by Ginger Scott
It’s getting harder to hold everything in. I need to let it out, to yell or push something. I need to hit things, hurt myself—I need to fucking feel!
The cool touch of the wet towel hits my chin and I pause with my spoon midway to my mouth. I cock my head slowly to look at her and lower the spoon, resting it back in the bowl while I sit up and let my hands fall into my lap. Riley’s eyes circle around my face as her hand dabs at my wound with the edge of the towel. The cut isn’t deep, but it’s swollen, like an animal scratch. Every douse of water stings, I back away a few times for relief.
“Sorry,” she whispers.
Her eyes flit to mine but return to my neck quickly. Her lashes flutter, her gaze focusing on every new inch until my cut is cleaned. I’ll probably just put on a hoodie to hide it from my mom, and by the time I can go to school again on Monday, things will have healed. Of course, I don’t have the ride I usually have, and my best friend won’t be there. If he isn’t dead already, he will be soon. I won’t be able to save him, and that truth hit me last night. I never really had much hope at all.
“He wants him dead.” I’m only partly surprised when I say the words out loud. I think I wanted to test myself to see if I could, to see how far I could push this sharing.
“Paul?” She sits on a stool next to me, bending her leg to angle herself to the side as she balls up the blood-stained fold of towels in her palm.
I nod.
“Joker. We call him Joker,” I say, sliding my hand over hers. I leave it there for a breath, just to feel how warm and real and alive she is, then I urge her fingers open and take the evidence that I’m hurt from her hand to throw it in the trash.
“Why do you call him that?” she asks.
I laugh lightly to myself as I open the trash bin and push the towels deep, covering them with the morning’s coffee grounds. My head is throbbing, and I’m nowhere near well.
“Because of how completely unfunny he is,” I say, turning around and resting my weight by the sink. I feel flush, and I’m sure she can tell.
She smiles a little, and it strikes me that a gang nickname probably isn’t something to be amused by.
“You know this isn’t all for play right? I mean yeah, his name is stupid and it’s kinda funny that we call him that, but besides all of that, this situation…it’s real. None of this is going to be okay, or end well. Nothing here ever ends well. That’s a dumb phrase, really…end well? All’s well that ends well!”
My voice lifts and I start to laugh without a real reason. This is the mental break I’ve been waiting for. I can feel it, my mind on the cliff’s edge. I need someone to push me. I need to fall.
I laugh harder.
“All’s fucking well that ends well!” I shout the words this time and spin slowly in my kitchen. The movement makes me nauseous so I stop myself, gripping the counter near Riley. Her hand wraps around my arm and her other palm finds my forehead.
“You’re burning up,” she says.
I smile at her through dopey eyes.
“My mom gave me some root and a bunch of vinegar or whatever. We don’t even have real medicine…ha!” My laugh switches gears quickly.
“Tristan, you should lay down,” Riley says, her hands on both of my shoulders, nudging me to her side. “Where’s your room?”
I guide her, and when my bed is in view I rush toward it, landing head first into the pile of pillow and sheets, tugging at loose ends to cover my body.
“Tristan, let me,” she says, jerking the cotton out of my hand and fluffing the blanket out above my body. It covers me and for a brief moment it’s all I see. The gray darkness of an old quilt is like a dream—everything else is erased. When it lands over my chest and hips and legs, I pull it into me as Riley tucks. I want to touch her, but I also don’t want to get her sick.
She’s infected as it is. I’ve brought her in too far, and even just being my friend—according to Dub—will put her at risk.
“You can’t talk to him. Or see him. If you see him, I need you to run,” I say, gripping her wrist and holding it to me. Her body freezes and our eyes lock. My room is dim, but there’s enough light to trace the soft curves of her face and to brighten the paleness of her eyes
“His full name is William Ansel Lewis, and everyone around here calls him Dub. If you hear any of those names though, you need to leave. You can’t go shoot at the court at night. You can’t hang out at home alone. You can’t be followed. You can’t walk down the street.”
“I’ll be fine,” she interrupts, her other hand flat on my chest in an effort to calm my manic heart.
“You don’t know what he can do,” I say, feeling a sting hit my eyes for the first time in forever. The tears won’t come, but the worry pushes hard from inside.
“Yeah, Tristan,” she says, moving her hand from my chest to my neck, the back of her fingers trailing along the tender, pink line I know is still very much there.
I swallow under her touch and she pauses, afraid she’s hurt me. Sleep is pulling at me, but everything else is wading through deep water, fighting to stay awake and alert. I drown in her eyes instead, and I search for the calm and good in them, clinging to the bits and pieces, to this dim light and her voice. I love sick days. He’s ruined those too.
“Just promise me. Promise me that for now, just for a little while…you’ll be careful.” I can’t ask her to stop being her. She wouldn’t do it anyway. But I can ask her to be safe. With Paul gone and Lauren angry at me, Riley has become my only friend. I could stare at her for days and never grow tired. Somewhere along the way, my paths got tangled, and I think maybe she and I were never supposed to meet.
“I promise to be careful,” she hums, a faint smile dusting her lips as she bends forward and presses them to my head. Her hand follows up on the same spot, her fingertips running along my skin and up into my hair in a constant pattern until my eyes aren’t able to keep up. I fall asleep, the fever taking over and forcing more nightmares in. Through it all, though, I can still feel her touch. She stayed longer than she should have. She missed her next class. She left and locked my door behind her.
She was alone.
Chapter Fourteen
Riley
* * *
My dad’s eyes look almost as tired as Tristan’s did earlier, only his are heavy from long hours at work, not some flu bug passed around at school. There’s no way he’s making it through the entire game, but I’m glad he’s trying. I think I need this night more than he does. I need the small slice of normal, even though nothing has been normal in my house for a long time.
“The line has the Cavs up by seven,” my dad says. The first quarter is half over, and the Cavs are down by six.
My dad hands me a paper plate with a slice of pizza on it. I pull it into my lap and curl up in the corner of the couch near his chair, the feeling familiar, but for the first time in a while, it’s noticeable that my mom isn’t in the room with us. She didn’t love watching the game; she loved watching us. There’s a void. I feel it and I can see my dad does too. It’s the way his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, forced joy. Fake it until you make it, isn’t that what people say?
“Sounds like maybe you should make a bet,” I say, winking at him.
My dad used to gamble with a bookie. He never posted a win, and he never bet a lot of money. Even though he was pretty much a sure payday, the guy quit calling and coming around. My dad’s small change was just a pain in the ass, I guess.
“So tell me about school. How’s basketball?” My dad talks with food in his mouth, and it brings me an odd sense of comfort. This is still home, even with the craziness…I have this place.
“It’s good,” I say, pushing a small piece of crust into my mouth and chewing a few times before stopping myself. I chuckle and look at my dad, his head turning until our eyes meet. “I can’t lie. It’s all right, I guess, but we are going to suck. First game is Tuesday, and I’m really the only ball handler we have. Oh…and you’ll love this
! Our coach is another senior.”
“Ha!” My dad puffs a laugh from his chest and keeps chewing. “That doesn’t sound promising.”
I shake my head and take another bite, the game commentary buzzing in the background.
“It’s hopeless, really. But Tristan said he can help me get enough time to make a highlight reel, and that’s all I need,” I say.
“Tristan?” my dad asks.
I swallow a large bite before chewing enough and start to cough. I guess there’s a lot I haven’t filled him in on, and Tristan is a tricky topic of conversation.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice raspy from coughing. I twist the cap on my water bottle and guzzle down a third of it.
“So this boy…he’s your coach,” my dad says, a protective line of questioning sorting itself. I can sense it all.
“Yeah,” I say, my eyes on the TV and my mouth busy with food. I feel like somehow my dad can see Tristan’s lips on mine, that he can read the emotions in my head and heart. I like this boy…a lot. And he’s the worst possible boy to like. But I do. I like him. I like him. I like him…
“If he knows so much about basketball, why isn’t he playing on the boys team?” My dad has put his plate down and his arms are folded now. I glance at him and pull in the right side of my mouth with a tiny laugh. His protective nature is sweet.
I roll my eyes and put my plate on the coffee table to give him my full attention.
“The boys suck,” I say.
“I bet,” my father fires back. He’s a little grumpy about it, but in a cute way. I close my eyes and laugh.
“Daddy.” I wiggle my head side to side and turn my focus back to the game in time to see someone sink a three. I raise my hands and pull them in for a quiet “yes!”
“Okay, so this boy, who is too good for the sucky boys’ team, is called Tristan,” my dad repeats the facts he knows so far.
I nod.
“Yes,” I confirm.
He breathes in deeply through his nose and turns his eyes to the TV, too.
“Is he cute?”
My eyes widen. My dad can’t see them, thank God! This is not a conversation I’ve ever really had with him, and I don’t know how to navigate it.
“I dunno,” I shrug.
“Ha! He is cute!” My dad stands, moving himself between me and the TV, folding his arms in pride. I try to look around him, but he steps in the way again. I finally give up and look him in the eyes.
“Okay, fine. He’s cute. You got me,” I say, waving my hands to my sides. “Can we go back to the game now?”
My phone buzzes on the table, and I lean forward to read the preview of the message, panicking when I see Tristan’s name.
“That’s him!” My dad starts to pace, folding his fingers together behind his neck as if I’ve been asked to get married. This is what zero dating experience gets me, I suppose.
“I’m sure it’s just about our next practice,” I say, waving him off but nervous about what his text really says. I’m worried he has news about Paul, or that the Dub guy came back to see him. My dad thinks I’m just embarrassed, but that isn’t it at all.
Our bell rings, and as my father moves to the door, I swipe up to read everything. I wish I didn’t, though. I wish I ran to the door instead, because all the message said was I’M OUTSIDE
He’s here, and my dad has opened the door. Words are being exchanged, and so far, nobody has gotten punched. Not that my dad would punch a boy at my door, but I don’t really know for sure. Again…zero dating experience. My eyes catch Tristan’s over my dad’s shoulder, and my dad follows his gaze until suddenly I’m staring into my father’s eyes instead.
“Come on in.” My dad raises one brow at me and bends his mouth into a smile that’s both a tease and a warning.
“Thank you, sir,” Tristan says. His hair is wet, fresh from a shower, and he’s changed into black track pants and a white long-sleeved shirt. He’s wearing his court shoes, but his body is dragging, so I know he didn’t come here to play. He looks weak. He looks handsome.
“Tristan,” my dad grunts out his name as he sinks back into his chair. I hover between the couch and the kitchen, unsure if I should run or play hostess. I’m nervous, and I’m worried. They’re two different emotions, and I can feel them jousting in my chest. “Riley tells me you’re the girls’ basketball coach, so tell me what you think about their chances. Do you think they need to play man-on-man? Or a zone?”
My dad doesn’t know shit about my team. He’s trying to feel Tristan out, see how legit he is—see if he’s just coaching this team to get close to me, which is utterly ridiculous and then yet, maybe…true? I groan quietly, but loud enough that both of them turn their attention toward me.
I close my mouth quickly and move into the kitchen to make Tristan a plate of pizza, and when I return both of them are sitting silently watching the game—a noticeable distance and awkward silence between them.
Shit.
“We’re having pizza. But maybe you’re not hungry yet…” I shift my eyes to my dad and back, not wanting to talk about how I visited Tristan earlier. Normally, I don’t think my dad would care, but this whole meet-and-greet has gotten really tense.
“Thanks, maybe just the crust,” he says, flashing me a closed-lip smile.
I take the middle of the sofa seat, which is one cushion closer to Tristan, and the second I sit down my dad looks my direction and lowers his chin with a huff. I hold out my hands as if saying “what?” and pull in my brow.
“So do you have a job other than volunteer coaching my daughter’s crappy team? That is what you called them, right? Crappy?” My dad only glances at Tristan, his eyes passing me on their way back to the game as he takes a large, satisfying bite of food.
“Is that why you’re being so cold all of a sudden? Because I told you myself we’re pretty crappy,” I say, looking from my dad to Tristan a few times. Neither of them reacts, and I wonder what I missed in thirty seconds while I was in the kitchen.
Tristan pulls his lips in tight and nods once, breathing out through his nose as he leans forward and sets a nearly untouched slice of pizza on the coffee table.
“I’m sorry. It was rude for me to interrupt. I just wanted to say thank you…” he stops himself before saying too much, shifting his words just in time. “Thank you for letting me know what assignments I missed today. We’ll have practice Monday, first game Tuesday. I’ll just see ya then.”
My mouth hangs open as Tristan smiles briefly at me then looks to my dad. He holds out his hand, and my dad actually shifts away from it in his chair, as if he’s somehow blocking his view of the game.
“It’s nice to meet you, sir,” Tristan says, waiting until the seconds begin to build and the tension in the room starts to suffocate me. My dad doesn’t make a sound and he doesn’t acknowledge Tristan’s gesture at all.
Eventually pulling his hand in, hiding it deep in his pocket, along with the other one, Tristan turns his eyes to me.
“I’ll see ya Monday,” he says. His gaze hangs on mine, and I’m choked with a shocked feeling, unable to speak or react right away. There’s something in his eyes that’s troubling and sad, and this isn’t how I pictured this meeting going. Maybe that’s the problem, though, I never really pictured this meeting at all. There’s no precedent for it, but I can’t help but feel like if any other boy showed up, things would have gone down differently.
I swallow and stand.
“I guess I’ll walk you out,” I say, glancing at my father one more time as I show Tristan back to the front door. My dad eyes me, but it’s brief.
I follow Tristan to the door, stepping outside with him, but before I can close the front door behind me, he touches it with his hand and pushes it open a few inches.
“You better leave that cracked,” he says, his mouth a tight flat line that pulls in on one side.
My head tilts as I try to read into what he’s saying, and I look over my shoulder, through the small crack in the
doorway, where my father is intently watching me. I look back at Tristan, and he shrugs, both hands still in his pockets as he stumbles down the concrete step toward my driveway.
“What did he say to you?” I ask.
He shrugs again, this time shaking his head a little too.
“Nothing, really. I told him your team was pretty rough, except for you, and that the practices were really about finding a way to get you the ball. I made it up, because we’ve only practiced like twice, once really, when you think about it,” he says, holding his breath in when he’s done speaking.
“That doesn’t make sense. Why would he be so short with you about that?” I shake my head trying to piece together my dad’s reaction. It’s more than just protective Dad. I might as well have invited a vampire into the house.
“Riley, it’s fine. I’m sure he’s had a long day, and he probably just wanted to spend time with you, and I showed up…”
“Tristan, no…my dad’s not like that,” I interrupt.
He starts to repeat himself but stops quickly, his mouth falling flat, his eyes sagging, the weight of the world taking away a little more of his spirit. He looks so pale and weak, dark circles are starting to look more like black eyes.
“Your dad saw this,” he says, pushing up his sleeve just enough to flip his wrist and show me the X. He hides it again quickly, his shoulders falling, his chin lowering, and his eyes drifting down somewhere in the distance.
My lips part to question him, but I don’t even know how to begin. My dad wouldn’t know what that mark meant. He’s never mentioned anything about tattoos, for or against them, and it’s not even like Tristan is marked up much. He has the name on his neck, the X and a few small symbols spread around his body in places that no one can see with his shirt on. He’s polite. He’s a gentleman, and when he was being a dick it was because he wanted to protect me.
“That’s not it,” I say, a quick shake of my head.