by Ginger Scott
She looks to her right, her eyes lost to something—her imagination, probably. Her jaw works side to side and her tongue passes over her front teeth as she slowly nods with an acceptance of some sort. Her lashes sweep down and kiss her cheeks, and she whispers, repeating herself one more time.
“You didn’t show up.”
Her chest lifts with a quick breath and her body twists to look behind her, leading her feet to her open passenger door. She was afraid something awful had happened to me. She gives a shit, and this wasn’t just about basketball for her either. She was worried…about me.
“Let’s practice now,” I say just as her hand grips the side of her truck door. She freezes then slowly lets her head fall to the side until it’s resting on her arm and the truck door. She rolls to the side a little more until her forehead is on the glass. She glances at me sideways, her eyes impossible to ignore when they land on me.
“Okay,” she nods, breathing in deep, stepping back and slamming her door closed. She walks past me toward the gym she’d just left, leaving her truck unlocked and her things in the back.
Rather than lecture her again, I just leap over the truck bed railing and lift her bags up with one hand, climbing down in a smooth and quick movement and opening her cab door. I set her bags on her seat and lock the door latch before slamming it shut. She’s waiting for me near the curb by the gym with her hands out and that WTF look plastered on her face that she gets when those of us who know this place try to help her avoid its worst elements.
“People will steal your shit. It’s a real thing. And if you leave your truck unlocked again, someone’s going to steal that too.” I stop at her side long enough to deliver my short lesson I know goes in one ear and out the other.
I purposely don’t make eye contact with her, and I do that a little for her and a bit for me. She doesn’t want me to piece together how much she cares, how worried she was. And I don’t want her to think about how she barely knows me. I’m probably not worth the trouble.
The gym echoes with the squeals of our shoes and the door slams closed behind me as I follow Riley inside. I stop at center court while she walks to the rack of balls, taking the one on the end and dribbling it to me.
“You just gonna stand there?” She maintains eye contact while her hand works at the ball, and her expression is steely—the kind of face Dub gets when he’s done with someone. I bet he made that face at Joker.
“Depends on what you want to work on,” I say, shrugging with my hands deep in my pockets, my thumb rolling over the rough edge of my keys in one pocket and my fingers clutched around my phone in the other in case it vibrates with a call from my friend.
Riley laughs slightly, tilting her chin up and stepping back a few paces toward the far end of the court.
“Me and you. One on one.”
I look down and let her gain a few more steps. It feels impossible to focus on where I am right now, and I want to scream at everything. I’m out of place. This is the place where I don’t belong. I’m overstaying my visit to the fantasyland, but I don’t know where else to go. I’ve looked everywhere I can, and I know by the time I go home, Joker’s mom is going to be worried. She’ll probably talk to my mom, and she’ll blame me, and then I’ll never get to visit the fantasies again. Maybe that’s the point of all of this anyhow—it’s God’s way of punishing me for what I am. He let me see what’s possible only to rob me of it but leave me with the memory.
“Fine, you check first,” I say, taking my position on defense and checking the ball back to her when she passes it.
She dribbles and stares at me for a dramatically long time, and eventually I stand straight and let my arms sag.
“Riley, you’ve made it clear you’re pissed. If you don’t really want to play, then let’s just go.”
All I can think about is rechecking all of the places I’ve been, then racing home to get to Joker’s mom—or to mine—before any phone calls come with bad news. The second I relax, though, Riley bolts around my right side and drives to the hoop, scoring. She’s been practicing, but I can still see her moves a little too early. If I weren’t this fucking depressed, I would have stolen the ball from her before her first step.
She checks the ball to me, and I do the same thing she did, only I hold the ball in my palms at my chest without even moving. I don’t know why I’m here. I should leave, and there’s no reason I can’t. It wouldn’t even be wrong according to the universe. My friend is missing—my best friend, and there’s a price on his head. And Riley’s right—I’m not so sure we’re ever going to really get to a game. All of this adds up to permission for me to leave her, to disappoint her and let her figure her shit out on her own, but I…can’t.
She was worried about me, and while the rest of my world is falling apart outside of these doors, the fantasy feels more real than it ever has in here.
“Come on!” she growls, swiping her hand toward the ball. I move it to my side just in time and take a half step back before pulling up to shoot, sinking a three.
I rub my eyes and wait while she jogs after the ball. I’m not into this—I’m not trying, and that’s not fair to her. She slams the ball down hard in frustration, catching it at her waist, passing it to me to pass back again.
She stares at me with the ball in her hands and her eyes narrow as she shakes her head. She isn’t speaking, but I hear her clearly. I sniffle and take a deep breath, spreading my stance and arms out, giving her very little room to work with. I nod at her and her chin dips as she drops the ball and begins to dribble. My eyes move to her hips, and she stumbles her dribble a little but recovers. I shake my head, still seeing her weakness, and I reach in for the ball. I tap it enough to make her have to chase after it a few paces behind her, but she salvages it again.
I want to tell her things, teach her how to gain more confidence in positions like this, but my mouth won’t work. I’m a mixture of terrified thoughts and desperate ones.
Her hand pushes into my stomach and her body turns next, her side crashing into me in an effort to gain more room. My feet lose their balance briefly, but I steady myself and become rigid in my position. She moves away and surveys her options, but comes directly at me again, this time harder—her elbow sinking into my gut.
“Foul,” I say, my quick temper flavoring my tone.
Riley doesn’t stop. I’m not even sure she hears me. Her body checks mine, and for the first time, she gets me to move nearly a foot from where I am. I ready myself for her next shove, though, and the result is my arm slamming into her bicep. She winces; I know it hurts, but she doesn’t quit.
“What are you doing?” I say, backing off just a little. Riley grunts as she rushes past me with the small opening, and she easily scores.
I roll my neck, a physical reminder for me to compartmentalize all of the shit I’m feeling. I’m pissed. She’s pissed. I’m scared. She’s…scared for me, I guess? I don’t know because she doesn’t really talk. She just assaults me. I don’t talk either, though, so…
“Your ball,” she grumbles, shoving the ball into my chest. I feel it push out my breath and my instincts begin to win, my blood growing hotter as all things rational begin to fade.
I drive the ball fast, not even giving her a chance to get set up for defense, and I take it to the hoop dunking it and holding on to the rim long enough to pull my body up half a foot, engorging my chest and releasing my most primal self.
“Oh, I see how this is. Can’t lose to a girl. Fine,” she says, and I chuckle because she sounds so silly.
“Yeah, that’s it. Whatever you need to say to yourself. Why don’t you just drive the ball to my right again and show me every move with your feet about a half a second before,” I say, not looking her in the eyes, but instead staring at her feet.
Her dribble picks up because I’ve made her mad, and she doesn’t waste a lot of time trying to score on me. She falls right into her old habits though, just like I told her she would, and I slap the ball away about
six steps from the hoop.
I rush after it and dribble out, shaking my head. I’m being a dick, but I don’t know how to stop. I want to hit something, and I want to scream. I want to leave this place, but I also want to just stop and grab her shoulders and look into her eyes and beg the universe for forgiveness.
I want her to forgive me. I want my mom to be proud. I want to be born somewhere else, in a different life, with options and hope. I want my friend home, and I want Dub Lewis to die.
I want Dub Lewis to die.
My tongue passes over my lips at that delicious and dangerous thought. I’ve had it a million times, but never so clearly that I acknowledged it. Dub’s the reason I am how I am. He’s why I don’t cry. I never wanted him to have the satisfaction, to see that he could break me. He pretended to have all of this love for my dad, but really…he never did. He didn’t take me under his wing out of respect, he did it to show who was truly in charge now that my dad was gone. He did nothing but fill my head with stories about how much my father failed and how his death was on his shoulders alone. He conditioned me to believe I was lucky I had him as a role model instead. The moment I began to believe it all, he marked me with his tattoo—holding me down, waking me from sleep just to gag me with a rag while one of his cousins sunk ink into my wrist with an X just like his.
Dub Lewis bought me, but I was never for sale. And now I want him to die.
Lost in my thoughts, I get lazy with the ball and Riley notices, grabbing it and moving around my body. I react as if this game matters, though, fueled by my stewing frustration, anxieties, and pure resentment and anger for this life I have. I rush at her to take the ball back, my arms so wide she’s trapped, my steps aggressive. She falters, and I reach in, taking over the dribble while she grabs onto my arm. I shake her loose and score, but she shoves me the moment my feet land from my short jump, lunging for the ball when I grab it on my unsteady legs.
“That’s a foul!” she shouts, swatting at me with one hand while I strong-arm her to keep her at bay. I can’t help but laugh.
“I’m pretty sure yours was the foul,” I mock, my skin tingling with this rush of adrenaline. Everything in me is spiking, and I’m not sure what emotion I’m going to feel next.
Without warning, Riley shoves the center of my chest, the impact enough to push her off a step or two. I chuckle, but only for a second, realizing quickly that this isn’t about being playful or funny. Her eyes are glazed, and it’s not like tears…it’s beyond that. Her arms fall to her sides for a second, then flex again, her palms hitting my chest once more, but this time with her full weight behind them. My legs stutter, and every time I come close to regaining my balance, she comes at me again.
The ball falls to my side, and she kicks it, then moves into me one final time. Before she can back away, though, I wrap her wrists up in my hands and hold them between us. Her eyes are wild, like a stallion caught in barbed wire. She’s trapped here too. This town…this school—here with me—this is the last place on earth she wants to be.
I can feel every muscle in her body flexing, trying to work up enough power to break away from me. She’s pulling from my grip with so much strength her arms are quaking in my grasp. I should let her go, but she’s only going to hit me again. She’s angry at her life. I see it as clear as a reflection. I’m angry too. We’re taking it out on each other.
“Riley, what are you doing?”
I shake her gently, and as her muscles begin to ease, so does my grip. My eyes dip to her chin and my brow creases. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more lost in my entire life. Everything inside me hurts, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about any of it. I can’t find my friend. I can’t leave the gang. I can’t be friends with Riley. I’m caught in a tornado of impossibles and nevers, and the only things left on my list are horrible sins.
I know her eyes are waiting for mine before I lift my gaze, and I know that they wait in judgment. I feel them—the heat. It burns my face and everything inside of me. I look into them anyway, because maybe they’ll give me answers. Maybe there’s forgiveness somewhere in the silvery blue. I crave peace. I need a home. I need a person.
“How did your dad die?”
Her question actually punches the air from my lungs.
“Ha ha,” I breathe out in a short burst, stunned and caught somewhere in the midst of duty, regrets, and pain.
Her eyes are open wide and they haven’t blinked since she locked onto me. She’s not looking at me, though, but it’s more like through me, her focus lost somewhere in my head because she’s in there too. She’s invaded me, welcome or not. She sees me, good and evil. I hold the tip of my tongue between my teeth as I steady my breath and remind myself of who I am and what I could do.
“He was stabbed forty-seven times in the Corduroy Prison yard. I had just turned eleven, and he had just been sentenced to life.”
I stop and let my eyes truly focus on hers, connecting enough to bring her to the surface—so she sees me…feels this truth that I don’t talk about to anyone.
“He was never going to get out, so a few people serving multiple sentences from our crew gave him relief. At least, that’s the story certain people tell. I’ve always thought about that number—forty-seven. It doesn’t feel very compassionate. Nothing about being stabbed that many times comes off as a favor. Have you ever been stabbed?”
Riley swallows and shakes her head no. Her movement is so small, fragile too. It’s strange to see her nervous, because up until now, everything about her has been defensive and strong.
“It’s brutal,” I say, relaxing my hold on her arms completely, letting them drop to her sides as mine do the same. “The wounds never really seem to heal quite right.”
I suck in my top lip and hold her gaze, her face relaxing into a new realization. I know how being stabbed feels because I’ve been stabbed…a lot. I breathe in heavily, then exhale as my eyes fall closed. I lift the bottom of my T-shirt to the center of my chest so she can really look. The lines are pale, and they contrast with my darker skin. Time has made them less obvious, but if I put my hands on them I feel the knife cutting into me as if it were happening right this moment. It burns, and I swear it bleeds.
Riley’s eyes trail from mine down to the evidence I’ve been hurt more than most. I chew at the inside of my cheek as she looks on, her lip puffing out in a quiver as she takes it all in.
“There are six of them,” I say, running my fingertips over each one slowly, connecting the dots. “Three were from my first fight out on the courts. I was thirteen, and I should have kept my mouth shut.”
Her eyes shift to mine quickly and flash wider. I shake my head before she can tell me I’m wrong. She doesn’t understand the rules of this world. Anywhere else, a young boy shouldn’t be stabbed for speaking up. But when you mouth off during a peace treaty between two rival gangs, your crew has to save face somehow. Dub didn’t stab me, but two of his main guys did. They dragged me home and left me for my mom to take to the ER after that.
My mother prayed for days. When I wouldn’t promise her that I’d quit the gang, she began lighting candles. She’s still praying, four years later.
“And the other three?” Riley’s voice is rough, tears caught deep in her throat that she refuses to let out. I recognize the sound.
I shrug.
“I don’t even remember,” I say, which is mostly true. One of my scars is from Joker. It was an accident when we were fifteen. He was scared and thought I was going to hurt him because he’d messed up a delivery for Dub. I was just there to make sure he was okay. I’ll never forget where that scar came from just like I’ll never forget how terrified he was when he saw me. He was an animal, caught and desperate, and he believed I would hurt him.
“They wound you to punish you. They make sure you never forget. That’s how this works,” I say, lowering my shirt and sinking my hands into the pockets of my jeans. I breathe with her automatically, and I think I do it so I don’t feel alone. Our bodie
s deflate in sync, shoulders rising together, lips parting. She’s beginning to understand how serious all of this is.
“I want to say you can count on me, Riley. I know it’s what you want to hear, and I know that’s why you’re mad,” I say, breathing out a sad peal of laughter. “I envy you so much.”
I squeeze my eyes closed, shaking my head and opening my eyes as I view off to the side, because the honesty stings. I’m rarely vulnerable, and I don’t think I’ve ever truly been raw with anyone. Not even my mother. It’s a challenge I’m driven to, though, and I don’t know why. I think I need to prove to myself that I’m tough enough for this—strong enough to let someone in and put a voice to how much I hate what I am and what I’ve become.
I swallow hard.
“You…you get to dream,” I say, holding onto my bottom lip with my teeth as my eyes settle back on Riley’s. She hasn’t moved. “I get to fight to survive, and you get to dream. And I want to help you, but I can’t promise you I’ll be there. There are too many…”
Pausing mid-word, I shake my head and force my lips closed tightly as I think of the right word. It turns out to be really simple.
“Bad guys,” I say, chuckling pathetically. “There are too many bad guys who own me. And I don’t get to make choices for myself. If I did, I would have been here for practice. I wouldn’t let you down. But as it is…I’m gonna. Over and over again. If you can work with that, then I still want to try to get you a team that won’t suck on the court next week. And I want to help you show everything you have to whoever you need to so you can get the fuck out of this place.”
We stare at one another through a full breath while she takes in my partial promises, and I’m compelled to make my point again—the one I have been trying to make since I first met her.
“You don’t belong here, Riley. You just don’t.”
I’m barely done speaking when her hands reach up and touch my cheeks as her body steps into me. Her eyes close in a fraction of a second and her lips find mine, a cool and soft surprise that stuns me at the first touch, my entire body rushed with what feels like a shot of morphine beginning at my lips and flowing down my neck and arms and spine. It’s the softest kiss I’ve ever had. There’s nothing dirty or obligated about it. Her fingertips are feather-light against my skin, and her mouth holds onto my bottom lip with a quivering and timid touch that matches everything I know she’s feeling—that I’m feeling.