibly stopped to smoke, but where I'd really been hoping she'd appear and spot me loitering. The green pinstripes of her uniform, bulging slightly at her curves, made her look taller, but she was still the same height as me.

            “Hey.” I said, trying to act casual.

            “I'm so glad you came out. Did you see that hit? It was like I had jet fuel in my arms.” She said.

            “Yeah, that was incredible.” I said.

            “You have to come to the next one, now.” She said.

            “I do?” I asked.

            “Of course!” She flipped her arms up for emphasis, “You're good luck, obviously.”

            “I am?”

            “Well, you saw what happened.” She said, “And you don't let go of luck like that. You need to come Tuesday. It's a night game.”

            “Sure, why not?” I said, not at all knowing if I had a late class on Tuesdays. It didn't matter, it's not like I went anyway.

            “Awesome, I've needed a charm like you. I think I used up all the luck in these.” She stretched out her leg and motioned to her sock.

            “What?” I looked down and then back up to her.

            “My lucky socks. Won my first divisional in these. But at practice they've been doing nothing. Then you show up, and pow! I'm knocking them out of the park.”

            “Aha, I see...” I looked down again. They were definitely the same socks as last time.

            “Probably for the best, these could stand up on their own.” She smirked.

            “What does that mean?” I asked, taking the last drag on my cigarette.

            “It means they're dirty. You don't wash lucky socks, that's bad juju, duh.” She said.

            “Oh, ew.” I said without thinking, immediately regretting it, and dropping the yellowed filter on the ground.

            “Don't worry, you can still shower though.” She said, unfazed, before looking down to my litter, “Oh, let me get it.”

            She lifted her dirty cleat and managed to pin the butt under the toe, effortlessly twisting it into shreds of orange paper and spent tobacco. I watched, strangely captivated by the precision of her step, extinguishing my little funeral pyre beneath her shoe like a public execution. She caught me staring and playfully tapped the front of my shoe with hers.

            “Okay, Koji, let's go celebrate.” She said.

            “You don't do that with the team?” I asked.

            “Usually, yeah, but they're going to this restaurant I hate.” She said, “So, let's go get mozzarella sticks, I know a great place. Let me just run to the locker room and change, wait here, okay?”

            “S-sure.” I stuttered. Actually, I didn't want to go, I wanted to come up with an excuse, I wanted to run screaming and hide under a heated blanket. Not that I didn't want to spend time with Rachel, don't get the wrong idea, but I had not mentally prepared myself for something that felt awfully similar to a date. So why did I say yes? The answer is something that was true then and is true now: I am a complete pushover. And back then, especially then, particularly then, I was just driftwood to Rachel's ocean of confidence.

            So, we went out for mozzarella sticks.

            They were a lot better than the microwave kind I was usually stuck with. Rachel insisted on paying, which she said I had earned, but which I silently interpreted as her making clear her intentions. Can't be a date if the guy doesn't pay, right? Well, turns out that's not true, but I didn't learn that until later. Regardless, we ate our food, talked small talk, watched a bit of whatever on the tavern's television. Normal college kid stuff, probably.

            I learned that she was the middle twin of a big family out east, that she had a softball scholarship but didn't know what she wanted to do with her life yet, that she played tennis and took martial arts classes when she had time, and a dozen other factoids I eagerly memorized. She learned that I was an English major with a nicotine addiction, that I spent too much time alone, too much time high, and too much time not going to class. No point in not being honest, right? If I scared her off, then I wouldn't be able to mess it up later: a perfect game plan for the hopeless or resigned. Or depressed, a therapist would later suggest.

            We walked back to the dormitory afterward, me shivering from the cooling air and trying to hide it, and her not seeming to notice the temperature at all. I finished another cigarette just as we walked up to the door. There was a disposal post there, what I occasionally called a camel hump, but I didn't push my dog-end into it. Instead I flicked it to the ground, a little shower of embers, and watched.

            On cue, Rachel hovered her foot over it, thick soled skater shoes, all black, slower this time it seemed, or was that just my rising heartbeat, and squeezed it flat against the pavement, this time simultaneously scraping and kicking her foot back, leaving a smear of dark ash a few inches long, remainder of the filter pinwheeling away. I self-consciously snapped my attention up, hoping my fascination wasn't obvious again, but she was already looking at me, dark eyes probing my probably flushed face.

            We took the elevator up to our floor in silence. I was sure I had completely screwed up, so when she told me to come hang out in her room, I nearly choked.

            “Feel free to sit anywhere, my roommate is never here anyway.” She said, sitting on her desk chair. I gingerly took a seat on the edge of a bed, not sure whose, and glanced around not wanting to disturb anything. Cork board covered in random paper ephemera, small stacks of textbooks, a TV that was probably once white but was now ivory yellow, all and all, an entirely normal atmosphere that I hadn't entirely expected.

            If I had wanted to run away scared before, I was now past the point of fleeing terror. Fight? Flight? Please. I was on to the freeze portion of the four F's, and if something didn't change, I'd be fainting sometime soon.

            “Woo, that feels good.” She called, popping off one sneaker, then the other. The bottoms of her socks were nearly black now. She pulled those off too, flexing toes that were dirty with the orange dirt of the softball field. With a flourish she launched the long socks into the shadowy corner of her overflowing closet, “Don't need those anymore.”

            “Ah, right.” I said absently, having watched the entire act like it was a stage show.

            “Beer?” Rachel asked, popping open the mini-fridge and offering me a Pabst without looking.

            “Sure, thanks.” I said, grabbing it and cracking the tab. I actually didn't like beer all that much, especially not the cheap stuff, but I was now so far between the shores I had no choice but to paddle forward.

            “Nothing like a cold beer after a game.” She said, gulping a mouthful. She burped loudly, and I couldn't help but laugh. Who was this bizarre tomboy, and how did she end up like this? How did I even end up here?

            “You smoke?” I asked, and pulled something pre-rolled out of my pack of Marlboros.

            “Oh, hell yeah.” She grinned.

            Two more beers and a shared joint later, we were sprawled out on the ground, my legs up on her mattress, hands behind my head, her body spread out, left knee barely brushing my hair. Her tinny radio was playing a Bangles song, though we were hardly listening.

            “You've never been there?” She asked, incredulous.

            “I don't get out much.” I approximated a shrug.

            “Well, I'll have to take you, it's a real trip.” She said.

            “No complaints.” I smiled, feeling relaxed, maybe even confident, for the first time in a while. Underage drinking and smoking illicit substances: no better combination for courage. What, you knew I wasn't a D.A.R.E. officer already, right?

            “You have any weird skills?” She asked.

            “Weird skills? Like what?” I responded.

            “You know, being double jointed, doing a super loud whistle, that sorta thing.” She said.

            “Uh...” I thought hard, staring at the popcorn ceiling, “I can wiggle my ears, if I try hard enough.”

            “Really? Let me see.” She said.

            “Okie doke.” I swung around and sat up with my legs folded. Pushing my fluffy hair back a bit, I tried to engage muscles I hadn't thought of since grade school, feeling eventually the slight push and pull of my ears.

            “That's kind of cute, actually.” She said.

            “Thanks?” I wasn't sure how to take that comment, “What about you?”

            She didn't initially respond, but I watched her eyes look off somewhere distant, and I could swear she even blushed for a moment.

            “Well...” She said slowly, “It's pretty weird.”

            “Weirder than ear wiggling?” I asked.

            “Oh, a hundred times weirder than that.” She said.

            “So? What is it?” I asked.

            “You sure you want to know?” She retorted.

            “I've been pretty clear, I think.” I said.

            “Fine.” She said, “I can shrink people.”

            “Fuck off, you cannot.” I shot, “Seriously, what's your weird talent?”

            “I'm not kidding.” She sat up, leaning back on extended arms.

            “Oh, come on, like in that movie?” I asked. Was she not kidding?

            “I guess, but I don't need a machine.” She said.

            “I don't believe it.” I said.

            “I'll prove it.” She said, sitting up further.

            “How? Who are you going to shrink?” I asked.

            “You.” She smirked. That moment, her messy blonde hair, her twisted up lips, her dark eyes gleaming, her hand reaching forward, her legs, long, shifting somewhere behind me, her freckles everywhere at once, all of it was burned into my memory like a bas relief in glittering bronze. You could smash my head open with a broadsword and blend my brain matter into wine; you'd still see that image staring back at you.

            “Shrink,” She said.

            And I did.