by Ginger Scott
“No!” I laugh and shake my head at him. “I was just noting how you learn by getting burned. Like we used to spray him with a squirt bottle when he did stupid things, and it usually took a while for him to get it. One burnt tongue and you know not to just dive into your food.”
Tristan stuffs the forkful into his mouth and begins to chew, the corners of his mouth creased and cheeks dimpled like he has something to say. I hold my breath, waiting for him to comment on my food, but instead he takes another bite, not talking until he turns and realizes I’m staring at him.
“Oh,” he chuckles, pulling the collar of his T-shirt up to his mouth and talking through his bite. “You were waiting…it’s good. It’s…” He pauses to swallow. “It’s really good. You could seriously do something with this.”
“I don’t think anyone’s saving the world with lasagna,” I muse.
“Mmmm I dunno,” he hums through another bite, leaning into me, his arm warm against my skin. “This lasagna is world-saving quality.”
His mom slides a plate in front of me next, then puts the last dish in for heating. I pick at mine, not as hungry as I normally am, I think mostly because I’m a little nervous. My eyes keep flitting to Tristan as he slices into the food I made, taking large portions and closing his eyes at each first taste. Somewhere between the third and fifth bites I began to smile.
“I can feel you looking at me.” He holds his knuckles against his lips to suppress his laugh, and it’s simply cute. I’ve never been this satisfied watching someone taste my food before. I’m not even that great of a cook. I bet he would have loved my mother’s cooking.
“Sorry,” I say, smirking and moving my attention to my own meal. I take a larger bite to set him at ease.
Lelani takes her plate from the microwave just before it beeps, then turns her back to us and slides into the living room, turning on the television and upping the volume a few extra levels.
“I can’t hear you!” She raises her voice dramatically.
Tristan pushes his plate back a few inches and lets his forehead fall to the counter where he pretends to bang it a few times. I laugh, and slowly he rolls his head to the side until his eyes are settled on mine. His smile softens and he lifts his head slightly, pinching the corner of his mouth curiously.
“What do you want to do if you don’t want to cook then?” His question excites me, because I’ve thought a lot about my future.
“Well,” I say, taking in a deep breath while I mentally bring up my file of plans and dreams. “I’m going to create sports camps for girls from broken homes to go to. I want them to be staffed with the best coaches, and they’ll include workshops on body image and self-esteem and how to take care of your mental health and how to make time for you when you feel responsible for taking care of a parent and…”
“Wow.”
I stop at his one-word interruption, my lips falling shut as I realize how much I spilled out without even breathing. I adjust my feet on the stool footing and twist in my seat to face him.
“Sorry,” I exhale. “I get a little excited about the possibilities, I guess. It’s something I’ve thought about for a couple years, and I just really think I can do it.”
Tristan doesn’t speak right away, instead studying me until I feel compelled to look down and clear my throat. It’s hard to read him when he’s quiet. His face goes to this emotionless place sometimes, almost robotic, only it’s as if he has no power on at all. He gets lost somewhere, but I know he isn’t gone, because his eyes move with me. I glance up now and find them waiting, and I’m both surprised and not.
“Anyway,” I say, suddenly embarrassed to have thought of my future at all. I turn back to my food, and Tristan slides his plate close again and works to finish his last few bites.
My appetite now gone, I push my plate toward him.
“You sure?” he asks.
“I’m not very hungry,” I say, and I know I sound like I’m pouting. I guess I am, but Tristan doesn’t have to be as excited about my goals as I am. I just wonder why he asked. I take my phone out to check the time and leave it in front of me just to have something to look at while I sit here in silence.
“I think you’re going to do it…that stuff you said. I think if anyone could do some kind of camp like that, it’s you.”
I don’t look at him after he says that, and I can tell he’s not looking at me either. For whatever reason, it was hard for him to say. That makes it a lot more special to hear.
“Thanks,” I say quietly, my eyes down at my lap and my mouth ticking up proudly on one side.
The entire space around us quickly becomes about the other noises—forks sliding against plates, the news airing on the television behind us, his mom’s small coughing sounds in-between bites. His phone buzzes a few times on the counter next to his hat, and he turns it to read, but ignores it quickly, and I wonder if it’s Paul. The next time it vibrates, he doesn’t even bother to check, and drags his phone face down along the counter as he stands, then pushes it deep into the pocket of his shorts.
“Let me get that,” he says, stopping me from getting up and taking my fork along with his and both plates. He sets them in the sink and turns so he’s facing me, his weight resting on the counter’s edge.
“How about you?” I ask, wanting to know something about him other than the little warnings I’ve gotten from Lauren and the things I’ve made up in my own head.
“What about me?” He shrugs.
“Well, I know you’re not going to play basketball…I mean, rec league and all,” I joke.
He picks up a towel resting on the sink behind him and throws it at my face. I deflect it onto the counter in front of me, and he reaches forward to grab it. I quickly snag the other end, and we play a weak game of tug of war that I lose willingly. He snaps the towel at me then, but only lightly before turning back to the sink to hang it where it belongs.
“I meant what do you plan to do…after here?”
His palms move to his sides, spreading to either side along the surface in front of him as his shoulders roll and the muscles on his back flex through the tightness of his T-shirt. The top of a word peeks out along his neck from the collar of his shirt, and I struggle to read it until he speaks.
“I’m going to learn how to quit getting burned…just like your dog did, I guess.” His shoulders rise with a deep breath, and his head sinks just as my heart does in sympathy. I’m not sure how to respond to that. I think maybe I’m not supposed to.
He rests there for a few seconds, and in that time, I make out more of the word on his neck, and I’m not sure, but I think it says a name.
I part my lips, hoping something light or clever will come out the second I make a sound, when a melodic knock raps at Tristan’s door. I jump in my seat, but his mom doesn’t seem to hear the sound at all, and Tristan just turns slowly, his eyes wide and subdued. He glances at me, and in the fraction of a second that our eyes meet before he moves to the door, I sense dread in his body.
“I might have to go,” he says just before he gets to the door. I stand and ready myself, running my now-empty container under the sink’s water while he talks to someone outside. I dry it with a paper towel and wave until I get Lelani’s attention. She winks at me and nods toward the door with a teasing smile, but I can only politely grin in response. She has some pretty overt couple goals for barely knowing me, and I’m pretty sure her son’s mind is occupied with something else.
I let myself out the door to find Tristan and Paul talking in the middle of the yard. They’re standing close to one another at first, but step apart when they notice me.
“Riley!” Paul walks up to me and embraces me in a bear of a hug. He seems a little drunk, maybe high, so I indulge him, but free myself quickly. I catch Tristan’s eyes next, and that blankness is back in his face. His expression is icy, so I try to think of a way to excuse myself quickly.
“I should get home. I’ve got homework, and my basketball coach is a real jerk a
bout grades,” I say, getting a laugh from Paul but no reaction from Tristan. “Right, so…”
“Awe, stay and hang with us,” Paul says, grabbing onto my arm, but easily letting my wrist then fingers slip through his grasp. His words come out in long drags and he loses his footing backward when I step away.
“I would, but I really have to go. I was just bringing dinner,” I say, moving closer to Tristan.
“You bring him dinner and not me? That’s not fair,” he teases, and it sounds both like a joke and desperately sad. “You like him better, huh? The girls always like Tristan better. It’s because he’s so tall, huh?”
His laughter booms out this time. He’s not right, and I pick up my steps, passing Tristan and giving him a brief look. His look moves from me quickly, though, back to his friend.
“You can’t have him, though. Not unless you’re looking to join the club,” he says, and I catch him saluting Tristan when I gaze over my shoulder.
“Shut up, Paul.” Tristan’s warning is short and full of bite.
I leave them in a face-off and neither of them calls after me as the distance between us grows. By the time I get to my own driveway, I turn back to see their profiles walking in the middle of the street in my direction. I slip through my garage door and follow my new routine, locking the door and flipping on a few of the lights. Lauren’s words haunt me a little, but something about that look on Tristan’s face feels like a more serious warning. I pay attention to it, and I’m uneasy because of it.
I wait in my main room by the front door, peaking through the side of my blinds until I see their forms pass. I stay there watching for several minutes more. Everything outside is still, and minutes pass before a car drives by. It isn’t very late; the sun only recently setting, but I can’t help but think about Tristan’s face, Lauren’s words, and my locked door. I hate feeling afraid.
“Screw this,” I mutter to myself, pushing back from the window and marching to my room for my ball.
I don’t bother to change clothes or shoes, leaving in my pushed-up gray sweatpants and the white T-shirt I stole from my dad during the move. I lift the garage door because the keypad’s busted, and leave the inside door unlocked, like I always have; I do it in protest and as an F you to that nervous feeling these people have made me have. I close the garage and jog down my driveway, picking up my dribble once my feet hit the street.
I get to the park in less than a minute. The hum of the lights is loud when no one is around, and the bugs have come out to feast, their bodies bouncing off the lamp glass up above. I push open the gate, and it squeals as I walk through, bouncing my ball to the center of the court. I hold it in my palms and stare at the rim to my right, then my left. It’s lonely out, but nothing about this place is scary. If people just showed up, the lonely would go away and everything would be fine.
“Hey!” I shout, spinning slowly as the echo of my call diffuses into the night air.
“Who wants to play?” I shout again and kneel down with my hand on the ball to steady me. My ears focus on every sound, and the only ones I hear for the next minute are nature-made. A roach scurries onto the court, so I stand up and move closer to it and kick it back into the dirt. I start to feel bad a second later, so I walk over to check on him since he’s the only thing that showed up when I called. He rushes through the chain link and into the gutter, disappearing down a sewer hole. I laugh silently to myself as I walk back toward the hoop.
I miss the roach.
I give up on the fantasy that someone else might show up, and I start to practice the drills I worked on with Tristan earlier, paying attention to the way my body moves and how I press the ball. The benefit of being alone is I can hear every sound I make with my game—the moments my dribble speeds up, the way my feet sound on the pavement. I try some tweaks I think might fool an opponent, but my shot gets sloppy, and the more times I drive the right way and miss, the more frustrated I get. I go back to my old way and the ball lays in perfectly. I stare at the chain swaying from the rim and breathe out, my shoulders sagging in defeat.
I can’t get it.
“Hey!”
My head snaps to the right, and my pulse jacks up. Tristan is walking toward me quickly. His pace is angry. His face…looks angry. My eyes scan from left to right confirming he’s alone.
“Why the fuck are you out here?” His eyes are wider than normal and his voice is raised; his toes stop inches away from mine. Everything about his body is in this predatory mode, his weight shifting from side to side, his chest puffed and shoulders broad. His hands are out at his sides, arms slightly open.
“Are you playing defense? Is that what this is?” I make a joke, but he doesn’t find it amusing. I let go of forcing a smile on my face and take a step back to get more distance between us.
“I’m fine out here, Tristan.” I shake my head at him and think about how I was fine until he showed up and sounded off these alarms.
“No! You’re not fine out here!”
He closes in again, and I look down at his shoes. His hand touches my chin and he pushes up, his touch not gentle but not hard. I slap at his hand.
“Don’t!” I scowl and he breathes out heavily, slowly closing his eyes as his tongue licks his lips.
“You need to hear me,” he says in a forced-calm kind of tone. “Riley, you can’t be hanging out here at night alone. You’ve gotta get this. You need to understand the things that happen here.”
“What happens here?”
I fold my arms over my chest and jut my hip to the side as I wait for him to answer. His eyes dim and his mouth falls into a frown, but I don’t let go of his stare. I challenge it—I challenge him.
“Really. If this place is so scary, tell me the details. I live here, don’t I?” I say with my palms open to my sides. I glance around and spin slowly again taking in the quiet and poor neighborhood. “What’s so scary here? Tell me what I’m supposed to look out for. Tell me why this court is so fucking dangerous.”
I lean into him with those last words and finish with my mouth in a hard line. I know how to push back. I’ve always pushed back, everywhere I’ve lived. I can always break in and become accepted, but for some reason this place is so hard.
Tristan doesn’t back off, his eyes locked on mine in long silence. I hear him breathe, huffing out angrily until he finally blinks and quits breathing completely. He still looks at me, and he’s still close.
“This street…this park especially, it belongs to the Fifty-Seven,” he says.
I puff out a laugh through my nose and let my head lean to the side.
“Do you understand what that means?”
His eyes sear into mine, and I eventually have to look away with a nervous laugh. I fold my arms over my chest again, but underneath, my heart begins to knock louder.
“Yes, Tristan. I know what the Fifty-Seven is. I’ve lived in this area for a long time, just not on this street. I’m not new,” I say, chewing at the inside of my cheek when I’m done. It’s partly for show, because what I know about the Fifty-Seven is limited. I know what I read online, and what I’ve seen mentioned in the news. I hear about it in blips—like when the place my old friends and I used to go to after basketball games for burgers and shakes was closed because the manager was stabbed during the overnight shift.
“Riley, go home.”
“No,” I answer fast.
His face hardens, his teeth clenched in the back so tightly I can see it in his flexing jaw. He knows I’m not going to bend, and that makes him nuts. I like that it does, and I’m not sure if I’m pushing back to make a statement, or because I like that it gets to him—that he feels it.
I feel it. Something.
He breaks away after a few seconds, running his palm over his mouth in frustration before he walks to the corner of the court for my ball, picking it up and tucking it under his arm on the other side of his body as he starts to leave. I’m slow to react, in some sort of numbed state. I snap out of it when he’s almos
t to the gate, and I run up to him and reach for my ball.
He hears me coming, and just as my fingers skim the surface of my ball, he turns to move it away, holding a stiff arm out with his hand wrapped around my elbow.
“Hey!” I grunt out the word and lunge at him awkwardly, his hold on my arm tight. I pull wildly until he lets go, but I don’t stop when he turns away, instead jumping onto his back and gripping his body while my legs wrap around him until he’s essentially carrying me while spinning in an effort to shake me off.
“Riley! Get off!”
He jerks hard to the side, but I grip at his chest, my body sliding from him enough for my foot to reach the ground and pump me back up. He starts to stumble, and my ball comes loose, so I let go of him and rush to it, picking it up and holding it on my opposite side. My breathing is hard, my heart almost one solid beat—it rushes so quickly in my chest. His shirt is crooked and pulled lower on one side of his arm and his hair is wild from the fistful I suddenly remember grabbing.
Tristan breathes out and rolls his eyes with his face up to the sky. I start to grow a little embarrassed, and my closed lips quiver with nervous energy. He steps closer to me, and this time I refuse to move. My grip stiffens on my ball, and my leg muscles become rigid where they rest. I will be immoveable. His eyes drill into mine, then move to the dark and quiet park behind me, looking off into the distance.
“You know what?” His gaze clicks back to me. “Fuck it.”
He pivots and shoves both hands in his pockets as he walks away, pulling his right hand out to fling the gate closed behind him with enough force it bounces back open part way. His head shakes a few times as he leaves, but by the time he crosses the street and is out of the glow of the closest streetlight, he’s gone back to his normal, unhurried pace.
I don’t belong here. Tristan does. And that has everything to do with the point he just tried to make. I get it; I’m not stupid. I know what he is. I just don’t believe it’s all he is. And I don’t think he does either.
Five minutes pass. I follow his steps out off the court into the street and back to my home. I close the garage and lock my door, then leave a note for my dad on the counter, asking him what he wants for dinner during the game.