Cry Baby

by Ginger Scott

“Oh get over it. You know your toes are curled under your feet in those things. Put on my damn shoes,” I say, rolling my head to the side already exhausted from battling with her. If I have to do this with the other girls I’m never going to make it. They can play barefoot. Fuck it.

  Lauren sneers at me, but she takes my shoes and trades out the ones she’s wearing, handing them to Riley who runs over to the side of the court and drops them by the wall. She takes a ball from the rack and dribbles her way toward me, crossing it through her legs a few times without looking. She handles it well. It’s kinda sexy, honestly.

  “So be real. Are these girls going to be any good at all?” she says, catching the ball at her hip and turning to look on at them with me.

  “Not a chance,” I snicker. “Lauren will be decent. She’s tall and strong, and she’s athletic. The rest of them, though? I don’t think they’ve done anything since field day in fourth grade.”

  “Ooof,” she breathes out, bouncing the ball once in front of her, catching it at her chest, and then turning to face me. It’s like we’re having a private meeting. Her feet are close to mine, and if she dropped this ball, I could grab her waist and pull her closer. Her waist is thin, and I’ve seen the curve of her stomach muscles when she lifted the bottom of her shirt to wipe the sweat from her face. Smooth, golden skin that I’m suddenly imagining in one of those swimsuits on those models in the swimsuit edition of my Sports Illustrated.

  My eyes come up from her chest to her face, and I shrug not even caring that I was caught. Her cheeks are pink, and she hasn’t run enough for it to be from anything but blushing.

  “What’s the plan?” She moves right to business, which is for the best.

  I probably should have really thought of a plan. I’ve honestly got nothing. I’ve never run a practice, and the only thing I’ve ever played is street ball, which I’m guessing won’t fly in here. I don’t see these girls pushing each other to the ground and driving to the basket like I would or like Lotus or even like Riley. I think before we do anything, I’m going to need to see exactly what we’ve got.

  “Let’s run some layups, do some passing drills, and maybe set up a really simple play?” My brow arches at that last part with doubt that it’s possible, but Riley buys in with this sureness that makes me wonder if there’s anything she won’t bully her way through.

  “Sounds good,” she says, jogging to the other girls and repeating my directions with a lot more detail and authority than I provided. She doesn’t really need me here. She could run this entire thing by herself. But I’m glad that there’s some district policy out there that requires a separate coach, and I guess I’m glad that the teachers are apathetic and not willing to volunteer.

  It takes almost half an hour to get the other girls organized and up to speed on the most basic rules of the game. Two of them are here to earn a PE credit, and they insist on doing nothing but sitting on the bench. It leaves me with seven semi-willing players, with only one—Lauren—that offers any help to Riley at all.

  But Riley…she doesn’t really need it. No matter where she’s at on the court, her hands lay the perfect touch on the ball. Where the other shots rattle, hers hums. I’ve never been to a museum or anything like that, but her body is like those white statues I’ve seen pictures of in books. Her body is all curves and skin, and when she shoots, her fingers pose in the air above her head as if there’s some sort of magic thread that connects the very tips to the ball, guiding it the rest of the way when it leaves her hands.

  She’s been coached well, and everything she’s done out here looks great on paper—I’m sure college scouts love her on a checklist and a highlight reel. But I wonder what happens if she’s truly challenged. She’s going to face girls in our district with schools that are all about basketball. Those teams make cuts to get to the cream of the crop, and the guards on those teams push hard—they play on the streets. They’ve taken what they know about ball in here and applied the rules of the streets to their game. It’s different, and Riley needs a little more edge if she wants to compete with that.

  I give maybe five directions all day, guidance more than anything on what drills to run next, and Riley takes over for the rest. I’m only standing here because I want to look like I’m involved if the principal or Ms. Beaumont walks in, but honestly, I could go sit on the bleachers and play a game on my phone the entire time and this practice would run exactly the same.

  I could babysit.

  They’ve moved on to passing drills with layups, and so far, Riley’s the only one to make her shots. Lauren’s come close, and for her it’s just a matter of shaking off some rust. By the tenth trip through—the fifteenth time the ball has been thrown over the backboard completely—I decide it’s enough for one day.

  “Looks good, guys. Ummm, yeah…” I clap a few times just to get them to stop, widening my eyes when they connect with Lauren’s.

  She laughs and mouths, “I told you so.”

  “I have schedules, and I guess the school or district or someone needs you to take home the waivers and have someone fill them out with insurance and medical stuff and things like that,” I ramble as I lead them toward the bleachers where I set the stack of papers down. I grab the one from the top before anyone sees it, crumpling the stained sheet and stuffing it in my pocket. The papers were in the bag with the knives for a while today, and I didn’t notice the smudge mark earlier. If Riley saw that and figured out what it was…maybe that would be a good thing. Maybe she needs to see.

  “Bring them back tomorrow, I guess,” I say with a small shake of my head.

  I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do with the forms, and Riley and Lauren are the only two girls I’ve heard speak in the hour we’ve been practicing in here. The rest of the team members grab at the papers, and Riley forces them in the hands of the two girls who swear they will never play. I can already hear the boys outside banging balls into the wall, anxious to get inside. They practice later, because there isn’t really enough space to run both teams at once. The guys have enough for both a varsity and a junior varsity squad, even though both teams suck ass. Any guy who’s worth it plays on the courts around here.

  “I am not riding home like this, Riley. You’re just gonna have to wait,” Lauren says, pulling my shoes from her feet and tossing them to me one at a time. I slip them on my feet as she does.

  “It’s fine. I’ll take you home after you change,” Riley says, glancing from my feet to Lauren’s, probably a little surprised that we wear the same size.

  “Lady, I’m showering. So you can wait for twenty minutes, that is…if you want me to do this crap again tomorrow.” Lauren stands with her boots in one hand and her bag in the other. There aren’t lockers to leave things in—the PE ones ripped from the walls when the regular ones were taken out.

  “That’s fine. I’ll shoot around,” Riley says.

  She dribbles back out to the court as I watch Lauren’s back fade and disappear behind the locker-room door until Riley and I are alone. The boys will come in any minute, so this time is short—both a relief and…not so much a relief. The ball bangs from the rim behind me, the first time one of her shots has made that sound all day, and I turn to tease her about it, but stop when I see she shot it from way behind the three-point line.

  “That’s a good distance,” I say, walking up.

  She shrugs as she jogs by me to get her ball only to dribble out and take the shot again. It clangs off the rim in the same spot as before.

  “You’re just tired. Full strength I bet you make that shot,” I say. This is the most I’ve talked all afternoon. I want to praise her for some reason, give her an out for missing what is really not an easy shot.

  “I know,” she says.

  My mouth hangs open for a skip, and she smirks, turning and shooting again, this time from the area next to me, a little farther than before. The ball crawls in, barely.

  “You have a lot of confidence,” I say, rubbing my hands together wh
ile I debate whether or not I’m going to test her. I know she’s trying to tempt me into it. I’m just not sure if this is Riley’s way of flirting or if it’s only about basketball.

  “I should,” she says, passing the ball hard at my chest, and pushing me over the edge as it snaps into my open palms. I played with her on the court. Nobody out there really challenged her. One-on-one is an entirely different game—nobody to pass to, no excuses, every miss on your shoulders and the blame comes down to your shot, your speed, and your aggressiveness.

  I laugh quietly, letting the ball bounce in front of me a few times while I roll my long-sleeved T-shirt up to my elbows, then lick my palms and run them on the bottoms of my shoes one at a time for traction. I kick the ball up to my hands and dribble toward her.

  “You’re good,” I say, nodding. I acknowledge that she is because that’s also her problem. It’s her weakness. More than overconfidence, Riley is actually cocky about her game. She thrives off the frustration of others. I saw it out on the courts when she made some of my boys look like fools. I’m sure a lot of that goes with the territory of being the outsider. It’s why she shaved her head—a girl breaking into the boys’ club and all that. She needs to bring more than that, though; she has to play with more than some chip on her shoulder. Those girls are going to be just like her, only they’re going to have fight in their step.

  She follows me out to the foul line and I turn my back to the hoop and bounce the ball to her.

  “First to ten,” I say, studying her eyes. My expression hardens, and she follows.

  “You want a head start?” she asks.

  The ball pounds on the court to her left as her lip curls on one side. I’ve known her a week and I’ve already decoded her arrogant smile. It draws one out of me. I keep my eyes on hers as a challenge, but I’m mostly listening. She has a pattern—everyone does. It’s one of those things a person can only learn when they spend late nights out on the asphalt with their best friend, ears tuned to hear everything, because that’s the only way someone can know if danger is coming. The ball is like a clock, her timing being rehearsed over and over before she actually does anything. She jerks once, trying to get me to react, and I open up on the left ready to match her moves.

  She doesn’t go, and she laughs a bit at my response. It was the right one. I’m getting her timing. That was a rehearsal. Her dribble slows back down and her body vibrates with the movement of her arm and hand pushing the ball down. The sound steadies before it picks up, like a wind-up toy ready to be let loose. I wait for her to move again, this time to the right. She takes a few long strides then shortens up, ready to pull up for a jump shot, but I’m right there to block it.

  “Damn it!”

  I laugh silently as she chases me, and by the time I post up top, her face is red. It’s not from the heat or exertion—she’s pissed. She’s so mad all she sees is the ball. She’s not watching my shoulders or the shift in my hips. She’s zeroed in on the leather and the black lines and that tiny hole where air goes in. She’s practically memorizing the number of textured dots on the ball’s skin. I keep my arm out and begin to drive a split second before I bring the ball with me, and it’s enough to make her lose her balance and stumble trying to catch up to me. I make an easy layup, then pass the ball to her.

  “Go on, take it up top,” I say, trying to hold in my urge to add a little trash.

  Riley bounces the ball hard once and stops it at her waist as she mashes her lips together and stares at a spot on the court a little beyond me. I don’t really mean to frustrate her, but I’m not a coach. This is the only way I know how to show her where she needs to get better.

  She sets up the same way as before, and this time when she jerks, I don’t even move. I step back and relax my shoulders and let my eyes roam from the ball up to her face, and a second later her eyes snap to my waiting stare.

  “What?” She shouts the question, and Lauren takes a step back into the locker-room door behind her.

  “Let’s just stop. I’ve gotta be somewhere and you’ve played a lot today already.” I run my hands over my forearms nervously as I spit out excuses. The locker-room door is closed again, but I’m not sure if Lauren isn’t watching us through a sliver. I don’t want to make Riley upset, and if I keep pushing, I’m going to expose more problems in her game. I don’t think she wants that.

  “No, you said ten,” she says, stopping the ball and holding it at her side.

  Her jaw works side to side and the blue of her eyes muddies as she stares at me. My mouth tastes sour, like it does every time someone I know goes missing—or worse, someone missing gets found.

  “Riley, I know. I just forgot I have a thing…”

  Her eyes soften quickly, her breathing harder now than when we were playing. It slows after a few seconds, and she looks down, nodding with closed lips and a face colored with disappointment and rejection.

  I’m sick.

  “I’m not a real coach,” I say, swinging my hand forward until my fingertips graze hers, still wrapped around the ball. Her eyes flit to the place I touched and she curls those fingers in, eventually letting the ball drop.

  “Teach me,” she says as I reach forward to grab her abandoned ball.

  “Teach you what?” I know what, I just don’t know how to teach it. I don’t know how to do something this normal—anything normal. My brain is thinking about Joker and my bag and my mom at church. I’m dancing between this gym with this girl and all of the things I’m afraid my best friend is fucking up at home.

  Riley reaches forward and slaps the ball from my hands and backs up, dribbling at her side just as before.

  “What am I doing wrong?” She stares at me, but my body is still relaxed. “How are you beating me there. Show me…tell me when.”

  She keeps her eyes on mine, but after a few seconds I look down at her wrist, at the steady drum, and I run my hand over my mouth and slowly nod.

  “Right now,” I say.

  She stops her dribble and her body stiffens.

  “I haven’t done anything,” she argues.

  I exhale heavily as my eyes close on her hand and open on her face.

  “You don’t think you have, but you have,” I say, rolling my palms open for the ball. She gives it to me, but I can tell by the way she’s twisting her lips and pulling in her eyebrows that she doesn’t believe me.

  “Do me a favor…close your eyes,” I say, bringing her gaze to mine the instant I do. A second or two passes while she sorts out if she really wants to, and eventually she does. Her arms are stiff at her sides, and she’s flexing her fingers in and out, rolling them into fists again and again. This girl is a fighter.

  “I’m going to go in for a layup, but before I do, I’m going to pretend that someone is guarding me and there’s a big guy in the middle I have to get around,” I say.

  “I can’t see that,” she shrugs.

  “I know, just…all I want you to do is listen.”

  I’m closer to her than before. It isn’t right for me to notice things about her right now because she can’t hide them, but her face is shaped like a heart. Her cheeks are round, naturally pink the way some girls paint theirs, and the part just under her eyes is dusted with tiny freckles. Her lashes are so long, they reach that place on her skin, and one of her lashes has fallen out. I want to brush it away with my finger then blow it into the air and make a wish just like my mom always does.

  I dribble until I notice her start to feel the pattern. Her hands have stopped flexing, and she’s touching her thumbs to her index fingers, literally keeping time whether she realizes she is or not. I let it ride for a few more seconds then I drive the ball in and make my shot.

  “What did you hear?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer right away, and when I come back to face her, she’s looking down at the ground, trying to remember the details.

  “Do it again,” she says.

  “Okay,” I nod.

  I wait for her eyes to close and
I gift myself another glance at her freckles, but I also pause on her lips. They pout, only a little, but the top curls up and the bottom down.

  Before she questions my delay, I begin to dribble. I keep everything the same, making my move and driving in for my shot. This time when I come back to her she’s waiting for me. Her eyes are wider, lip lodged in her teeth—a brightness in her face that says, “Aha!”

  “You wanna go for real now?”

  She breathes in and nods hesitantly. I won’t change anything up because I think she needs to see success. Lauren’s come back out; I try to keep my focus on Riley. I don’t want her to feel pressured to show off. I actually just want her to learn.

  I post up and keep the ball at my side, the pattern exactly the same. My dribble intensifies and I lean forward just as Riley’s palm finds my chest.

  “Yes,” I startle, a little from her touch but more because she really gets it—she knew it was coming.

  “Again,” she asks, and I start over. This time I take it inside and drive, and Riley works with me; the only reason I’m able to make the shot is the two or three extra inches I have on her height.

  Our game falls back into a natural pattern, and when she takes the ball up, I stick with her entire drive. Rather than run into me, though, she peels around and tries again.

  “Yes,” I repeat again. I’m grinning. I feel it pushing in my cheeks, and I think it’s pride. She’s learning something that I’m teaching her, and this whole miserable thing has become fun. I’m actually happy. I’m satisfied. Something good is coming out of my work.

  The guys have started to wander into the gym, and it’s getting harder for her to hear me when I have the ball, so I pause and reach up to her chin. My touch jolts her back a step, but she quickly catches herself.

  “Sorry, I…” I wince and tilt my head as I look at her shoulder then back up to her eyes. “Can I?”

  I reach back up toward her face, and even though her eyes flare, her head nods. My fingers lift her chin until we’re looking at each other, and I swallow away the rush of something else that makes me feel an instant numbness. For a single heartbeat, I see her with her long hair. She was softer that way, but not any prettier really.