Varsity Tiebreaker

by Ginger Scott

  “They got Main all cleared right after you took the detour,” Lucas says. “We saw you guys drive by. Dropped June off on the way, and maybe, just maybe, I sped a little to beat you here.”

  “Just a little, huh?” Tory slaps the ball from Lucas’s hands again and jogs to the end of his driveway, putting up a shot that bangs off of the rim.

  “Oh, so close,” Lucas teases.

  Tory flips him off, then moves my direction.

  “Come on, let’s go see what this movie you’re in is all about,” he says.

  I grab my purse, noting how Lucas isn’t far behind as we march into the garage and enter through the back kitchen door. I sense that Lucas is trying to protect Tory from me. Or maybe to watch Hayden’s back, like I’m some super predator out to double-cross twin hotties.

  Shit. Am I?

  Tory stops at the fridge, bending over and reaching in deep for a bottle of water. He offers one to me, which I take, then holds up another for Lucas.

  “I’m good. Mind if I hit up your PlayStation?” He’s already flopped on the couch and turned on the TV.

  Tory’s glare shifts from Lucas to me and he shakes his head slightly.

  “I don’t even need to answer that, I guess,” he says.

  A laugh puffs out as I take my first drink from the water bottle. Tory nods to my purse, where I’ve stashed the script I have to memorize. I’ve actually got a lot of the early part down. I read it over and over every night, picturing the scenes in my head. My mind works like a movie in many ways, where I can visualize something as if I’ve already seen it. It’s like memorizing your favorite parts of movies, only this one hasn’t been made yet.

  I pull the script out and plop it on the counter. Tory spins it around and reads through the direction. He flips through the first few pages, eventually setting his water down and taking the script in both hands as he leans back against the opposite counter. I slide into an open stool and sit on my hands, which are suddenly super clammy.

  “So, your character—” he questions.

  “Roni,” I fill in. “Veronica, but Roni for short.”

  “Got it.” He nods.

  I wait while he reads on, getting a good ten pages in before flipping back to the opening scene. I’m the first thing people see in this film, assuming this part doesn’t get left on the editing room floor. It’s a tough scene, where Roni is smoking crack with two guys from her high school, her inner dialogue about how she’s tired of her mom’s boyfriend abusing her.

  “This is some fucked up shit,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut. “I thought you said this was a romantic comedy?”

  “It gets funny near the end,” I deadpan.

  Tory’s eyes pop open and he stares at me for a solid second before laughing.

  “Jordan Shotcraft, huh? Yeah, I guess I can see it. His stuff is always this mix of serious and light.” He drops his chin and his eyes scan the first page again in silence. Eventually, he looks back up at me, a crooked smile playing at his mouth.

  “You know you’re going to be stupid famous after this, right?” He rubs the back of his neck as he glares at me with one squinted eye. I’m oddly not very good at dreaming big. I take big breaks one at a time, never expecting them. It keeps me sheltered from disappointment. Landing this role was a big deal, but in my gut, I still expect something to go wrong—movie shelved, me replaced mid-shoot, Jordan getting struck with some huge scandal that renders our movie a flop and sends me into obscurity.

  I lift one shoulder, signaling a whatever, then deliver my first line.

  “The drift to sleep comes on sweet and slow, like drinking molasses. I do this so the high erases all of the fucked up things in my life, like tar oozing over gravel.”

  My gaze drifts off to another place entirely. I’m not secure enough in my lines yet to be able to look at Tory’s face, and I kind of want to take on that feeling of being adrift mentally. After a few seconds pass without him reading anything, though, I’m forced to look at him.

  “Oh!” He startles. “Sorry, I . . . just . . . damn!”

  “Stop. I don’t even know what I’m doing.” My chest, though, flutters with butterflies at the compliment. I like that he thinks I’m a little bit good at this.

  Tory’s gaze sticks on my face for one beat too long, and I get up from my seat to pace, partly to run away from it. I take a few steps around the kitchen island and back while he reads more stage direction. It’s an odd juxtaposition with the cacophony of gunfire barreling through the television a dozen or so feet away.

  “Hey, Lucas? You mind maybe . . .” Tory cups his ears with both hands. Lucas gives him a blank stare, then jars himself when it dawns on him.

  “Oh! My bad,” he says, leaning over the arm of the couch and opening a drawer to pull out headphones. It takes him a minute or two to get them synced, and Tory whispers an apology to me while we wait, watching him wrangle with the Bluetooth settings. He gives us a thumbs up and we shoot the same gesture back.

  “Jesus, he’s a child,” I mutter.

  Tory laughs quietly.

  “Don’t tell June that,” he says.

  “I’m sure she knows. Anyhow, let’s start from the cop’s first line, yeah?” I pace again, feeling more in character this way, even though on screen I’ll be nearly passed out on an abandoned couch in the middle of a fake desert for this scene.

  “Hey . . . hey!” Tory gets into character for me, reaching out and shaking an imaginary shoulder.

  “Go away, Paul! My mom doesn’t want you touching me anymore!” I let loose now that Lucas isn’t listening. Strangely, I have no problem watching my own work on-screen later, but having someone hear me deliver lines live and in person makes me sweat like a pig.

  “Miss, I don’t know who Paul is, but you’re under arrest.” Tory stands and makes his way closer to me. I freeze at the end of the island and turn my back to him slightly, putting both my hands behind my back, ready for his fake cuffing.

  “Fuck you, Officer Friendly!” I slur my words and anticipate a timid touch to my wrists, but Tory grabs them firmly, wrapping one of his hands entirely around both my arms and tugging.

  I shirk, both as part of my character and as a natural reaction to his aggressive touch. His hold on me loosens, but I push my arms harder into his palm, encouraging him to keep playing along. Now fully in character, I turn fast and force my face inches from his, my nose close enough to scrape along his cheek. The black in his eyes bleeds into the hazel of his irises, and his nostrils flare with a sharp breath.

  “I said I’m done with strange men thinking they can touch me.” I speak in a low growl, gritting my teeth and preparing myself to actually bite into Tory’s shoulder. Before things get that far, though, his grip falls away from my wrists and he takes a step back, blowing out and running his palm through his hair.

  “Damn, sorry. You . . . that was intense,” he says, flexing his hand—the one that held me forcefully—a few times at his waist.

  Realizing how into it I was, I blush and retreat back to my stool.

  “I’m sorry, I was just feeling it. I guess I know this part really well. We can probably skip ahead—”

  “No, no. I just need to get some balls I guess and step up to your level.” He shakes with a short laugh and rubs at his forehead while reading through the next few lines in the scene.

  “I’m not so sure I want you to bite me, if that’s cool?” His brow wrinkles while he reads ahead and gives me his request.

  “Fair enough.” I laugh out. “How about I stick to my seat and you stay on the other side of this thing?” I tap my long, freshly manicured nails on his counter, and he smirks with a nod.

  “Deal,” he agrees, jumping right back into the text.

  We manage to get through my first six scenes in a little over two hours, and we’re so absorbed with the story that we don’t realize Lucas has pulled the headphones from his head and put his feet up on the couch to nap. Neither of us is
sure whether he listened in for any of the performance, and the only reason we discovered Sleeping Beauty is because he snores like a donkey.

  “Oh, my God! June is a saint,” I say, slipping from my seat and moving closer to Lucas. His lips are actually vibrating with his breath.

  “That’s nothing. Back in junior high, he sleepwalked. Fucker showed up at our front door at two a.m. in nothing but these cartoon character briefs.”

  I cover my mouth to mute the laugh his story evokes.

  “You’re shitting me,” I whisper.

  Tory shakes his head.

  “My dad took a picture, then drove him home. I still have it somewhere. I save that sucker for a rainy day, when I need to call in a huge favor.”

  “Well, then, you should probably find it,” I say, suddenly desperate to see it for myself.

  I make my way back into the kitchen, twisting the cap off of the new water bottle Tory gave me a few minutes ago. My throat is dry, and my brain is a little fried. Turns out rehearsing lines is a lot like studying.

  “Hey,” I blurt out, remembering a question I had for Tory but forgot to ask. “Why did you think I knew that song you were singing?”

  I promised myself I wouldn’t bring up our moment in the locker room, but I’m really curious. Maybe it’s how good Tory was with his lines that made me think about him singing. He’s amazingly natural at performing.

  He smiles with his cheeks full of the water he just drank and holds up a finger while he pauses to swallow.

  “You actually said the next line in the song. When you yelled, ‘I want to go home’? That’s the next line.” That same music-nerd smile is back. I like this secret side to him.

  “Shut up!” I look at him sideways.

  He crosses his heart, but I keep my stare steady and my eyes slitted.

  “Sing it again,” I say, falling into another trap I promised myself I wouldn’t. I shouldn’t hear him sing again. Hearing it the first time is what stirred up all the weirdness in my head. Yet, I really hope he does.

  “You know what? Come here.” He motions his head toward the stairs and jogs up them, stopping midway to see if I’m following. I hesitate for a beat, but the temptation and the possibility that his guitar is upstairs are too strong.

  We round the short wall that divides the stairs from a small loft space with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and Tory runs his thumb along a row of tightly packed albums. I take this opportunity to nose around his upstairs, a place I’ve never been, not even for one of their infamous parties. It’s a strikingly modest home inside despite the grandeur of the outside façade. I guess it’s the large open space in the living room where the fireplace towers up twenty feet, a monument of ivory rock with a massive rustic beam sliced through the middle for the world’s most ostentatious mantle. The obligatory family portrait sits atop it, the twins maybe seven or eight in the photograph-turned-painting. I was a little surprised to still see it there when we walked in.

  Up here, things are tighter, the space more intimate. This loft area has a built-in desk with a computer I assume Tory and Hayden have to share. Their school bags are both tossed in the corner, and phone cords poke out from a charging station on the wall. To the right is a set of double doors—I’m guessing the master bedroom—and behind me, on the opposite end of the house, above the garage, are two doors divided by a bathroom. I already know what Hayden’s looks like. He took me on a video chat tour when we first started talking. His room is spotless, like a military man. Something tells me Tory’s is probably on the other end of the spectrum.

  “Found it!” His exclamation draws me back in. I step closer as he pulls a record from a sleeve. There are probably a hundred or more albums organized on these shelves.

  “Wow, this is some collection,” I say as he tips the lid up on a sleek black turntable. Tory leans to his side and brings his eyes level with the record as he gently sets it down on the player. A small speaker tucked between a row of books crackles when he turns the device on, and he quickly turns the dial to keep the volume low.

  “Shhh,” he says, holding a finger to his lips, then pointing toward the stairs where Lucas is still sawing dreamy logs.

  “I don’t think he could hear it at full volume over that racket he’s making,” I say.

  Tory’s smile is sweet, and he holds his soft gaze on me for a single blink of his eyes before returning his attention to the record, which is now spinning. He picks up the arm and rests it gently on his thumb, finally engaging it somewhere in the middle of the album. I recognize the melody almost instantly, not that I’ve heard this song more than once.

  “Beach Boys, Pet Sounds. Maybe one of the greatest albums of all time.” He grins after that statement, maybe expecting me to challenge him. I couldn’t. My knowledge of music is limited. I could, however, debate him until Sunday on classic film.

  “I think my dad likes this stuff,” I say, falling for the sway of the melody. It sounds just as it did when Tory sang it, minus the threat of a tornado and plus the digital mastering of a music studio.

  Tory clicks his tongue against his teeth and shuffles his feet closer to me, holding out a palm. I stare at it for a good, long, awkward while, but finally place my hand in his. He threads our fingers together and pulls me in, his other hand gingerly resting at my waist like a gentleman.

  “Time for a music lesson,” he says, careful to look anywhere but directly into my eyes. I’m thankful. This, so far, feels safe.

  “School me, Salvatore,” I say, sparking a short laugh from him.

  “Your dad likes this stuff because this stuff is good. Music made in the sixties has backbone. Words mattered, and sound was a constant experiment. Most real music fans would list a dozen albums from this era on a best-of list before even touching something contemporary.”

  While he’s looking away from me, I’m drawn to stare at his eyes. I have no idea who this is that I’m dancing with, but this is not the guy who hands me red cups at parties and asks me when we’re gonna bang. This guy is . . . strange. He’s interesting, and he has passions. Secret passions that beg the question—

  “Why are you not doing something in music?” I ask. We rock slowly in an extremely chaste slow dance, and Tory merely flits his gaze to me, long enough to acknowledge my question.

  He shrugs the shoulder that’s under my hand as he looks away again.

  “I like basketball more,” he says.

  I blink a few times, staring at the lashes of his too-near-to-me eyes while I wait for him to explain further. I realize soon, though, that it’s that simple. He has a passion for his game and keeps music as a love.

  “Huh,” I say.

  His eyes move to mine again, then leave immediately.

  “Huh, what?”

  “Huh, that you have, like, hobbies, I guess.” I laugh through my nose. A slight shift in my body and a tiny step from him as we both laugh brings us closer, and suddenly my chin is resting on top of my own hand, which is now comfortable on his shoulder.

  We turn together, our laughter silences. The song soothes, and if I could manage to hold myself up, I could fall asleep right here. This is not appropriate.

  “Show me some of the others,” I say, slipping out of his arms and moving my attention to the rows of albums on the shelves. He lets me go easily, probably glad I broke things up. I think maybe music can be a drug. I think maybe surviving a tornado with someone is a bit of a drug, too. That’s it.

  “What kind of music do you like?” he asks, pulling a few albums out sideways to peer at the covers, standing at the other end of the long row.

  “Everything, I guess. I mean . . . I don’t know. I guess I listen to what’s popular.” I kinda feel schooled standing in front of a collection like this.

  “Well, when you were little, was there a song, maybe a hit, that you just had to have so you could play it over and over again?” His finger is teasing the corner of a silver album cover.

  I suck in my lip and think back to junior high,
and then the years before. I don’t think my life really has a soundtrack, and that’s maybe a little sad. Before I realize it, my forehead is creased from the weight of my frown.

  “You know what, let me try this,” Tory says, letting me off the hook. I step closer to peek at what he’s pulling out, but he holds up his hand and shoos me away.

  “Okay, fine,” I relent, sitting down on the thick carpet in the center of the wooden floor. I let my fingertips pet the strands while Tory does his thing, carefully putting the first album away and blowing dust from the new one. He hovers over the player as he lowers the needle, and a familiar beat flows through the speakers. I nod with the rhythm as Tory kneels down and eventually sits facing me. He leans back, digging his hands into the plush cream rug and pulls his knees up, swaying them with the beat. As I stare at the dead leaf stuck on the knee of his pants, I smile; recognition is settling in.

  “This . . . yes! My mom used to play this all the time on our way to auditions. She said it was her ‘power jam!’” I exclaim. I sing along with a few of the words until I get to the title of the song in the chorus and Tory sings along with me.

  “‘Rhythm Nation’!”

  He exhales a celebratory type of laugh, his head falling back as if he’s proud to have unearthed another thing I like. Perhaps I have a soundtrack after all.

  “My dad was in love with Janet Jackson. She came to the state fair when Hayd and I were like six or something, and he dragged us along. Hayden fell asleep but I stood on my chair and just watched my dad sing every word and stare at her like she was some goddess.” His gaze drifts off, caught in his memory, and the longer he’s gone away, the more I realize what these albums—what us playing them right now—is all about. He misses his dad, misses being a family.

  “It will get easier,” I say.

  “Huh?” He stirs, shaking away the dust of wherever he’d been as he looks at me. “Oh, yeah, I know.”

  “I won’t say it gets better; it doesn’t. It just gets easier.” I hold his stare and feel a little sorry that I maybe dashed a flicker of hope. “It’s an amazing collection.” I change the subject and look toward the bookcase again. Tory follows suit. A heavy breath lifts and collapses his chest.