by Ginger Scott
“I’m never going to give away where I’m going, just like you don’t. You’re man-on-man no matter what kind of game you’re playing, and your eyes—my eyes, her eyes, his eyes,” I point in various directions. “They’re all working in the future, seeing what’s open, where to go after. The eyes aren’t going to tell you what your man is doing now. But his body will. You can hear it, and you can see what you hear if you watch the right places.”
I pat my hips, and her eyes trail down to my waist, then I make a fist and pound it on my shoulder, where she looks next.
“Watch me turn,” I say, making my beginning move over and over as she studies me.
When I think she gets it, I take the ball and start to work again. I drive and she drags the first few times, but pretty soon she’s reading me just like I read her. We go for several points while the boys team works a few drills on the other end of the court, and I ignore the digs the other coaches make at us. They’re talentless—not worth my energy.
I’m starting to sweat harder, and Riley’s playing harder again, but now we’re evenly matched, my only advantage genetic. She makes a few shots on me, too, and I start to pick up my game, my arm strong against her as I push her back toward the hoop. She checks her body into mine as she rolls. Every touch is part of battle, until the very end when she goes up hard and I swat her ball away, but catch her body as she begins to lose her balance. I end up sweeping her into me and walking her backward until her back hits the brick wall; the worn paint barely reads some school motto nobody knows.
“You okay?”
My hand is pressed between the arch of her back and the brick, and my other palm is flat against the wall on the other side of her. Her eyes are fixed at my neck, her lips parted with heavy breaths that push her chest out. Long lashes blink against her cheeks, now a deeper red, and something living—breathing—deep inside my body is begging her to look up at me. Instead, her chin falls and her focus drops to the floor. I slide my hand against her as I let go and remember how hugging her felt yesterday as I take a step back.
“Yeah, I’m…I’m good. That was a nice block,” she says, blinking rapidly. I see the blue of her eyes briefly before she looks away, her head turning as she searches for the ball.
“Here.” Lauren tosses the ball to her.
Riley takes it and breathes out a “Thanks” as she moves to her things over on the bench. My back falls against the wall as I fold my hands together and rest them on my head, pretending I need to get air. I don’t. I’m breathing fine, or rather, I’m barely breathing at all. I need to hold myself accountable—and I need to hold myself back.
I need to stay away, and Lauren’s expression is a great reminder. Her eyes beam pity because she knows me, knows my fate. I never saw this coming, though. I didn’t know Riley was out there. I didn’t know being around someone like her would make me happy—that we would match like this.
This might only be about basketball for her. It’s become about a lot of things for me, though. And my phone rings at the perfect moment—there to remind me about how these things…? I can’t have them.
I wait for Riley to pull together her bag, and I keep my mouth shut, only waving goodbye as she leaves. I see Lauren’s warning in her eyes as she follows her friend out the doors, and then I pick up my phone from the bleachers and check the message that’s just been left.
“Hey Baby, I need something big. It’s gotta be just you, though. Nobody else, you get it?” Dub’s voice is low, but it isn’t drunk or high. It’s serious, and my stomach sinks. I keep listening as he gives me directions to some place off the highway, on a dirt road, where who knows what I’ll find. I’ll need to take my mom’s car, which I hate, but I have no choice.
Dub calls. I say yes. And so goes my life.
Chapter Eight
Riley
* * *
I pull into our driveway just as my dad is backing out the other side. I’ve missed our window.
My truck idles next to his, the bubbling of barely running motors invading our entire street with deafening rattles. I roll my window lower as he slides down the passenger side so we can yell to one another.
“Did you eat?”
I’m always worried that he doesn’t. He’s diabetic, and when he doesn’t eat the things that I make, he eats junk. Sometimes I think he pops insulin shots like coffee drinkers suck on mints.
“Lasagna this time! I was impressed!” He grins and wipes his fingertips along the corners of his mouth to emphasize the fact that he ate.
“It was vegetarian. No meat!” My dad is very much a meat-and-potatoes man, so when he likes something a little less carnivore, I’m always relieved.
“Could hardly tell!” he shouts, giving me thumbs up. “I gotta go, running late. But I’ll be off Friday night, so maybe we can have dinner together…watch the game? Shave each other’s heads?”
“Ha ha!” I say, then smile and wave as he rolls the window back up and pulls out onto the road behind us. My dad and I love the Cavs, but it’s been forever since we got to sit down and watch a game together. It’s been about two years, really. The last game was the night my mom didn’t come back. Last time we tried, he fell asleep from exhaustion. He probably won’t make it tomorrow either, but even just watching the game on low while my daddy snores next to me in his lounge chair is enough.
I pull the garage door closed behind me and walk right into my house, stopping the second I’m inside and thinking about Lauren’s advice. I click the lock to the right and wonder if it’s really necessary.
After a rushed shower and change of clothes, I slide across the cool tile in our kitchen in my socks and pray there’s enough lasagna left for me to dive in. The blast of cold tickles my skin and I lean into the shelves to feel it just a little bit more. My eyes find the familiar green plastic bin, and I pull it out and crack open the lid to discover my dad only had a thin slice.
“Impressed my ass,” I hum to myself, pulling my phone from the pocket of my sweatpants and typing my dad a message.
You barely ate a thing, you liar! Don’t you dare eat those little donuts! And I’ll make meat next time, ok?
He won’t see it until he gets to work, and probably not until later tonight when he has time to sit still and read. My dad’s not very obsessed with his phone. I had to talk him into a smart phone last year when his flip version finally fell in half. It helped that the phone repair shop guy laughed when he asked them to fix it.
I pull the lid completely from the dish, but stop with it held between both hands. It’s heavy—enough there for three or four people. I like to cook with leftovers in mind, but if I’m the only one who likes this, I’m going to be consuming a lot of ricotta and mushrooms. I glance at my phone again and check the time, nearly six.
I press the lid back in place and carry the container back to my room. I shove my feet in my running shoes and rub my hands over my head sending tiny little droplets everywhere. A perk about not having hair is that my head dries incredibly fast, but I can tell that by next week I’m going to have to make some decisions. It’s already growing, and I’m going to start to look like I eat electricity for snacks if I don’t come up with some kind of style.
With my keys and phone in my pockets and dinner in my hands, I head back out the way I came in—once again locking the door behind me. Lauren would be proud. I know which house is Tristan’s, but I’ve never as much as walked by. It’s in the opposite direction of school, the park, and the grocery store—the only three places I ever have to go. I spot my buddy Jaden on his bike about six houses down, and I stop when he squeals his tires in front of me and flashes me his hands. They’re covered in something purple and sticky.
“Are you going to play?” He nods toward the park behind me, his eyes wide with hope. If my stomach wasn’t growling, I might hang out with him instead, but the bottomless-pit feeling practically echoes up my throat when I respond.
“Can’t, Jaden. I’m so sorry, but I need to eat dinner then do
some homework,” I say.
“Homework’s stupid,” he says, licking along his wrist.
I giggle.
“I used to think that, too, but turns out it’s pretty important stuff. You gotta know how to be a grown-up, and school teaches you that…know what I mean?”
He’s not really listening to me, but he lets out an “uh huh” as he sucks on his fingertips.
“Is that candy?” I scrunch my face, a little grossed out because his hands are pretty dirty, too.
“Popsicle. It melted,” he says, slurping along his palm next.
“Yeah, I can see that,” I laugh out.
He turns his hand over to look for more sugary goodness, and as he’s holding it up, I notice the X drawn on his skin with an ink pen. Tristan has the same mark on his wrist.
“What’s that for?” I ask, expecting him to tell me Tristan’s his favorite player out on the courts or some kind of hero worship. I don’t get anything close to what I expect, though.
“That’s none of your business,” he shoots back, rubbing his arm along the bottom of his shirt in an effort to erase the mark I’m guessing he drew there himself.
In a mere fraction of a second, Jaden has turned from a sweet eight-year-old kid to someone who’s both angry and afraid. He’s rubbing his skin so hard it’s turning red, the black lines only smearing around. He looks a little panicked, and I can tell he’s about to spit on his arm so he can scrub harder.
“Try dish soap,” I say, reaching toward him but stopping before my hand touches his arm. “I used to draw on myself all the time,” I say, looking to both sides in a super exaggerated way, then bringing my finger to my lips to show Jaden that what I’m about to tell him is a secret. “I wrote the answers for my math test on my arm, but shhh.”
His eyes flash, and lips that were starting to frown perk up a little. I nod, then cross my heart with my free hand.
“I swear it works,” I say, my reassurance—and the fib I told about cheating—seem to relax him enough to straighten his bike between his legs and begin to pedal.
“Thanks, Riley. I’ll see ya tomorrow.” He races to the end of the block then turns right, and I hope his house is on the very next street. I want him to get to that soap fast, because I don’t like seeing him scared.
It makes me wonder why that X is so important, and why he’d put it there if it was so dangerous to have.
I replay the frightened look on his face for the next several minutes until I’m in front of what I hope is Tristan’s house, my finger pushing in a dimly lit doorbell that has yet to make a sound. I dig in with my nail, trying to get it to catch, and finally hear a faint buzz echo from inside.
Someone moves along the window by the door, and I shuffle my feet and roll my shoulders back. The door is already opening, so leaving the lasagna by the door and running away isn’t an option, but I consider it for a brief second.
“Oh,” I blurt out in surprise.
It’s a pretty bad way to greet someone I’ve never met, but I was expecting a six-foot-plus, cute, Latino boy—not a five-foot-tall Latina woman who reminds me so much of my mom.
“I’m sorry, can I help you?” she asks, and I struggle to find the right transition from “Oh.” Eventually, I just squeeze my eyes closed and scrunch my nose and lips in embarrassment.
“I was expecting Tristan, and I just blanked. I’m so sorry,” I say, opening one eye first, then the other when I see her smiling back at me. “Let’s try this again. I’m Riley. Is Tristan home?”
“Come in,” she says, her smile growing warmer as she pushes the door wide.
I step in, my legs a bit shaky from the jolt of adrenaline and nerves. Days ago, Tristan was doing all he could to make me feel unwelcome, and now I’m standing in his house. I’m not sure how he’s going to react, but maybe it’s a good thing that his mom—I think this is his mom?—is here to monitor him.
“He’s not home yet, but he should be soon. He took the car for something he needed to do with his friend, Paul. I’m sure he’ll come home hungry.” She laughs then stops with her mouth in an O when she sees the food in my hands.
“I guess I sensed his growling stomach,” I say with a chuckle, holding up my dish. “I’m Riley, by the way. I just moved in down the road…”
She stares at me silently, her mouth hinting at a smile, but the quiet feels awkward so I add more.
“Tristan’s coaching our team…the girls, I mean. Since we don’t have a coach?” My voice lifts at the end, waiting for her to give me some sort of sign that she knows about this.
“I think the counselor made him do it?” I add on.
“That was really sweet of you to bring over dinner,” she says, taking the container from me and guiding me into the kitchen. I follow, a little more confused than before. “I’m glad to hear Tristan is doing something positive,” she continues. “He doesn’t tell me much about where he’s going or who he’s with.”
I sense some dissatisfaction in her tone, and it’s so different from the way things operate in my house. My dad knows pretty much everything about my routine. He knows about Tristan’s coaching, about how bad I’m pretty sure our team will be, and about my growing doubt that I will ever get a college to consider me.
“Well, you should be proud. He stepped up and saved my season,” I say. She tilts her head and holds her eyes on me for a few seconds.
“He thinks you’re pretty,” she says, teasingly. My chest burns a bit at the mention, and I’m glad she turns around.
She pulls the lid from the container I brought, and it makes me anxious as she pulls out a knife and a fork, cutting the lasagna into sections. She holds both knife and fork in one hand when she’s done, reaching up to pull three plates from a cabinet, then she turns and looks me in the eyes.
“This smells amazing. Do you mind if I join you, too?”
A wave of relief sweeps through my insides. I’m so freaking happy this woman approves of my cooking, and she has yet to even tell me her name. I see where Tristan gets his quiet intimidation from.
“That would be great…” I draw out great hoping she’ll fill in the blank with her name. She doesn’t, and when she turns around, I mouth oh my god to myself.
When the door rustles behind me with the sound of keys, I jump back a step, turning while gripping the edge of the counter in front of me. There’s no greeting yelled from his mom, or any announcement from him. It’s just keys in the door, a slam, and footsteps. Everything halts when he sees me, however.
“Why are you here?” The line between his eyebrows deepens and his lips hang open, and for a brief moment I swear they quiver.
“Riley here brought over dinner,” his mom answers for me. His eyes move from mine to her then back again, holding my gaze as he waits for confirmation.
I lick my lips and smile tightly.
“I made too much, and my dad won’t eat anything that isn’t a meatball or a steak, and I figured you were probably hungry, and I…”
“She thinks you’re cute,” his mom says, walking past me to step into her son and kiss his cheek. My smile twists into a panicked look the second she says that, and his expression isn’t so different from what I imagine mine is.
“So I see you met my mom,” he deadpans, his eyes fluttering closed in embarrassment, then opening on his mother. She pats his cheek with an open palm, teasingly.
“She did. And I bet she’s totally regretting it.” Her laughter boils out in this infectious song, and I find myself laughing with her…at me!
The sound of the microwave oven whirls behind us, filling the dull silence that follows, and Tristan’s gaze finally slips into the kitchen, his nose catching the scent.
“Your dad didn’t want to eat that?” He steps closer to the oven, stopping it before it beeps and pulling the plate out halfway through its cooking cycle. He picks at the top noodle with his fingertips, flinching from the searing heat.
“Ouch!” he bursts out, jumping.
“It’s pro
bably still cold in the center, so maybe just…” I step up next to him, and we both reach for the fork on the counter at the same time. I pull my hand away when our fingers brush against each other and take a step or two back. His mom’s giggling picks up again.
“You two are too much. Let me finish, and you…” she slaps the top of her son’s hand lightly then points at him as she pulls the plate and fork away. “You need to learn patience. It’s not done yet, and things are always at their best when they’re done. Always in a rush and taking the easy way.”
She mumbles her last few words, and Tristan looks at me with a roll of his eyes.
“It’s Lelani, by the way. My name?” His mom turns to look at me over her shoulder, smirking. “I just wanted to see how long it took you to ask.”
A nervous chuckle escapes from my lips, and when Tristan’s arm brushes against mine, I hiccup from being startled.
“Sorry,” he says, smirking. He tosses his hat on the counter and runs his hand through flattened hair. It seems soft, and I instinctually move my own hand to mine, feeling the soft velvet stubbles that can now be bent in a direction.
“My mom thinks she’s funny,” Tristan says, sliding out a stool for me while sitting in one himself.
“I am funny,” his mom says, pulling a now fully heated slice of lasagna from the microwave. She slides the plate to me, but I push it toward Tristan.
“You eat first. I want to see what you think of it,” I say. He squints at me, suspiciously, but takes the fork his mom placed next to the plate and shovels a healthy bite onto the fork. He pauses with the food just at his lips, puckering to blow while raising one brow at me.
“That’s how we trained my dog when we were little,” I say, and he moves the fork a few inches from his mouth and frowns.
“You burned your dog with hot food? That’s not very nice.” He keeps a serious face for a second, but slowly eases into a grin.