Cry Baby

by Ginger Scott

“Ha, no. This is a first for me. But my dad does, and I get the stuff he can’t reach, like making it a straight line along his neck and stuff,” I say, pushing the hair on the floor into a little pile before moving to my room for a clean shirt.

  I slip on my old team shirt over my sports bra and roll the sleeves up over my shoulders. There’s a hole on the right side along the bottom where the shirt ripped two years ago when some guy guarding me grabbed on. Now the hole is just this thing I constantly mess with—a distraction for my fingers. If I ever lost this shirt, that hole is the thing I’d miss the most.

  When I make my way back to the kitchen, Lauren has already found the broom and dustpan, and she’s swept most of what I didn’t already throw into the trash into a pile. I take over, and after about ten minutes of sweeping in here and in my bathroom, the floor is probably cleaner than it was before I shed all over it.

  “Okay, I’m ready.” I grab my ball and tuck it under my arm and hold the door open through the garage for Lauren to follow.

  “You’re nuts. I like you, but you’re nuts,” she says as she passes through the door. I let it slam behind me but stop when she turns quickly and folds her arms.

  “I know, yeah, yeah…lock it.” I rush back inside and grab my key, locking the door behind me, then propping up the garage door for Lauren to slip through, pushing it back down behind both of us.

  “One day, your neighbor’s house is going to be torn to pieces and then you’ll thank me for nagging you about locking your damn door,” she mutters as she takes long strides to keep up with me.

  “Why would I thank you for my neighbor getting broken into?” I know what she meant, but I like being a smart-ass.

  “Psh, you’ll be glad you’re not the one with missing chunks of wall and the stench of a crack pipe in your carpet,” she says, and something about her tone tells me she’s been broken into and the crime involved something pretty similar.

  “Point made,” I say.

  We don’t talk for most of the walk back, and I can’t even get my hand to dribble the ball. My nerves are starting to combat with my resolve, and the battle inside is making me feel a little dizzy. I can’t believe I shaved my head. I start to laugh, quietly at first, and soon loud enough for Lauren to hear.

  “What’s so funny?” She stops and pulls the heels from her feet, holding one in each hand. I look down at her bare toes and pinch my brow.

  “Seriously? You shaved your head and you think I’m the weird-ass one because I took my shoes off so I don’t get blisters? Please…” She puffs out her lips and rolls her eyes, passing me and marching on toward the courts.

  The corners of my mouth slowly arch up and my eyes gaze up to my own brow, to the place where the shadow of my long hair used to shade my forehead. I nod and let the thump in my chest settle down with my steps forward. The closer I get, the more I remember why I did this, and I thank my impulses.

  Lauren and I pass through the gate and move to the bleachers, but I don’t stay with her. I set my things just where I left them the first time, then I walk to the free-throw line, where Tristan’s back is to me, but everyone else has stopped moving. Zach is breathing so hard his hand is pretty much glued in a spread-out position on his chest, and his T-shirt is soaked with sweat. I’ve been gone for less than half an hour, and he looks nearly dead.

  “I got you, Zach. Go take a seat,” I say meeting his eyes as I feel Tristan’s move to me, my view of his body turning in my periphery.

  Zach’s eyes are only half open, he’s so tired, and his focus dances between me and what I’m sure is Tristan behind me. When he finally nods, I know he’s been given permission, so I turn around to face the boy who made me have to fight for this.

  “I’ll take point, if that’s cool with you?” I cock my head to the side and perk up the corner of my mouth, my teeth biting the tip of my tongue. I’ve made Tristan go speechless, and it’s as satisfying as I thought it might be when I ran the clippers across the center of my skull. His eyes trace that line right now as his mouth hangs open and barely pushes out a laugh in disbelief.

  “I fit in better now?” I step closer, prompting his eyes to dip back to mine. His lips might not smile, but his eyes do, and I live in this righteous little space for a full breath until he rolls the ball from his hands to mine, thrusting it with a little pop that attacks my balance. I hold steady.

  Bare-chested and moist with sweat, his body hovers nearby for an extra second, and my feet twitch, ready to put the space back between us, but my own body reacts differently. It likes the fight—it likes the boy, even if he’s a bit of an asshole. Still. My heart and head want to push him around a little just to see how he reacts.

  The standoff lasts only a few seconds, but it burns in the dead center of my chest, and I enjoy the feeling. I enjoy it almost as much as I like the victory. I’ve made him bend, but I’m conflicted about wanting him to break.

  I smack my hand on top of the ball and dribble back, letting it bounce at my side on its own while I push my right sleeve back up over my shoulder and run my fingers over the ragged hole in the bottom of the jersey. The guy who put it there had nothing on this one. He also wasn’t even close to as…I don’t know…interesting, maybe? I didn’t hate him nearly as much. I didn’t like him nearly as much either, and that’s the part I don’t know how to deal with. But the first step is to make Tristan trust me out here, on our court, so that way I can get just a little piece of it. Without this place, I’ll never feel like this is home. I’m gonna need his permission, I guess, and I’m gonna get it the only way I know how—by driving hard and shooting smart, the only two rules one needs in life.

  “Post up!”

  They all fall into line…even Tristan.

  Step one. I’m on my way.

  Chapter Five

  Tristan

  * * *

  I barely remember my father. But I remember him telling me that Dub was the only man I could really trust because me and him—we were the same.

  I used to think that was true. I believed it, wished it, prayed for it even. It’s not true, though. I’m nothing like Dub Lewis, and I never will be. What’s strange, though, is for the longest time I felt the sting of self-hatred because I didn’t want to be such a disappointment. It felt like I was letting everyone down, like somehow it was a weakness to not have that killer instinct. Every horrible thing I witnessed—every body I helped bury, or weapon I hid, or lie I told to people who really know the truth, but just can’t do anything about it—none of it felt good. I didn’t enjoy that same numbness Dub had to doing the wrong things. My conscience didn’t work that way, or maybe my conscience just existed.

  I knew every bit of this was wrong. I know it’s wrong. I hate it. I hate my fate. It’s there, though. I’m married to it because of the place I was born, the man who fathered me, his friends and his choices, and my mother’s weaknesses. All I can do is make the most of it, and maybe find a little happiness somewhere on the fringes.

  I’m nothing like Riley. Fuck do I wish I was.

  “I can’t believe she shaved her head, yo!”

  Joker’s been talking about it nonstop since we got home from the courts late last night. While he was fangirling though, all I could think about was how the hell I was going to get her to leave before Dub showed up.

  Lauren’s always been like a sister to me. She knows what I am, the rules that dictate how I behave. All I had to do was make eye contact with her as the sun was beginning to set and she got it. Her brother got it, too. Somehow, in this place, they’ve lived in those fringes I only get to visit. They’ve been safe, and their souls have stayed clean.

  Lotus bailed first with Lauren, and DJ goes where they go. The game broke up naturally by then, and Riley ended up walking home with them. Joker almost left too, as if he forgot the entire reason we were there in the first place, staying late and waiting for him to share the good news with Dub…on his birthday.

  Dub seemed happy about the cash, almost relieved to hav
e it. Joker started to ask questions, but I shut him up fast. If Dub owes someone for something, we don’t want to become part of that collateral. I’ve been debt free with the Fifty-Seven for my entire life, and I intend to end my life that way, preferably many years from now.

  “Why were you so hard on her, man? She’s actually pretty good out there, you know?”

  Joker’s got a crush. He’s also distracting himself from the fact that his birthday came and went, and he wasn’t initiated. The topic was never brought up, and we spent twenty minutes with Dub out at the courts last night. I’ve been waiting for him to bring it up, not that I have any answers for him. I’m respected like I’m one of the leaders, but I don’t make those decisions. I’ve never wanted to.

  We’re both waiting in Joker’s car while Riley parks her truck several spots away and jumps in the back to mess with who knows what. I think my friend wants to rush out of here so we can time it just right and have no choice but to walk into the school with her. I want just the opposite. I’d rather sit here, watch her for a little while, and think about the things I can’t talk about, not even with my best friend.

  He’s right—she’s a damn good player. She’d dust him on the court in one-on-one, and I’m not so sure I could hang. She’s got this drive that I can just see. It pours out of her and it’s like this uniform she can’t take off.

  “She shaved her fucking head, man,” Joker says.

  A quiet laugh escapes me, and I can’t help but repeat him.

  “She shaved her fucking head,” I say.

  She’s settled whatever she’s been working on in her truck, and she stands tall in the truck’s bed, one hand on the arch of her back while the other runs over her velvet head. Her lips curve up at the touch, like it’s still a surprise to her. She exhales hard as her hands move to her hips and her body twists until her eyes find us there watching.

  “Shit, she saw us,” Joker whispers, as if she can somehow hear us, too.

  He slides down in his driver’s seat and pulls his hoodie over his head. It’s ridiculous.

  “Bro, she can see everything you do. Don’t be dumb,” I say as I slide one leg forward and bend my other knee more, getting comfortable where I am—comfortable with the idea of her and me staring at each other for these weird, longish moments.

  I’ve been chewing on this pen cap, and I bit down hard when her eyes hit mine. My teeth work around the plastic in a circle now, feeling the grooves with my tongue. Joker was right before…when he said she was pretty. She wears a bald head boldly, this sexy badass thing that somehow makes her even more feminine, which I know is exactly the opposite of what she was trying to achieve.

  I lift my fingers from the pen I’m holding to my mouth in a small wave, and I can feel my lips barely smiling. At this very moment, something about this right here makes me happy. It’s going to end in a blink, but before it does, I let myself have it—the fantasy where I can pretend that this girl and I could get to know each other more than just two people who live on the same street and sometimes play ball in the park.

  Her neck moves with a swallow. She doesn’t smile or wave back. She bends and lifts her heavy bag to her shoulder, swings one leg over the side of her truck bed, then sits to slide onto the ground. She stares at me as she passes between two cars. She stares at me all the way to the front of our car. She looks at me as she passes my window.

  I keep my eyes on her the entire time, and I swear the air is sweeter when she passes even though my window is rolled up and there’s no possible way she and I shared the same air.

  “We can go now,” I say after enough time has passed to give Riley a good head start.

  I grab my bag from between my feet and swing his door open, and he does the same, taking his bag from the back seat before locking his doors and meeting me at the edge of the lot.

  “You’re afraid of her.” He says the words like he’s been thinking about them for a while, like he was nervous to say them. As much as we’ve always been best friends, because of who I am, Joker’s always treated me with a little bit of reservation. I would never do anything to hurt him. I hate that who we are—the gang—has that kind of power, the kind to keep two people who are practically brothers on guard enough to hold back the truth.

  “Fuck that,” I say, because I’m a liar too. Because Joker’s loose mouth could get me in trouble. It could lead to someone thinking there’s a girl I like who isn’t someone’s sister or someone who’s been around us for a long time.

  I am afraid of her. More than that, though, I’m afraid for her.

  My friend slaps my hand in our usual shake as he heads to the west end of the hallway, and I turn to the right, to the lonely classroom with unfamiliar faces—all but this one that’s quickly becoming too familiar.

  The office doors are open as I pass, and for some reason, my walk slows. The bell is ringing, and I could use that as an excuse for not stopping, but I stop anyway. Ms. Beaumont is at her desk. I can see the sleeve of her red shirt, her pen writing something on a form—probably someone else’s scholarship application. She leans forward just a little, and our eyes meet.

  “Tristan! Come in!”

  She’s standing and moving around her desk, and my pulse is racing wildly. It’s hard to breathe, and I can’t really control my expression. It feels like seconds pass before I can get my mouth to work, but I know it all happens much faster than that.

  “I’m late…I’ll stop by later. Sorry,” I say over my shoulder, veering my direction back down the hall. I won’t stop by later. This momentary lapse was just me dreaming. If I picked up another scholarship application, I’d just need to throw away another piece of paper.

  Everyone is in their seats by the time I get to our classroom, and Riley’s bag is planted in the barrier between us. I slide into my spot as the last bell finishes and stretch both of my legs out until I can see the edges of my Vans over the end of my desktop, even from my slouched position.

  Ms. Forte has started to walk through the rows of our class, marking her attendance sheet and sliding a composition book out of her stack as she goes. She gets to me and stops, reaching into the middle of the stack to find mine. It’s easy to find—there’s nothing in it. I didn’t even put my name on it, but somehow, she knows where it belongs.

  “Tristan.” Her mouth draws a tight, flat line as she tosses my book on my desk. It slaps loudly, making it impossible for others not to turn and look.

  Awesome. Just…awesome.

  “There literally isn’t an easier assignment in this class. I give you books, and you write in them. I don’t care what it is, son. Ha, I don’t even grade the spelling! I just want you to activate that part of your brain, and to feel what it’s like to put things on paper. I’d take pictures, at this point.”

  She looks down at me for an extra second or two because she knows I don’t really care about the consequences. She’s going to milk the drama and hope some of it sinks in and triggers guilt. It won’t work. I’ve been trained to feel nothing in situations like this. I close my eyes as she continues along my row, and I leave them closed for a few more seconds until Ms. Forte finds the one thing that can make me open them again.

  “Riley, that’s some hairstyle. Very chic! I like it! What brought that on?”

  I pull my pen free from the side pocket of my bag and begin chewing where I left off.

  “You should probably ask Tristan about it.”

  I squish the plastic cap between my top and bottom molars, and I laugh a little, silently, too. I shake my hand and drag my book toward me and open to the first page where I scribble my name—my full name—Tristan Alejandro Lopez.

  Leaning forward, I cradle the book between my forearms on my small desk then glance to the right where Riley is doing the same thing. Her eyes shift just enough from her book to catch me looking at her, so I smirk as I put the pen cap back in my mouth and wave with my fingers. Her focus leaves me and her gaze slowly moves back to her own work, but I keep watching. She kn
ows I am. I know she does, because after a few seconds, she shifts her left palm to the edge of her desk, curling every finger but the one in the middle. I decide this is what I’ll draw in my book today.

  It only takes me a few seconds to scribble a rendering of her hand flipping me off, so I draw an arrow to it and tag it with her name. Then I spend time shading in her fingernails, even though her real ones aren’t polished or long. I noticed, because compared to most of the other girls at South and in our hood, Riley is epically plain. I’ve only seen her with makeup once so far—the first time she came to the courts. It wasn’t like she was all made up to go out or whatever, but she had some black under her eyes and pink on her lips.

  I glance at her again, and unlike my pen, hers is busy making words. I wonder if she’s writing a story or an essay or if she’s writing about me. She isn’t drawing pictures; that much I can tell for sure.

  I spend the next ten minutes adding lines to my art. They look like sunbursts around her middle finger, and it makes me laugh a little, which draws Ms. Forte’s curiosity. I don’t try to hide it, and there’s a little part of me that hopes she disapproves of my drawing and it somehow gets me kicked out of this class. Instead, though, I get the exact opposite.

  “Well, it’s progress. You aren’t going to be an artist, but at least you won’t fail the world’s easiest assignment,” she says, turning my book toward her for a better view. She glances over to take in the real Riley, which gets Riley’s attention.

  “What do you think?” Ms. Forte asks, taking my book in her hand and holding it up like a children’s librarian would during story time. “Look like you?”

  Riley purses her lips and flattens her pen against her book then twists in her desk to see Exhibit A. I’m sure this is a tactic to embarrass me and somehow inspire me to want to try harder, but I don’t care that everyone is starting to put their pens down and catch a glimpse of my art, too. Riley stares at it for a few seconds, blinks, then opens her eyes on mine, letting the corner of her mouth crawl inward as if to say “Really, Tristan? That’s the best you’ve got?”