Crossing by Andrew Xia Fukuda Page A

bunny embroidered across the pocket. At first recess, a circle of students had surrounded her. She didn’t understand a word they said, but they were smiling and laughing. She smiled back, as warmly as she could, glad to be accepted. But then she saw that the smiles were nothing more than jeers, and the laughter was nothing but the sound of derision. They weren’t asking her to play—they were yelling “ Playboy ” at her, pointing, then jabbing their fingers into the rabbit emblem on her jacket.
    Then they began to pelt her with snowballs. Her jacket deflected most of the powdery snowballs. It did nothing, however, for the rock thrown viciously at her head. It cut her open, an ugly gash just under her left eye.
    A teacher had come to her rescue and taken her inside to the medical room. The nurse tried to reassure her, but Naomi did not understand a word. That was when they called me in. As soon as I stepped into the room, recognition came into her eyes even though we’d never met before. After they pushed me towards her, she whispered to me in Cantonese, gladness welling in her eyes. The things I still remember: her hair dotted with the glistening beads of melted snow, a single tear escaping her eyes, quickly wiped away with the back of her hand. They could not stanch the blood; it kept seeping through the bandages. Naomi lay on her back, eyes clenched shut against the pain. And before I knew it, the nurse grabbed Naomi’s hand and placed it in mine. Naomi held my hand tightly. Her skin was silky smooth, and for some reason that surprised me. I tried to squirm my hand away, but she only tightened her grip. She never let go.
     
     
    After I dropped Naomi off at the bus stop, I headed home. As if on cue, the weather instantly turned sour. Gusts of wind tore down the street, sharp as scalpels. I pulled my winter hat down and shriveled into the recesses of my jacket. Frail branches trembled in the wind like the last spasms of death. Dusk faded with cold resignation into night, and the spreading darkness enveloped me with disquieting speed.
    Quickening my pace, I passed a murky enclave of trees. It was widely rumored that Jan Blair—the freakish new girl—had moved somewhere inside there with her father, a feral, bearded man who took long hunting trips. I hurried over a short bridge, the water under it already frozen.
    The wind whistled again, sharpening against itself. I had a decision to make. I could continue on this road, a circuitous but relatively easy way home. Or I could cut across the woods on my right, cutting short my walk by ten minutes. Right then, a gust of wind howled and sliced through my face. To the woods I went.
    But not a minute later, I realized I’d made a mistake. Night was at least an hour more advanced in the dense woods. Before too long, I was forced to walk with outstretched arms, mummy-like in the solidifying darkness.
    There are realizations which arrive as suddenly as a submarine breaking surface. Then there are those that arrive much slower, as with the rising of the morning sun. And that’s how I realized I was being followed: gradually, by osmosis, if you will. There was no sudden snapping of a twig or the crunch of snow. Just a dawning sense until, somehow, I knew.
    Somebody’s eyes were focused on me, watching my every move. I stopped and listened.
    In the abyss of blackness that cloaked the trees, someone was there. Standing just outside the periphery. Watching me.
    And so, I thought to myself, this was where Trey Logan would exact his revenge. He’d taken his time, but Naomi was right. He hadn’t forgotten. I’d seen him around school sporadically over the last few weeks, the black eye slowly turning to green, then gray until it finally faded away altogether. I should have known he’d wait until the bruising went away. All the better for him to gloat with pink skin while I went around in contrasting black and blue. I should have known.
    “Why don’t you come out where I can