Varsity Tiebreaker

by Ginger Scott

  “Huh, yeah. Didn’t think she cared that much,” I say, trying to pass off what was a memorable thing as a meaningless one. I sense by the long, silent breaths Hayden takes while staring at me that he isn’t buying it.

  Whatever. I’m not the one who threw his sibling under the bus at therapy. I think maybe it’s my turn to talk, and give him a long look.

  “Oh, and hey . . . what the fuck was that shit you pulled yesterday?” My temper isn’t even a little bit controlled. I’ve gone and blended my love of sarcasm with my own boiling rage at how unfair life is being. My brother’s reaction is completely unsatisfying.

  “You know how I get with conflict. I wanted to say something to end the bickering—”

  “That’s bullshit,” I cut in.

  His mouth shuts into a hard, straight line and all of the pretend sincerity he was trying out fades away. He shifts his head, his eyes moving to the stereo controls. After a few long seconds, he finally lifts his hand and pushes in the power button, shutting off our distraction.

  “You know what’s bullshit?” he says. “What’s bullshit is that you and I are basically the same person physically, but for whatever reason, Dad has always preferred your version of us to mine.”

  Wow.

  “Dude, you’re way off base,” I reply. Hayden quickly laughs me off.

  “I’m right on base, Tor, and deep down”—his gaze shifts back to mine and he bites the tip of his tongue, actual hate simmering in his smile—“you know I am.”

  My brow drawn in, I shake my head and laugh quietly, mentally shuffling through so many times in our lives when Dad was equal with us to a fault. I’m a better player than Hayden. It isn’t even a question, and if I asked him right now, he wouldn’t be able to lie and argue with me about it. When it comes to the court, I am dominant. He is decent. But my entire life has been held back to his level because Dad didn’t want the “dynamic duo” to be split up. He didn’t want Hayden left behind. I know in my heart that my dad just wanted Hayden to feel equal, but I always felt I had to carry him, which slowed me down.

  “You do know that you and I are two different people, right? I mean, we look alike, but that’s it. I am me, and you are you.” It’s a harsh response but I’m growing tired of working so hard to make sure Hayden is happy. I love my brother, but damn, sometimes my parents were too obsessed with the idea of coddling his sensitive ego.

  “Oh, I’m well aware.” He shifts in the driver’s seat, turning to the side and folding his arms over his chest. “Think about Dad’s bookcase. There’s a row of albums, and then the top shelves are all of your special moments—your first place triathlon plaque from junior high, your invitation to Duke’s high school basketball showcase, the photo of you, Dad, and Phil Jackson. And where are my things? They’re on the bottom, Tor. They’re on the goddamn floor.”

  I picture the space in my mind, conjuring some detail that will prove my brother wrong, but there isn’t one. He’s right. I can’t believe any of it was intentional, but at the same time, the split is so obvious that how could it not be on purpose?

  It seems insignificant to apologize. It also doesn’t seem the right fit for the situation; it’s not my apology to make. I’ve been holding my dad on this pedestal because of my mom’s affair, but really, they both are flawed people. We’re all flawed.

  “You want some room on my shelf, maybe?” I squint, looking into the morning sun, and Hayden laughs.

  “Sure, I’ll take some shelf space.”

  We look at each other briefly, the new awkward truth sitting thick and heavy between us. He’s still mad, and I’m still pissed off about therapy, but I also feel really shitty about the stuff he just said. I can also tell that he feels bad about the way it came out.

  “I should have saved that for another time. Maybe I need some one-on-one sessions with Dr. Majestic,” he says.

  “Can we talk about that name for a minute? Really? Our family therapist is named Dr. Majestic?” This is my way of accepting his olive branch. Avoidance and humor—this is something we both definitely got from Dad.

  “Right?” Hayden finally turns our car off, and I take the signal as it’s finally safe to get out and go beg for late slips instead of detentions from the front office. He gets out of the driver’s side, and with our bags slung over our shoulders, we walk in tandem, mirror images in many ways, opposites in others.

  “Not gonna lie, I was picturing, like, major octopus tentacles to pop out of her shoulder blades or something,” Hayden continues.

  “Why does it always have to be octopus tentacles? Every bad guy—full-on tentacles.”

  “Why does it have to be a bad guy? Why not a bad woman?” he argues.

  “Touché, brother. Touché.”

  We slip in the office door and put on our most charming smiles, bashfully wincing when Maggie, the best front office manager a high school senior could ask for, spots us. She was the queen of orange slices when Hayd and I were kids. I don’t think we played a single game without her showing up with bags full. Her son, Nicolas, is in our grade, and he played most things with us when it was all about participation and less about athleticism. He’s horribly uncoordinated, but dude is going to graduate high school with something like forty-eight college credits out of the way, so who cares if he can’t throw a ball. Pretty sure he’s going to build rocket ships.

  Maggie spots us while she’s on the phone and leans her head to one side, eyes hazed enough to admonish us. She writes out our slips while talking to the person on the phone, then puts them on hold when she brings them to us.

  “If I ever find out you two are late for doing something stupid like smoking pot or robbing a liquor store, I’m going to whoop your tooshies, you got it?” She points at me instead of Hayden when she says that, which makes my brother laugh.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says, taking his slip.

  My brow knit tight, I bunch up my face and pinch the edge of my late slip between my fingers. Maggie doesn’t let go right away, keeping her other hand pointing at me as she tugs the slip to bring me in closer.

  “That’s right, Tory, I’m talking to you. Of you two, I know you’re the one I’ve got to keep my eye on.” Her smirk breaks through just in time because I was about to get irrationally butthurt over her opinion. She finally lets go of my slip and pats my cheek in her overly coddling Midwestern mom way. “Oh, I’m teasing you.”

  “Thanks, Maggie,” I say, my pulse beating fast from my emotional roller coaster.

  “But I’m serious about the pot. No pot, you two!” She lectures over her shoulder on her way back to the phone. Hayden salutes her and pushes through the door into campus with his back. I follow along and wait until we get outside before I react out loud.

  “I mean, it’s kinda late about the pot. Been there, done that, over it,” I say.

  “Over it, huh?” Hayden says, slapping my back.

  I’m pretty sure he and I both lit up a month ago out at one of McCaffey’s parties. I guess that’s recent to some people, but for me, shit I did a month ago is in an entirely different lifetime.

  “Yeah,” I sigh. “I’m over it.”

  He gives me a sideways look, daring me to prove him wrong. I lift a brow and reach out my hand to shake on it and he takes it.

  “All right then. I’m gonna hold you to it,” he says.

  I shrug it off as if it’s no big deal, but in reality, I just haven’t been to a party in weeks. I’m the king of both enforcing and caving to peer pressure in those situations. Hayden has the resolve of stone, so for him this really is no problem. I might have to become a permanent introvert.

  “Oh, hey.” He stops me just before we split up and head toward different buildings. “Abby’s birthday is in a few days. I want to do something special, but I’m stuck. This place is kinda void of special things. Got any ideas?”

  Instantly, all of that good will we just forged collapses in my chest. I manage to keep that feeling from exposing itself on my face, though, and bu
ndle it all up into a thoughtful expression. What kind of man am I? This is one of those forks in life’s road. I decide to take the path I know will make Abby happiest.

  “You know what? You said she really liked that one song you were playing. Maybe you should learn it on the guitar, play it for her,” I suggest, the petty child that lives in my gut kicking me.

  “Oh, I don’t know, man. You’re a way better player than I am. I could never really get it down,” he says, overwhelmed at the idea. Thing is, that song is really easy to play. And Hayden and I sing about the same. He’s just a lot shyer about stuff like that.

  “Nah, I’ll teach you. It’ll take an hour, two tops.” I cross my fingers over my chest and feel the scorch of my decision.

  “Seriously?” There’s a flavor to Hayden’s surprise that reeks of suspicion. My brother isn’t stupid, and while our little talk this morning focused on his envy over my relationship with our dad and my ignorance to it all, I can’t forget that his first words to me were about how I spent time with his girlfriend and made an impression.

  “Sure,” I say. “What the hell else do I have to do? Go to McCaffey’s and smoke pot?”

  His lips purse into a tight smile and one brow ticks up.

  “I swear, it will be easy. She’ll love it, and you can talk about how many hours you put in to learn it just for her and blah, blah, blah.” I want to throw up just thinking about her reaction. She’ll think it’s sweet and thoughtful, and she’ll instantly realize how my brother picked up on her clues of liking the song but I didn’t. He’ll come away as the good guy and I’ll be the chump. As it should be.

  12

  Abby

  Anymore, I don’t really know how to judge whether or not things go well with the lawyers. It might be my new hardened belief that court mediators and custody lawyers are greedy bastards. It’s probably not fair to lump them all together like that, but my experiences have been so tainted that it’s hard not to.

  Sitting in that room while my mom and our lawyer hashed out what seemed like a fair deal for my father’s investment—in me, the daughter he left—was demoralizing. Add in his claims that he spent nearly a hundred thousand dollars making some sordid photos of me disappear, and today was basically an out-of-body experience.

  I wasn’t the girl in those blurred-out photos that my dad’s lawyer kept referencing in his argument. I was dressed for business, a professional with a huge future only a few weeks away from beginning. That man made me sound like a wild party girl who shows up in tabloids, even hinting that there’s no guarantee there aren’t more photos of me like this flying around. “Or worse, video,” he said.

  I’ve told my mother everything. I promised her it was just this one time, which it was—I’ve never been so stupid as to flash my flesh for the camera. But I was drunk and feeling invincible because I just landed the part of my dreams. I was feeling carefree and romantic with a mysterious guy who was paying so much attention to me, and it felt good. I hate that I keep blaming myself for this mess. My mom keeps nearly convincing me that I’m not the one to blame, that the guy who took advantage of me is. Yet all it took was that one seed of doubt planted by my dad’s calculated lawyer to fuck up everything.

  Or worse, video.

  That one tiny phrase is on repeat in my head, as is the sick expression that weighed on my mother’s face, sagging her eyes, souring her mouth and tightening her body where it sat. She shifted her feet when he said those words, her heeled shoes scraping along on the floor beneath her chair like chalk on a board as her ankles uncrossed and crossed again.

  Our car ride home was quiet. That’s usually a sign things didn’t go well. When my mom leaves one of those meetings feeling confident, we stop for smoothies. Today, we drove straight home and she took a bath—for an hour.

  She’s back at it now, hunched over at the table, emailing statements back and forth with our attorney until she gets the wording just right.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, paused at the coffee maker, the bag of grounds in my hands.

  She blinks up at me, one pair of glasses on the tip of her nose, another pair tucked in her hair. I point at it and she looks straight up at her brow, feeling around the top of her head until she uncovers them.

  “Oh.” She laughs, pulling them from her twisted-up hair and tossing them on the table. “I spent an hour looking for those.”

  “Found ’em,” I say.

  She gives me a very tired, slightly crooked smile. Both of our bodies are numb from the emotional beating we took today. It kills my mom to have to talk about me like I’m a commodity, especially when I’m in the room. Even worse, it’s probably hard to have her parenting judged on my mistakes, especially when the other parent couldn’t even bother to fly in for this meeting.

  “Stop saying you’re sorry,” she says, finally, resting her chin on her fist.

  I shrug.

  “But I am.”

  My mom slowly shakes her head.

  “Well, forgive yourself, then, because I have no reason to. My daughter is perfect. Mistakes are part of growing. As parents, we are here to guide you and support you through your highs and lows, even if there’s a financial responsibility tied to it. Your dad . . .” She straightens her spine and draws in a deep breath.

  That’s another thing my mom is good about. She limits the bad things she says to me about my father. I did not inherit her ability to take the high road. I like to battle in the trenches and go low. Mostly, though, I do it to stand up for my friends who are like my mom and won’t get ugly.

  That’s how fights are done—ugly.

  “Okay, well, how about this? I’m sorry I didn’t make him pay for the privilege of taking my photo in the first place.” It’s actually a thought I’ve had a lot, about how this guy didn’t even earn what I gave him. I’m starting to think the only reason I made out with him was because his name was Jake and he reminded me of my yogurt commercial crush with the same name.

  “If that makes you feel better.” My mom chuckles.

  She pushes her glasses back up her nose and continues with her work while I begin a pot of coffee. A light rap at the door catches my attention and I look over my shoulder to see if my mom heard it too. She’s so deep in her work, though, that I dump the water in the coffee maker and wipe my hands on my way to the door.

  Hayden is standing close enough that his nose looks way too big for his head through the fisheye lens on the peep hole. It makes me laugh, and I continue being amused while I open the door.

  “Were you trying to look through it the wrong way?” I ask, playfully pushing at his chest. He’s dressed for practice, and I’m not sure why he isn’t there now.

  “I was, but it doesn’t work that way.” He tips forward on his toes and kisses my forehead. He hands me a single rose from behind his back and my face heats from the sweet gesture, knowing that my mom will make a big deal about it. I may as well bring her into the loop on my dating life.

  “What’s this for?” I ask, pushing the door open wider to invite him in.

  “Early birthday gift. I have something better planned, but I wanted to stop by and give you this on my way to practice,” he says, clearing up my question on where he’s headed.

  “Still at the junior high?” I assume.

  “Yeah.” He sighs as he steps into the house, and my reactions are too slow to undo the trouble I see coming.

  “Back so soon? You must really like tea,” my mom says, slinging one arm over her chair.

  A squiggle forms on Hayden’s forehead.

  “This is Hayden, Mom.” I make eyes at her, silently signaling all of the complicated shit I have to say about him, his brother, and that she got to see one of them all grown up before the other, when it probably should have been the other way around.

  And . . . shit. This is bad.

  My mom’s brow lowers and her mouth bunches as she pulls her glasses from her face.

  “Ah, yes. Reading glasses made you all blurry but I can see the
difference now.” She’s joking, but Hayden isn’t in on it. It takes a while to get a grasp on my mom’s humor.

  “Very funny, Mom. Yes, they’re still twins,” I say, placing my palm on Hayden’s chest as if he’s an exhibit. I glance to him and whisper, “I’ll explain this later.”

  He laughs out “okay” and continues toward my mom with his hand outstretched.

  “It’s nice to see you, Ms. Cortez. It’s been a few,” he says.

  My mom’s head tilts to the side as they shake, her mouth hung open with questions just waiting to spill out. She looks from him to me, to the rose in my hand, then back to him again, and her mouth curves up in an amused smile.

  “Nice to see you again, too,” she says, that smile growing into a full grin. “So grown up.”

  I turn my back on the situation because she’s about to get nosy and pushy, and embarrassing. I find a tall glass in the cabinet and fill it with water for my rose.

  “So, tell me, Hayden. How long have you two been sneaking around behind my back?” Again, my mom is kidding. This is her way of both making Hayden shit himself and getting dirt on the stuff I haven’t told her. I exhale and turn to face them with my back against the sink.

  Hayden falls right into her plan, stuttering his way through some semblance of an answer. “Oh . . . I didn’t mean to disrespect . . . Not that I’m disrespecting your daughter, but I meant your house . . . or rules. Yes, rules!”

  My mom finally gets up and places her palm on what I am certain is Hayden’s wildly beating chest.

  “Relax, child. I’m messing with you. I figured you’d tell me more about my daughter’s life than she does,” she says, shooting me a glare that only I can see. She’s joking in front of Hayden, but deep down she’s upset that she had no idea that a we existed between us.