Cry Baby

by Ginger Scott

  Ms. Beaumont heard my briefly rehearsed speech, the one I’d spent the hour before piecing together in my head. Then she told me there was no money to hire a coach, and South teachers can’t volunteer because it violates their contract. The only solution was to play on the boys’ team—the sucky one that Tristan and Paul and every other decent player out on the park courts refuses to join.

  I don’t know why Tristan volunteered. I didn’t dare ask when he told me right before class. I’ve never really felt a wave of relief like that, one that smacks me in the chest and knocks my breath out from my body, but that’s what happened when he told me he was coaching. It was like my spine was this messed-up stack of cups and somehow, with one word, he righted them all and I could stand straight again. It left me feeling really fragile, and I didn’t want to say anything stupid to make him change his mind.

  The student lot is full, so I cruise around the drive and pull next to the curb under a tree across the street from our school. Tristan is sitting on the concrete wall just off school grounds. It surrounds a dirt lot piled with construction debris and trash. I should talk to him, with a clear head, but I don’t feel nearly as steady as I’d like to. I still feel tingly inside, anxious for him to follow through.

  “If I go through all of this and I get cut, I’m going to be pissed.” Lauren slams the door behind her and I laugh to myself as I kick open my door to exit.

  “I’ll be happy if more than five girls come out for the team. From what I hear, there won’t be enough to cut,” I say, grunting as I lift myself up over the edge of my truck bed.

  I slide my arms through the straps for my backpack and grab my dad’s old duffel bag in my free hand. I managed to find it in one of our remaining boxes this morning, and I’m thankful I didn’t have to bring my basketball shoes and clothes in a grocery bag.

  My gaze catches Tristan before I jump down from the side of my truck. His heels are knocking against the wall in a steady rhythm, and the cord from his earbuds winds down his black T-shirt. His hair pokes out from the sides and back of a gray beanie, and he’s nodding to the same beat that his feet move to.

  In a way, he seems so isolated like this. But he doesn’t seem unhappy. It’s actually the happiest I’ve seen him since that first day we met. His lips are almost smiling, and whatever the song is, it must be one he likes because every few seconds his mouth moves as if he’s uttering lyrics.

  “Quit ogling the coach,” Lauren says, smacking the top of my shoe.

  “I’m not,” I laugh, internally realizing that yeah…I maybe was. I leap down next to my friend and we both begin walking toward the school. I try to hide it when I glance Tristan’s direction as we cross the street, but I do a poor job of it and Lauren catches me.

  “You need to be careful there,” she says.

  I just roll my eyes and mutter, “Whatever,” but before our feet hit the main walkway into school, she grabs my arm and urges me to face her.

  “No, Riley. Not whatever. This is like what I told you about locking your door. This isn’t one of those things that you get to laugh off. When it comes to Tristan Lopez, be careful there.” Lauren’s eyes are frozen open on mine and her lips are tightly sealed. She’s become instantly serious, so I nod.

  “Okay.” I shrug, and she repeats my okay like we’re signing a contract with our acknowledgements.

  The first bell rings, and Lauren tugs her bag against her shoulder tightly as she walks backward and points at me.

  “Good,” she says, her expression bending into something a little less rigid, but not by much. “I’ll see you at lunch…and hey, maybe we can just eat lunch today rather than forming some other plan that involves me having to sweat, yeah? One activity is enough for me.”

  I smile and breathe out a laugh, and she finally breaks into a smile too.

  “You love me,” I shout now that she’s several steps away.

  “Not even close, honey!” She turns as she responds, looping her arm through another girl’s. I recognize her from the courts, too. I don’t remember her name, but since Lauren accepted me, the other girls seem to as well.

  I adjust my grip on the duffel bag and look to the side where Tristan hasn’t moved from the wall. We start class in minutes, but he seems to have no intention of hurrying. I wonder if he’ll be there today—I wonder if he’s backing out of volunteering.

  I’m about to walk over to him when he kicks away from the wall and pulls his phone from his pocket to read a message. He takes his earbuds out and rests them over his shoulder as he looks down then up a few times, like he’s waiting for someone. His feet travel in slow circles, almost like he’s nervous all of a sudden, and suddenly our eyes meet and he stops moving.

  “Hi,” I mouth, lifting my hand but only as high as my waist. Tristan doesn’t wave back, but I know he sees me. We’re too far to talk, but close enough to see some details, and I see the slight down turn in his mouth. He glances to his right, then his left before his eyes come back to mine. He looks like a kid caught with his sister’s Barbie doll and a pair of scissors, unsure of what to say or how to react. I should just go to class, but it feels unfinished to just leave without talking to him.

  I take a step forward, and his chin drops to his chest as his palm holds his phone in front of his eyes. An older SUV pulls up next to him and he turns without acknowledging me and climbs inside, shutting the door as it drives off. I take a few more steps, my pace a little faster as if I could catch them. By the time I get to the end of the building the street is empty in both directions. The only sounds are of birds chirping in the single tree that grows amid the pile of junk in the dirt lot. It’s fallen over, but somehow it still manages to be green and form branches.

  Tristan slips into class thirty minutes late. We’re journaling, and I haven’t written a thing. I’m the victim of having too much on my mind.

  He takes his seat and drops his bag at his feet then pulls the beanie from his head as our teacher approaches.

  “Sorry,” he says, a little breathless. He runs his hand through his hair a few times, unruffling the twists and curls. He leans to the side and glances at me as he reaches into his pocket for a pass, handing it to Ms. Forte. She doesn’t bother to read it before she crumples it and puts it in her own pocket, but I can tell from one quick peek that it’s blank.

  “Maybe some words today, huh?” She sets his book down and looks at me as she turns and passes my desk, tapping on my book as she passes.

  “Oh, yeah…sorry,” I say quietly, not that she’s stuck around to hear my response.

  I have pages filled. Next week I’ll need a new book. One day of nothing won’t hurt me. I lean forward until my head rests in my palm, and I push up my cheek until my right eye is forced to close. I put my pen on the paper and begin with a dot, not sure what word it’s going to become until the ink begins to draw.

  Where did you go?

  I grip the pen in my fist and slowly slide my book to the edge of my desk until the side I’ve written on hangs over the edge. Turning my head, I wait for Tristan to notice. Our eyes connect first, and I look down at my paper for him to follow. His head rotates to the side and his lips move slightly as he reads. His eyes come back to mine, and I quietly return my book back in front of me while I study every small movement in his face. He doesn’t blink, but his lips stretch and his jaw flexes. With a furrowed brow he looks down at his own book and begins to write, holding his pen still for a few seconds just like I did.

  Family. Had to help with something.

  He lifts his book and looks over my head to make sure nobody is seeing. His answer is vague, and it feels made up, and the twisty feeling has a tighter hold on my chest, making it hard to get a full breath.

  Is something wrong?

  I slide my book to the edge of my desk again and tap on the pages, and his mouth curls with a tiny, breathy laugh as he reads. His eyes flit to mine, and he shakes his head before looking back at his own book to write.

  Everything is fine
.

  He starts to lift it for me to read but I lean enough to the left that I can see it fine. I smile at him and mouth “good.” He nods in return, then turns his focus back to his book and I stare again at mine. The knot is still heavy in my stomach, and I know why it’s there. It’s there because I’m afraid this is all his way of setting the stage to bail on me. I’m afraid to get comfortable because I’ve had setbacks already. I should be playing for a bigger public school with a better team, but I’m here—where we can afford to live and where school boundaries are law, and where private schools are far and cost more than college. I need this team to work, and I need to be amazing.

  Are you backing out?

  I write my question quickly and prop my book up and twist in my seat, getting not just Tristan’s attention, but that of a few people near him. His head jerks up and he squints, eventually looking at the girl who sits behind him. She shrugs and I pull my book back into my chest while I wait for his response. His forehead wrinkle relaxes slightly and his lip ticks up on the side as he leans over his book to write.

  Is that an option?

  He turns his book to face me and I read with raised eyebrows that fall low as soon as I finish. I look up to meet his gaze, and he begins to laugh silently.

  “Kidding,” he whispers.

  “Tristan, I’m just glad to see you’ve moved on from pictures,” Ms. Forte says from the back of the classroom.

  I tuck my chin to my chest and begin to scribble out the evidence of my questions with slow circles on the page, as if my conversation with Tristan is something that needs to be hidden.

  “I prefer to use the term illustrations,” Tristan says, his reaction the exact opposite of mine. I close my eyes and smile, and when I open them and glance his way, he’s grinning wide, his teeth showing. It somehow lights up the room, and I wonder if anyone’s ever seen it before. I feel like if they had, it would be all anyone talked about. Nobody has told me about Tristan Lopez’s smile—not even Lauren, so maybe it’s something just for me. He bites his bottom lip and shakes his head, amused at himself, then turns a page in his book and begins to draw. Before Ms. Forte collects our books, he reaches across the desk between us and his fingertips brush my elbow. I flinch a little before he hands me his book. I stack it on top of mine but leave the page open. He’s drawn the basketball court and dotted out plays with positions marked. He’s also written my name for every X, which makes me laugh and also worry.

  “I’m not expecting much,” he says with his shoulders high and his mouth pulled into a tight-lipped grin. I close his book and hand them to our teacher as she passes. Then I turn to the side and lean in closer to him.

  “I am.”

  Our eyes hold on for a long breath or two, and I try to say something with mine. I try to convey exactly how important this is to me, and I think he gets it. He’s quiet for the rest of the day.

  Chapter Seven

  Tristan

  * * *

  Nothing like a ton of unwanted pressure piled onto something you’re already dreading. Riley has expectations, which I…well…expected. Waking up this morning, my only hope was to meet Dub at the corner by my school to pick up the keys to the storage locker in the warehouse district.

  I didn’t think he’d be late. I didn’t foresee him giving me a bag of dirty hunting knives, and I didn’t plan on going back to the storage place with him to move things before an inspection.

  I carried bloodied knives in my backpack all day. I came in through the cafeteria this morning—after school started—to avoid the metal detectors, and I ditched my notebooks in the backseat of his car to make room. I solved his problem and took my orders just like the good little boy I’ve always been.

  I’ve texted Joker seven times to come to the gym. He has to take my bag and finish the job because I can’t, and the fact that my rep depends on him doing something right scares the hell out of me. I don’t have another choice, though.

  That’s a lie.

  There is another option, I am just choosing to ignore it this time around. I could blow this off and leave Riley hanging, head off into my normal uniform of quiet seventeen-year-old guy who cleans up bloody messes. I probably should.

  “Dude, I’m sorry, there was this cat…” Joker huffs out as he jogs around the corner.

  He rests his hands on his knees and bends forward, and I wait for him to catch his breath, and when he finally stands I hoist my bag from the ground and shove it at him.

  “I’ve gotta get inside.” I turn my back and shake my head.

  “Don’t you wanna hear about the cat?” he pants.

  I scrunch my eyes tightly, then pinch the bridge of my nose before looking back at him.

  “No, not really, Joke. I just want you to take the shit away and get it done.”

  I’m short with him, which isn’t really abnormal, because Joker has a tendency to frustrate me. I love him like a brother, but he has always pushed my buttons. He can’t focus, and he forgets things, which is why the fact that I’m leaving this up to him has my stomach so sick. But there’s something else in his head, eating at him right now. He usually just calls me a dick and moves on after I’m cold with him, but there’s a shade to his eyes that looks hurt and maybe nervous.

  “I’m sorry, man…it’s just, I have to do this for school, and my mom’s proud and you know how that goes. I’m under a lot of pressure, and I hate not being able to take care of Dub’s things. I didn’t mean to take that out on you though, especially when you’re helping,” I say, holding my hand out for him to slap.

  He swallows out a smile and grabs my hand before slapping it twice like we always do when we say goodbye. I fed Joker the same story everyone gets who finds out what I’m doing. I don’t share that I had a choice, that I agreed to this. That would bring my loyalty into question.

  “I get it, yeah,” he says, his feet sliding backward as he holds my bag up in his right hand. I can hear the metal blades move inside.

  “The shovel’s in our garage, and my mom’s at church, so anywhere on the side of the house is fine,” I say, reviewing the directions I gave him earlier over the phone. I’ve buried dozens of Dub’s knives and two of his guns in my yard over the years. They don’t stay there long, even though our house has never been searched. Keeping things on the move is always better, just in case, and I don’t like the idea of my mom taking the fall. I’ll move them back to storage after tomorrow’s inspection.

  “I’ll get it done, Tristan. You can count on me,” Joker says.

  Our eyes linger on each other for a breath, guilt stabbing me inside and something tormenting my friend behind his gaze.

  “Thanks,” I finally say, breaking the long pause.

  I reach behind me for the gym door and Joker nods with his mouth a tight line. I wait as he turns and slides my bag over his shoulder, clutching the heavy bottom against his side like a football as he begins to jog away. I don’t know where his car is, and I don’t know if he plans to run the entire way rather than drive just to cover a trail, but I do know something’s not right.

  My back is to the gym when I pull the door open, and I spin as I enter, taking a deep breath to clear my head of what I just felt and make space for what I’m about to feel. My eyes go right to Riley, to her long legs stretched out in a V in the center of the court, socks pulled up her calves and wrinkled shorts gathered just above her knees. She’s wearing that same shirt she did out on the courts with the sleeves rolled up over her shoulders. She’s stretching and pointing her toes toward Lauren, who I have not seen wear clothes like that since we were kids. Seven or eight other girls are lingering near the drinking fountain, not sure what do to, and half of them are in jeans. My “supervisor” is also nowhere to be found. Figures.

  I take in air until my lungs are so full it burns. Then I blow out hard enough to puff my cheeks. This is gonna be rough.

  Riley looks up at me mid-sentence to Lauren. They’re both laughing and her mouth closes on the sound as I step up
. They were talking about me.

  “Hey…Coach,” Lauren says, coughing out a laugh when she’s done.

  I lean my head to the side and glare, but Riley’s whisper takes my attention to her.

  “Stop it, you promised,” she says to her friend.

  “Promised what?” I fold my arms and look down at her as she leans back on her palms and brings her legs together, pulling one knee up, but swaying it side to side as she glances up at me. Her shorts have slid up her thigh, and that draws my gaze there for a split second, and the vision of my hand beginning at her knee and traveling up sinks in to all of my weakest places.

  “That she wouldn’t make fun of you for doing this for me,” Riley says, and I flinch slightly at that very last part.

  For me.

  For…her.

  I did do this for her. It was supposed to be for me and some future I know I really don’t have a prayer’s chance at having, but honestly? If Riley wasn’t the one who needed this…if she weren’t involved, I’m not so sure I would have said yes to any of it.

  “You can make it up to me by getting those girls over there to come stretch. If that’s it, we’re not having cuts, so maybe talk to the ones in jeans about what to wear next time, too,” I say, ending with a sigh and my palm rubbing on the side of my face.

  “Fine,” Lauren whines. She drags her feet in and I notice her shoes. They look like running shoes, and I’m pretty sure they’re too small. Lauren’s feet have always been big, and when we were little, before she got all fashionable and shit, we used to share.

  “Wait,” I say, stepping on the heel of my right shoe and pulling it free, then doing the same to the left. I kick them toward Lauren.

  “Gross,” she says, scrunching her nose.