The Song of David

“Amelie?” he asked. I wanted to hug him. He didn’t want apologies, he wanted answers, and I respected that.

“Amelie is special. She’s not like other girls. She’s not like any girl I’ve ever liked. And I like her, Henry. I like her a lot. But there’s an extra responsibility that comes with loving someone who will need you in a different way, who will rely on you in a different way. I have to be sure I’m ready for the responsibility. Do you understand?”

“Pig’s bladders were once used as rugby balls,” Henry said softly.

“Are you calling me a pig, Henry?”

Henry started to grin, his eyes darting to mine before he gave in, making pig sounds and giggling.

“You are!” I laughed with him. “I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you make a joke!” I went to sling my arm around his neck, but he did a duck-under and shot in on my legs, just like Cory had taught him. I whooped, leaning over him and wrapping my arms around his thin back and lifting his legs off the floor, his arms still wrapped around my thighs so he was hanging upside down.

“Pound for pound, the best fighter in the universe! Say it, Henry. Say, ‘Tag, you’re the best fighter in the universe!’” I demanded, laughing.

“Georges St. Pierre is the best fighter in the universe!” he squealed, releasing his grip on my thighs.

“St. Pierre!” I roared, and dangled him higher. “Say Tag Taggert is the best fighter in the universe.”

“Chuck Liddell is the best fighter in the universe!” he cried, wheezing.

“What? He’s old news!” I protested, though I’d do just about anything to get Liddell in my gym.

“Tag Taggert is the worst fighter in the universe!” Henry was laughing, a full-out belly laugh, and his face was as red as his hair. I flipped him upright and he swayed on his feet, still laughing. I steadied him and gave him a fake glare.

“The best. The best fighter in the universe. You hear?”

“Ronda Rousey is the best fighter in the universe,” he gasped, still-giggling, not giving in.

I hooted, throwing up my hands. “You might have me there, kid. Speaking of gorgeous, badass females, where is Silly Millie?”

Henry froze, listening, and then pointed at the floor. Now that I wasn’t making so much noise, I could hear the bass thumping faintly from the basement.

“Downstairs? Show me the way.”

Henry turned and padded through the foyer, across the kitchen and dining room, and into a large laundry room. It was neat and organized, like the rest of the house, and I took note of Millie’s Braille stickers on the laundry baskets—a big white one and a bigger red one. I’d never been in this part of the house, and when Henry pointed at a door and immediately retreated, I decided he wasn’t interested in whatever Millie was doing downstairs.

The door opened above a narrow flight of stairs that immediately made me nervous and dizzy. I didn’t like the idea of Millie navigating them, and images of her tumbling head over heels seared my brain before I forced them back. Millie had grown up in this house, she’d probably been up and down these stairs a million times, and she wouldn’t appreciate me going all caveman over them. Still, I clung to the railing as I descended them gingerly, wondering at my sudden light-headedness. The music was so loud Millie wouldn’t hear me coming, but as I reached the bottom of the stairs, the music ceased abruptly, and someone started clapping and whistling. I halted, surprised, still hidden around the corner.

“Do I look ridiculous?” I heard Millie ask. “Can I pull it off?”

“What are you talking about, Amelie?” A female voice answered, and I recognized Robin’s voice from the night at the bar. She had that valley girl vibe to her voice that seemed to be prevalent among so many American women. I like, totally hated it. But Robin seemed nice enough.

“You are pulling it off! Like, several nights a week, in fact!”

“But I’ve never attempted this move. I can’t tell how I look, how my body looks, when I do it. It feels like I’m doing it right, but . . .” Millie’s voice trailed off.

I peeked around the corner, extremely curious. Amelie was facing me, leaning against a tall pole. She was wearing little, black Tag Team shorts and a tank top, her hair pulled high on her head, her feet bare. Robin’s back was to me, thankfully, and I watched as she took Millie by the wrists and pulled her forward.

Robin moved Millie’s hands up and down her own body matter-of-factly, allowing her to feel the softness at her waist and the roundness of her hips and her belly.

“That’s more action than I’ve had in months. So pathetic,” Robin said wryly, releasing Millie’s hands, and I smiled, liking her a little more.