by Ginger Scott
Her long lashes flit against her cheeks, golden brown like her hair, which she’s tied into this messy knot at the base of her neck. She has the faintest dusting of freckles on her round cheeks, partly covered with makeup but never so thick that the real her doesn’t shine through. She mashes her lips together, the satin red on her lips glimmering as she forms a wry smile.
“I guess my parents are considered investors in the start-up of my career. All the modeling classes, acting classes, photo sessions for headshots, clothes and makeup.” She waggles her head side to side as she twirls her finger around her face with a giggle. It pulls a breathy smile from me in response.
“Okay, yeah. But that’s also parenting, right? I mean, my mom and dad put Hayden and me in youth basketball for years, then club, and there were shoes—oh how there have been shoes.” I make the same head waggling motion and finger twirl she did, only this time at my feet, which are in loosely laced Jordan Ones that I literally shined up with a baby wipe this morning.
Abby is amused at my comparison, and she lets her legs fall loose from her hold, her feet landing on the ground as she straddles the bench in front of me, leaning forward and bracing her palms on the wood as if she’s a gymnast about to lift herself into some sort of hand stand. She stares at the carved-out G+T for long seconds while her laughter fades.
“It wouldn’t be a big deal if this was all just my mom. She’s my manager, and I have never once felt like one of those abused child stars. I know what my savings account looks like, and I know she doesn’t pull shady shit you see in the tabloids. It’s always been me and her, and then the world. But the fact that my dad is like, I don’t know, forcing his way on the team? It feels more like the custody hearings have turned into employment ones. I mean, the last time he actually came in with all these receipts from when I was six and seven.”
I’m not sure she realizes she’s trembling, but she is, so to stop her from digging any deeper in a place so public and so filled with the fumes of microwave pizza and Coke machines, I reach forward and rest my hand on top of hers. We both freeze, and I’m pretty sure my palm is already sweating. Her gaze lifts to meet mine, but I don’t let go of her hand just yet. I don’t make this touch a big deal, even though it sort of is. That’s not why I did it, and I don’t want to cheapen it. With our eyes locked on one another, I let the air fill with silence just long enough for a ragged, emotional breath to fall from her lips.
“You have every right to feel the way you do,” I say.
“And how’s that?” she fires back. Her hand shifts under mine, but she doesn’t pull it away.
“You feel like your dad sees a business opportunity where he should see his daughter.”
She swallows and keeps her gaze on mine for a beat before finally leaning back, pulling her hand away and glancing off to the side. With a snort sniffle, she runs the sleeve of my brother’s hoodie across her eyes, erasing the tiny break that she let herself have.
I’m suddenly not hungry. I don’t think I have ever not been hungry, but I couldn’t eat the rest of my burrito if I were forced at gunpoint. It’s not that I feel sick, but more that I feel . . . envious. I was fooling myself thinking that Abby was a passing crush I could easily dismiss. Two months of riding shotgun with her through all things June and Lucas was just long enough for me to get hooked on having her around. But while it’s my advice she’s listening to, it’s my brother’s fucking sweatshirt she’s dabbing her tears with.
“So, see you at the game?” My move to leave is abrupt, especially after she just bared part of her soul. If I stay, though, I’m going to say things I don’t mean out of sheer self-preservation. This is precisely why I don’t do relationships. I do flirting and hookups. Feelings, well, they fucking feel.
“What, did you change your mind and suddenly decide that nine-eighty bare-minimum wasn’t good enough?” Her nose wrinkles after her insult, but I think I get where it’s coming from. She just hit me with a major share, and now I’m bailing. Better to lash out. Her and I aren’t so different.
“Something like that,” I say, holding up my lunch trash as a wave good-bye.
Abby’s face shifts slightly, her wrinkled mouth and dimmed eyes morphing from the snarky expression that accompanies her tease to the look of a girl who just lost her brand new balloon to the sky.
“That hoodie”—I walk backward, pointing toward her chest—“looks good on you.” I leave things there with a tight-lipped smile and a nod—a truce of sorts, not that Abby even knew we were in a battle. Hell, we weren’t. I’m the only one in a conflict, and it’s with my own damn self.
I manage to turn my back to her and toss my trash out without pausing to get one more jab in to fully take things back to our version of normal. For now, I’d like to leave things nice. I wasn’t counting on her wanting to leave things that way, too.
“I’ll be sure to cheer for you, even if I’m wearing Hayden’s number,” she shouts.
I spin on my heel and give her a thumbs up, but keep moving away from her because if I turn around, I’ll keep trying to win her over. And she’s not mine to be won.
6
Abby
I haven’t been to a basketball game since freshman year. Football is easier for me to follow. I guess it’s easier to go along with the crowd at those games, too. Our basketball team has always been better than our football team, and it’s packed inside. I wasn’t about to cram in here alone, and June had to work, so I dragged Naomi and Lola with me. I talked Lola into coming because I knew Cannon would be here, and now that I’m not trying to get with him, she is. Good luck! That boy is like a miserable, grumpy ice sculpture focused on only one thing—getting drafted by a major league team right out of high school.
Lola peels away from Naomi and me the minute Cannon walks in with his cousin Zack, and she manages to get him to laugh at something she says when they sit down a few rows away from us. I must admit I’m a little dumbstruck—I didn’t make him laugh once in all of the beer-keg party meetups we had. And I’m fucking funny, dammit!
“He’s mesmerized by her tits,” Naomi says in a hushed voice at my side. I laugh softly and tap her leg with the back of my palm. She’s only trying to make me feel better about not being able to get Cannon to drop his scowl despite weeks of effort.
“Lola’s charming. Give her credit,” I say.
Naomi wobbles her head but gives in with a sing-songy “Oh-kay.”
“But yes, her tits are mesmerizing,” I add, both to give props to what nature gave that girl and to let Naomi off the hook after calling her out for shaming our friend.
“Sigh, she does have great tits,” Naomi adds in a hum. We both rest our chins on our fists, elbows propped on our knees while we stare at Lola’s bright red sweater with envy. After a few seconds, we give in and laugh.
“You have nothing to be envious of in that department,” Naomi says, elbowing the side of my boob. I wince because fucking ow!
“Thanks,” I say, adjusting my bra under this giant sweatshirt I’m still swimming in. The plus of wearing Hayden’s hoodie is that it’s long enough to cover my ass, which means leggings are a go. I can almost endure the carnage drawing on my chest for this level of comfort, plus my fuzzy boots look super cute. My arms are still carrying folds of material, though, and with the heat on in the gym, I’m starting to get kinda hot.
“There’s your boy!” Naomi teases, leaning into my side as our team comes rushing onto the floor. They jog two laps around the perimeter of the gym, and Hayden looks up and winks at me as he passes the second time. I hold up my hand and scrunch out a wave with the few fingers I manage to get loose from the cuff of the sweatshirt.
“He’s pretty into you, huh?” Naomi’s voice is dreamy. All I can do is laugh.
“I don’t know about that. Hayden and I just sort of happened. Like it was easy, you know? It’s nice to have someone to talk to about all of life’s shit.” My gaze slides over to the other D’Angelo while I say that, and I note the far
more serious face Tory wears compared to his brother.
“Yeah, okay, but . . . tell me about his body, girl. Give me the details! Those boys are so freaking hot, and getting to kiss one is like winning the lottery.” Naomi is practically licking her lips, which . . . gross.
I shake my head with a soft laugh and glance from her back out to the floor where the guys are all stretching.
“It’s not like that with us.” My smile slips a little as that realization sinks in. Hayden’s attention slides to me a few more times and I make sure to prop my smile up every time, but eventually I can’t hold it anymore.
“Oh, yeah, I’m sure all you do is hold hands,” Naomi teases.
“No,” I retort, scrunching my face. “We kiss. We kiss a lot. All the time.”
We kiss some.
“You’re telling me you haven’t gotten all up on that boy?”
I turn to face my friend, her eyes wide and chin dipped low as she waits for my answer. All I can do is shrug, which I know is not the kind of story she wants. I’m far from a prude, and I’m not uncomfortable talking about being with guys. I’ve slept with two boys, almost three. The third and near sex partner was my co-star in the yogurt commercial, and I had the sense to realize that every time I saw that commercial I would be reminded of him. We had zero in common other than being pretty on camera. His name was Jake. There was no future for Jake and Abby. Not that I have a future with anyone. Serious is not really my thing, and forever love is a myth. I have yet to get close to a family that is still whole. Marriages just don’t last forever. There’s an expiration date, and it always comes due at the shittiest time.
“Wow, Abby Cortez is taking it slow,” Naomi says, leaning back on her self-righteous elbows.
I furrow my brow because that’s not the case at all. At least, it certainly isn’t intentional. I just don’t really . . . want to move things fast.
“I’m just busy,” I respond, turning my head briefly to the side. I let my focus stray back to the gym floor, pausing on Hayden’s back, his perfectly toned arms, broad shoulders, long legs. The boy is built for hands to roam around his skin. His hair flops around as he jogs, and I know there are a dozen freshmen girls in this gym just staring at it. I should want to run my fingers through it and grab hold tight. Yet somehow, I just don’t. I think it’s because Hayden and I know each other so well. At least, we’ve known each other for so long, and that’s almost the same. I see the seventh grader underneath who got gum stuck in his braces and who spilled chocolate milk on my favorite backpack. That history, it’s part of the reason I like him so much. Hayden is a comfortable home in the turmoil of my life, and I might just be his safe place, too.
Lola comes back up to join us by the time the game starts, and I can tell by the way her mouth is set tight that she didn’t get much more than the one laugh out of tight-ass Cannon. I hold my hand out as she moves to sit on my other side and we squeeze each other.
“Don’t take it personally. I seriously think that boy might be broken. You are beautiful,” I say.
Her eyes soften and her bottom lip plumps with a pouty expression.
“Thanks, friend,” she says, hugging my arm as she slides into the space next to me.
A roaring thunder brings all of us to our feet, and soon we’re stomping on the bleachers to join the sound of our boys’ squad circled on the floor, all taking one knee and bending forward as they slam their palms against the hardwood and shout out the letters P-R-I-D-E. When they all jump up at once, the crowd hoots with them. I’ll get that part down for the next game, but I dig the spirit. It’s fun.
Mr. Newsome’s brother does the announcing for our school. He’s retired military, and has one of those voices that booms. I’ve only ever heard him do the football games, so I’m not prepared for the fanfare he gives the basketball team. It’s clear where his loyalties lie.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Madhouse on Main, home of your District Seven defending champs, The Allensville Public Eagles!”
I’m surprised by the volume of my own screamed response. My hands cup my mouth to boost the volume as Coach Newsome announces the players on the other team. We’re playing some Catholic school from the city, which means they’re either going to suck or kick our asses. There’s no in between when it comes to private school athletic talent.
So far, it looks like they have us on height. But every single player just sorta looks lanky and easy to push over. Maybe I’m projecting my bias.
By the time he gets to announcing our team, I’m on my feet again and stomping along with the girls. Hayden and Tory get saved for the very end, which I’m guessing is a testament to how good they are. The same team chant follows each player’s name, but when Tory’s name and number gets said, there’s a new chant that takes over, a long, deep-voiced boo?
“Why are they booing him?” Naomi asks.
I shake my head, having no idea. Everyone is cupping their mouths and making the same awful sound, but they seem so happy about it. Even his team is bellowing, and Tory seems to feed off it, skipping his way down the line of players and pounding fists with every one until he gets to his brother, where he stops so they both can jump high and bump chests.
Tory takes his spot at the end of the line, cracking his neck in both directions while someone plays Jay-Z on in the backdrop of the announcement of the rules and good sportsmanship. He’s antsy, like a bull being held behind bars with a steak waving in front of him. His eyes are fixated on the nothingness at the center of the court, almost as though he’s playing out the entire game in his mind. Where Hayden smiles, Tory growls. Everything about him is harder, meaner—cut with a sharp edge to keep people from getting too close.
Keep people from getting burned.
I will myself to look away, but before his form leaves my periphery entirely, his movement draws me back in. He reaches over his back and tugs at the collar of his warmup shirt, pulling it up and over his head in one smooth movement, his jersey underneath rising up enough to expose his entire abs and chest, and I feel flushed.
I’m sure the other girls noticed, too, but a quick glance to both sides doesn’t reveal either of them to have a noticeable reaction. I laugh silently to myself—at myself. It’s not as though I haven’t admired both D’Angelo brothers before. Hell, half the town has. The reason our football car washes do so well isn’t the cheer squad that lines up on the street corners holding signs, it’s the two Italian-American boys with oh-my-God bods who wash anything that rolls in with their shirts off and their shorts slung low. I’m guilty for dropping several twenties at those car wash fundraisers.
I lean forward, crossing my arms over my knees while I bite on my thumb and bring my flared-up cheeks under control. Before I get comfortable, though, the crowd stands for the national anthem, so I’m stuck with the guilty color on my cheeks. I dart my glance in all directions but Tory’s, like a petty thief covering my tracks, but I doubt anyone realizes it but me.
The student running the sound set up at the front table slips a few times while moving his phone close to the mic. It’s such an embarrassing rigged-up system, no doubt dwarfed by the tech over at the private school we’re playing against. But that’s what Allensville is—a place where you take what you have and find a way to make it work.
I settle my gaze back on the line of boys as the music finally crackles out of our decade-old speakers. The hot red blood that was pushed to the very top of my cheeks is almost back where it should be when Tory comes into view, sucking the calm from my chest with one glance and replacing it with searing hot sin. I’m overcome with guilt because one body width to his right stands the boy I’m dating, his brother. But my eyes are locked here, and I’m sure Hayden can tell. Tory doesn’t blink, not once through the nearly two minutes it takes for the Star Spangled Banner to play. His body vibrates with his home-brewed energy and his chin tips more than once in what I imagine is a silent acknowledgement that he sees me staring at him and intends to remember that I did.
I wonder whether it’s evidence to hold against me down the road or for his own personal ego gain. None of the nonsense in my head can force me to turn away, though.
Tory’s lips part just as the song winds down and a slight curve forms in his mouth, dimpling his cheeks. Rather than run scared, I make the same face at him, because really . . . he’s looking at me, too. This forbidden flirting game is a two-way street that we are both driving on dangerously.
I could almost convince myself that I’m imagining this were it not for the slight titter as he clearly nods at me before turning his back and huddling with his team. Once cut loose from his stare, I’m suddenly aware that Lola and Naomi probably noticed my little game of chicken. I have milliseconds to clean it up before it becomes a big deal.
“He is such a punk,” I say with a shake of my head, confident my girls will instantly agree.
“He has always wanted to get with you. He’s probably just jealous.” Lola spills first, standing to adjust her jeans along her hips. She steps down one row to turn and face me and Naomi, her hands on her hips.
“He just likes the game. It’s so annoying. Hayden is nothing like him,” I add, meaning every word. Tory has always loved the game. I don’t think I’ve been to a single party over four years of high school madness where he hasn’t tried to get me to make out with him. A person doesn’t keep coming back for the rejection if they don’t like to play. And his lame pick-up attempts over the years have been so annoying. Hayden was so adult about it all—so easy. We were hanging out on the bleachers at school having one of our long talks when he reached out and took my hand in his, looked me in the eyes and said, “I really like you.” How simple is that? I said it back, we kissed, and when he called me his girlfriend to the lady at the diner the next day, all of the noise in my heart and head just stopped. One two-minute stare down with Tory, though, and a hive of bees are swarming in my chest.
This guy named Danny, who has always been the tallest kid in school, matches up against the big guy for Vanguard (that’s the name of the private school, I guess. Or it’s their mascot. I can’t tell for sure, but it’s the only thing people from their school are yelling.) Danny wins the tip-off easily, pushing the ball in the air straight into Tory’s hands. This is where everything aggressive in his fabric takes over and drives. Watching him work with his brother out there on the court is like watching a pair of ice dancers. They have this unspoken choreography that plays out on the floor, from one quick pass to another until Tory launches the ball in the air for Hayden to grab and hammer home. People are on their feet as the twins manage to score six straight points in less than a minute, and I find myself shouting Tory’s name as he makes a steal and races down the court. Everyone expects an encore of the last shot, where he fed his brother under the hoop and Hayden laid it in with a gentle finger roll, but that’s just what Tory wants. Everyone barrels down the court, but he stops short, giving him just the edge he needs to set up and catapult the ball in the air with the smoothest body movement I’ve ever seen. I’m not sure whether everyone has gone silent or I’ve temporarily lost the ability to hear, but the only sound that accompanies my view of Tory’s ball soaring in a perfect arc is my hitched breath, which I hold midway for good luck. The net swishes with his three-point shot, and the players on the bench go absolutely nuts. Tory’s signature smirk crawls up into his cheek as he turns, and for a brief moment our eyes meet and I get an overwhelming sense that he’s showing off . . . for me.