by M. F. Lorson
“Remember,” I said, doing my best serious adult voice. “I’ll need you to record all of the important plays.”
Quinn tapped the feather on her chin. “If they make a basket, I will write it down.”
“Sometimes,” said Dad looking at her with a patience he had never shown me at that age, “It’s important when they don’t make a basket as well.”
Quinn nodded, eagerly dividing her journal page into two columns, labeling them makes and misses. She hadn’t been kidding. Her handwriting really was excellent. Much better than my chicken scrawl.
The Mountaineers were doing surprisingly well. By the end of game one, Quinn’s makes column had begun to spill over to the second page while her misses remained few. The tournament was single elimination with a maximum of three games in the Mountaineers division. Winning game one meant we faced off against a school from the west side of the state for the second round. According to the program a very bored looking JV player had handed us at the gym entrance, this would be the first matchup between the Mountaineers and the Lumberjacks. Last year we’d suffered a massive loss in round one.
Dad and Quinn were pumped we were moving on. I was pumped too but mostly just because I didn’t want to see Mackey’s sad face when they got pummelled for the second year in a row.
Game two started well, with the Mountaineers gaining a modest lead in the first half. Things turned sour however when Anderson sprained his ankle midway through the third quarter. He was only on the bench long enough for the onsite doctor to tape up his ankle, before he returned to the court. It meant a few extra minutes for the second unit but the guys eeked out a win despite Anderson’s limited mobility.
He was tough. I would give him that. Too bad he didn’t put as much effort into his relationships with people as he did his actions on the court. I couldn’t help but notice that Linzie’s blond ponytail was nowhere to be seen bouncing around courtside next to the injured Anderson. A total no-no for a cheerleader whose hotel room last night had been covered by the Rosemark athletic budget.
The final game in the Mountaineers division was against a local team from Denver. Judging by the wingspan of the opposing team, this was not going to be an easy win. Our poor team looked like Bugs Bunny playing the monsters in Space Jam.
If the Mountaineers wanted to take home the Turkey Day Trophy, they would need to get creative. They were outmatched in both size and athleticism. Down by eight at half-time, I made my way down to the bench for my obligatory interview with the coach. I was careful not to make eye contact with Mackey. My cheeks burned just thinking about what he had said in the Grotto.
As always Coach put up with my questions, but it was obvious he was in a hurry to get out of the gym and into the locker room. We were four games into the season at this point and I had learned it didn’t matter what I asked or how the game was going. His answers were always the same. I’d hoped the excitement of the tournament would change things, but it didn’t. He had an arsenal of canned responses just like the coaches I’d seen on TV. Only Coach Popovich of the San Antonio Spurs broke the mold. He didn’t bother with cliche statements. He didn’t bother saying much at all. Unless the reporter asked a really dumb question, and then he really let them have it. That kind of attitude I could deal with, but the junk that came from Coach Cornell drove me insane. What was I supposed to do with ‘They’re outplaying us’ and ‘We’ve got to get more stops’?
If I wanted this article to be entertaining my quotes were going to have to come from the team itself, which meant sucking it up when it came to Mackey. Did real reporters have to deal with this, I wondered? They hadn’t covered ‘when your subject has a crush on you and you maybe sort of have a crush on them back’ during career day.
The team hadn’t been in the locker room more than ten minutes before my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.
303-525-1998: The cast of Basketball Wives wants their wardrobe back.
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out Anderson was the culprit. I wasted no time shooting back a snarky response.
Lane: Very funny. Quick, I need your feedback Team loses Turkey Day Tournament over Point Guard’s Inability to Run Without Tripping Over Own Feet, yes or no for next week’s headline?
The twenty-minute half-time flew by, with Quinn peppering Dad with questions. Some were about basketball, but most were about the snack bar. When she finally succeeded in acquiring the three-foot licorice rope she’d been eyeing I was pretty sure it was partially to make her happy and partially to shut her up.
The second half was painful with the Mountaineers watching the lead grow from a modest eight points to fifteen.
It wasn’t an outright slaughtering. It was possibly the best they’d ever played in the Turkey Day Tournament, but you couldn’t tell that by looking at Mackey. By the time the final buzzer rang he was crushed. I wondered if I’d have to remind him about his promise not to go quiet on me just because they’d lost again.
I had hoped to interview the guys alone, but before I knew it, Dad and Quinn were at my side, inviting the entire team over for Thanksgiving dinner. Poor Judy had no idea her sweet potato casserole for four was now intended to feed ten. Fortunately for her, the majority of the team was leaving Denver that evening to be with family. Mackey and Anderson however, promised to be there by 4:30 for appetizers and mocktails.
I didn’t know about Mackey, but my guess was Anderson was more than happy to get a subtle jab in on his Dad by canceling last minute. Served him right, I thought. Even the guys on the second unit had family members in the stands. Anderson was a starter, the point guard and a senior. It was his last tournament as a Mountaineer, and no one from his family had come to watch him play. No wonder he sucked at keeping people in his life.
Thanksgiving at Dad’s house meant dressing to the nines, folding your napkin on your lap and using all the correct silverware. Usually, I couldn’t care less what I wore, grabbing the most comfortable looking dress in my closet and calling it a day. This year, it was different. This year, I spent twenty minutes in front of my mirror trying to decide what made my butt look big in a good way and what just made it look big. I decided on a simple black dress that hung just below my knees with a scoop neck top and three quarter length sleeves. I looked like Rory from Gilmore Girls going to eat at the wealthy grandparent's house and felt just as out of place.
I shot a quick text to Mackey to warn him about the dress code. My phone buzzed back almost instantly with a hotel bathroom selfie of he and Anderson in button downs and matching pocket squares. Mackey had to be dipping into Anderson’s wardrobe for this. There was no way he owned a pocket square, and the sleeves rolled up to three quarters were a dead giveaway that they were too short.
He looked good though. Too good. My feelings for Mackey were growing from an inkling of a crush to a real thing. I grabbed a curling iron from Judy’s bathroom and spun the ends of my ponytail into long loose curls. One look at the back of my head with a hand-held mirror told me this was a mistake. The rah-rah look didn’t suit me but downstairs the doorbell was ringing, and I didn’t have time to wash it out.
I watched from the landing as Quinn flew down the stairs, a flash of purple satin. Anderson whistled with approval as Quinn escorted them from the foyer to the formal living room.
“Not bad, Lane. Who knew you were a member of the PBA?”
“The PBA?” asked Judy, stepping in from the kitchen to grab the boys coats.
“Ignore him,” I said with a grin. “He’s clueless.”
Judy smiled her small, polite smile reserved for her bridge club friends whose hairy dogs stood too close to her white living room furniture. I hoped she wouldn’t make them sit outside if they misbehaved.
After just thirty minutes of small talk, we sat down for dinner where Dad launched into his favorite topic—what we all intended to do after graduation. He acted like he was genuinely interested, but I’d been his child long enough to know this conversation’s only pu
rpose was to show disapproval for my chosen field of study. He had it all wrong if he thought either Mackey or Anderson were going to agree with him. Last week at the diner, Anderson had announced his foolproof plan to tick his parents off by taking a gap year.
“A gap year,” said Dad. “What on earth is the purpose of a gap year? All of high school is a gap year!”
Anderson laughed. “This is exactly the reaction I was hoping for.”
Dad raised his chin in disgust. “I can’t imagine that your parents approve of this plan.”
“I can’t imagine that they do,” said Anderson with a wink.
“And what about you, Mr. Mackey?” asked Dad, turning away from Anderson with a frown. “What are your plans for the future?” I put my fork down, to listen. I didn’t have a clue where Mackey hoped to go next year. Whenever the guys talked about their plans, Mackey stayed quiet.
“I haven’t quite decided,” answered Mackey. “I thought about going to a community college somewhere that would give me a scholarship to play. I’m not that great, but my height and accuracy make me a good fit for some of the more competitive local schools.”
“Thought about doesn’t sound very definitive,” said Dad.
I cringed at his super serious Dad voice. Could you be embarrassed about a Dad you only saw twice a year?
“What’s holding you back?”
“I guess I just don’t want to stay local,” said Mackey, raising his eyes to meet mine across the table.
I had been planning to leave the state for as long as I could remember. My acceptance to Northwestern only reinforced that but, I hadn’t stopped to think about who would or wouldn’t be here when I visited home.
“You’d come back to Marlowe Junction for the break though, right? For the Holidays, maybe even the summer?” I asked.
Mackey shifted in his chair. “I’m not sure where I’ll be for breaks. Especially since we’re selling our house at the end of the summer.” He shoved a bite of mashed potatoes in his mouth. As if he hadn’t just dropped a total bomb on me. Families in Marlowe Junction didn’t just up and leave.
“My parents are splitting up,” he continued as if reading my mind. “They’re just keeping things intact until I graduate.”
I didn’t know what to say. I remembered all too well what it was like to live in a house with two people counting down the minutes till one of them could leave.
“What about you?” asked Mackey, his eyes on mine. “Nice sensible junior college for a few years. Then a transfer?
I laughed, “Hardly. I am going to Northwestern University.”
“If you get the scholarship,” replied Dad. “There are no free rides in this house. I didn’t get all of this by sponging off my father,” said Dad. He extended his arms to indicate the expansive dining room.
“Nope,” I mumbled into my napkin. “you got all of this by abandoning your family.”
“What did you say?” asked Dad. He whipped his head around to glare at me, his eyes narrowed and his face turning red.
Across the table Judy let out a deep breath, rubbing her temples in frustration. She could barely handle it when Dad and I fought behind closed doors. Doing it while company was over was out of the question.
“What do your parents do for a living?” she asked Anderson, in a transparent and awkward attempt to change the subject.
Anderson placed his napkin on his lap. I could just imagine the wheels turning in his head as he thought of an appropriate insult for his father’s line of work.
“Hey, Mr. Crawford,” interrupted Mackey, saving us all from another Anderson rant about his Dad. “Have you read any of Lane’s stuff?”
My father reached for his wine glass. “Surely, I’ve…” and then he stopped. Unable to finish his sentence. If I had speculated before that my father never once picked up a copy of the Rosemark Gazette, this confirmed it.
I smirked, thinking an appropriate headline for this moment would be, Self Proclaimed Father of the Year Fails to Remember Oldest Child.
“You should,” said Mackey, and my heart filled with warm happy dancing. “She’s really good. Better than good actually.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Dad, taking a sip of his wine.
“And it’s not easy to get into a school like that.” he continued. “Scholarship or not, Lane has already proven she doesn’t need to ride any coattails.”
Dad grunted, returning the wine glass to his mouth as if continuing to drink would erase everything Mackey had just said.
Judy smiled warmly from across the table. It wasn’t the first time Mackey had said something nice about my writing, but to have him say it to my Dad was doing all sorts of things to my fledgling crush on the boy.
After the pie and a touch more awkward conversation, I walked the boys out to the porch.
“Thanks for having us,” said Anderson, “I haven’t had an uncomfortable family Thanksgiving like that in years.” He let out a deep artificial sigh, placing his hand upon his chest. “Makes me nostalgic.”
I slugged him on his exposed arm. “You’re welcome, glad to oblige.”
Pretending to writhe in pain Anderson limped out into the driveway as if he’d just remembered his sprained ankle. “I’ll uh...just be in the car, nursing this wound. You two take your time,” he said wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.
Mackey looked down at me. Our full twelve-inch height difference suddenly very noticeable. Why hadn’t Judy thought to put a pair of heels in the closet to match the black dress?
“That was an interesting dinner,” said Mackey.
I shrugged my shoulders, trying to keep them from shaking as much from my nerves as they did the cold. “I told you I don’t particularly look forward to holidays with Dad.”
Mackey inched closer. “Yeah well, I’m glad you came,” he said, his voice low and husky.
My heart thrummed savagely in my chest as he tilted his head to the side, reaching to pull me closer at the waist. This was it. This was my first kiss, on my father’s porch, with a varsity basketball player. It was nothing like I imagined. Mackey leaned down his lips inches from mine. He closed his eyes. I closed mine.
And then, I chickened out. I turned my face so that his perfectly primed for kissing lips skimmed my cheek instead. Mackey pulled back, that little divot ticking at the corner of his mouth.
“I guess that’s all I need to know then,” said Mackey, a mixture of hurt and anger covering his face. He was wrong, so wrong. It wasn’t that I didn’t want him. I was just afraid — just a loser who’d never kissed anyone before. I wanted to tell him that, right then, while he was still looking at me like someone worth kissing.
Instead, I stood there like an idiot watching as he turned and walked away.
Chapter Seventeen
With the tournament weekend behind us, I tried to act naturally around Mackey but an awkwardness had settled in that made it hard to be around him at all. I had even stopped texting him. Okay, that wasn't entirely true. I had stopped texting him after he stopped responding. I thought about asking Anderson for some advice, but the whole team seemed to be unified in giving me the cold shoulder.
When Friday night came and went with no invitation to the diner, I knew I was officially in the dog house. I suppose I could have gone anyway, plopped down at his table and made him talk to me, but somehow I couldn’t summon the courage. Mackey who had always felt easy, suddenly felt like any other boy I’d ever had a crush on, impossible to talk to, impossible to stand up to.
I needed some serious counseling, but who? Andie? She’d put in all that work with Elliot for me. I felt silly turning around and telling her to disregard all that because I had a crush on Mackey now. I decided to suck it up and call her anyway. I needed a girl’s perspective, and she was just about the only one I knew anymore. Besides, I had a good excuse to call her. Just that afternoon Elliot had texted to say Andie was improving and he hoped she and I could work together on an article for the next edition.
By the time I arrived at Perky’s, Andie had already secured a booth in the back of the shop. The weather had changed significantly since the last time we met. There was no sunlight streaming through her hair this time, and thin leggings didn’t cut it in the late November Colorado cold. It took a solid two minutes for me to unbury myself from the thick woolen scarf, gloves, and hat I had ridden in with. I rubbed my hands together to warm my chilly fingers.
“Here,” said Andie shoving a steaming cup across the table at me. “Wrap your hands around that. No flavors I promise.”
I smiled, gratefully accepting the cup. The hot porcelain stung my hands in the best way possible.
“I was surprised when you called. But also happy,” said Andie. “If you don’t mind my being honest.”
I looked down at my cup of coffee. Eye contact while admitting past wrongs never seemed like a good idea. “This is gonna sound dumb but, I was avoiding being actual friends with you.”
Andie furrowed her brows into a frown, “You’re right. That does sound dumb.”
“I could tell that Elliot liked you and I was worried if we were friends things could get ugly. I realize how shallow that is.”
Andie inhaled sharply. “I get it. But you could have just told me what you were worried about. I hope you’ve picked up on the fact that I’d never do that to you. Or anyone.”
“I have,” I said, looking up from my cup of coffee. “The thing is, I kinda don’t know if I want Elliot anymore.”
Andie crossed her arms over her chest, leaning back into her side of the booth a smug look on her face. “Remember when I guessed you had a thing for Elliot?”
“Yep.”
“Would I be correct in guessing that has morphed into a thing for Mackey?”