“Tyler Whitman.”
As wrong as it is, especially since Tyler was only twelve, I feel myself relax. At least it wasn’t Alejandro. “I don’t get it. Tyler wasn’t in a gang, was he?”
Dave shakes his head, suddenly looking a lot older than his forty-five years. “No, he wasn’t. He was an innocent in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Has Alejandro been around much lately?” Or Carlos? Guilt surges through me. I haven’t been around much, not like I used to. I’m too busy with school.
“Not in a few days. But I heard his mother’s been getting on his case about his grades. If he doesn’t pull them up soon, she won’t let him join the school basketball team.”
And that will kill him. “I’ll talk to him.”
“That’d be great, Marcus. He idolizes you. He’ll listen to what you say.” Dave doesn’t say what he’s thinking, but I can read it in his eyes. He’s hoping I can talk some sense into Alejandro so that he doesn’t join Carlos’s gang.
“I better get back to work here.” Dave smiles at Amber.
“Sounds good. We’re just shooting some hoops.” I squeeze Kitten’s hand, letting her know this is the real reason we’re here.
“Oh,” she says.
I turn in time to see excitement fade to disappointment on her face.
“I don’t have anything to wear.”
Dave looks her over, but not in a douchebag way. “That’s not a problem. I have spare gym clothes that should fit you.”
Her eyes light up, confirming I did the right thing bringing her here. Confirming what I already suspected: I want to be the one to bring that smile to her face—even if it’s just as a fake boyfriend.
Chapter Seventeen
Amber
Dave leads us to the back of the old building to a small equipment room. The room is organized to military precision, contrasting with the water-stained ceiling and small cracks in the upper corner of one wall. He points to the box of jumbled clothes on a metal shelving unit against the far wall, and leaves us alone to search through it.
I pull out a pair of promising looking sweat pants that end up being way too big, even if I cinch the drawstring as tight as it will go. Marcus and I hunt through the entire box before he finds a pair of running shorts that might fit and holds them out to me.
I swallow hard. There’s no way I can wear them. “Is there anything else?” I ask even though the odds of a pair of sweat pants mysteriously appearing in the box are pretty much zero.
He shakes his head. “No, this is it.”
I take the offending garment and stare at it, not that staring will make a difference. It’s not going to magically transform the shorts into I what need.
A voice in my head asks what difference it makes if Marcus sees my legs. Is he really going to change his mind about playing with me because of the scars? Is he going to refuse to tutor me because they gross him out? I doubt it.
I hesitantly take the shorts from him and grab the T-shirt I found earlier. He’s seen the scars on my wrists, so I don’t have to hide them from him. He hasn’t seen the forget-me-not tattoo, but I can’t imagine he’ll ask about it. He knows Trent’s dead.
“You can change in the locker room.” He points in the opposite direction from where we came in. “When you’re ready, go down the hall. I’ll meet you outside.”
He walks me to the locker room even though he just told me where to find it. I push the door open and enter.
The place isn’t very big. Just large enough for a dozen or so small lockers, a changing cubical, a shower stall, and that’s all. Even though no one’s here, I carry the gym clothes into the curtained off cubical and close the curtain.
I shut my eyes. No one has seen the scars before today, other than the hospital staff and my mom. Even after the skin grafts healed, I didn’t want anyone seeing my legs.
The thought of Marcus seeing them leaves me feeling naked and raw. I want to run. I want to hide. I want to keep him from seeing my scars, both inside and out.
But I can’t do that. Because deep down I know I’m stronger than that, and it doesn’t matter what Marcus thinks. It’s not like there’ll ever be a “him and me.” At least not beyond our tutoring arrangement.
I change out of my clothes, pull on the shorts and T-shirt, and go outside through the exit Marcus told me to use. He’s not hard to find, and it looks like I’m not the only one who changed out of street clothes. He’s wearing long basketball shorts and a Chicago Bulls jersey.
And he’s not alone. He’s playing two-on-one with two boys who could be fourteen or fifteen, both Hispanic.
“Who was the nineteen ninety-four All-Star MVP?” the taller boy shouts.
Without missing a beat, Marcus answers, “Scottie Pippen,” and takes a three-point shot. The ball makes a perfect arc in the air and swooshes through the net. The boys groan. Marcus turns toward the building and catches sight of me.
I want to run back inside and change into my clothes, but the opportunity vanishes as Marcus approaches and the two boys pivot to see where he’s going, and all I can do is turn to stone.
Marcus’s gaze is locked on my face. He doesn’t see my scarred leg. I’m not so lucky with the boys. The shorter ones asks, “What happened to your leg?” But he doesn’t say it with disgust in his voice, more like curiosity and awe.
His friend shoves him in the arm. “¡Meirda! Didn’t your mamá teach you any manners?”
Marcus’s gaze drops to my leg and he frowns, like he’s trying to figure out how I ended up with several hand-sized patches of scar tissue on my right thigh and calf. The scars are smooth, but the color doesn’t match the rest of my leg. They’re paler, making me look like a patched quilt. But the burns would have looked worse without all the skin grafts.
“It’s okay,” I say to the boys. “I was trapped in a burning building and the ceiling caved in on me.”
“Cool,” the short boy says matter-of-factly.
“How did you get out?” the taller one asks.
I fight against the memory. I don’t want to go there. “I just did. That’s all.” The words are shaky but it doesn’t seem as though either of them noticed. I turn to Marcus and look at his chest instead of his face. “So, are we playing ball or what?”
“Play ball,” the boys chorus.
“Okay,” Marcus says. “By the way, Amber, this is Alejandro”—he points to the taller boy—“and Juan.”
Juan looks me over, visibly impressed by what he sees. I have to work hard to keep from rolling my eyes. They glance at me, then Marcus. Juan says something to Alejandro in Spanish and they high-five. They’ve written me off and figured I’ll mess up Marcus’s perfect game.
Grinning on the inside, I take my place. Alejandro passes the ball to Juan. Marcus blocks the pass, dribbles past Alejandro, but instead of taking the shot, he passes it to me. I line it up and purposely miss. The boys whoop and holler and high-five again.
“Maybe you should let Marcus give you some pointers,” Alejandro says. “He’s an awesome coach.”
I pretend to think about it. “Can you show me how to do a layup properly? I was never good at those.”
“Okay.” Marcus holds out his hands, ready to receive the pass, and Juan sends the ball to him. Marcus bounces it twice and explains the steps to a perfect layup before showing me how to do it full speed.
All I can do is admire his technique and the way his body effortlessly executes the move. I nod and ask him to show me again. Not that he needs to. I love watching his muscles and limbs flex and contract in the beautifully orchestrated move.
Marcus performs another perfect layup and hands me the ball. “You think you got it?”
“I think so.” I bounce the ball twice and slowly perform the move, as if mentally talking myself through it. The
layup is perfect like his. “Wow, you really are a great coach. Can I try again?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
Alejandro passes me the ball from where it rolled near the fence. But instead of setting up at the line where Marcus showed me how to do the move, I dribble the ball into position on the other side of the hoop and perform another perfect layup, this time at full speed.
The boys’ mouths flop open and I grin. “Oops! Did I forget to mention I was voted MVP during my junior year of high school?” I ask with feigned innocence.
Marcus laughs loudly. The boys appear notably impressed.
“I’m playing with Amber,” Juan says, which surprises me. It’s not like Marcus is a slouch on the court.
“Which referee made the controversial foul call against the Bulls in game five of the playoffs during the nineteen-ninety-three to ninety-four season?” Alejandro asks.
Juan’s face is blank. Marcus looks thoughtful for a moment. “Hue Hollins.” He passes Alejandro the ball.
Alejandro bounces it. “Correct.” Without warning, he dribbles it four steps and passes it to Marcus. I intercept it and send it to Juan. He catches it and goes for the jump shot. The ball bounces off the hoop and lands in Marcus’s hands.
For the next thirty minutes, we play a hard game of two-on-two. Alejandro is a stronger player than Juan, who’s still pretty good. It’s easy to see that Alejandro has the potential to go far in the game—if he makes the necessary grades.
“What three players from the same team were on the All-Defensive First Team?” Marcus asks. “Their team was the only one in history to achieve this.”
I know the answer but let Alejandro reply. This is part of the game for them, and it’s fun watching them test each other’s knowledge. The game is similar to one Emma, Trent and I used to play when we were younger. I get the feeling these guys, especially Alejandro, mean a lot to Marcus...and it’s sweet. Just like it’s sweet how Marcus tells me the lame math jokes just to make me laugh while he helps me with my homework.
“Jordan, Pippen and Rodman,” Alejandro says without hesitation.
Juan grins. “Too bad that wasn’t on your math test, Alejandro. Then your mamá wouldn’t have grounded you.”
Alejandro throws him a dark look. Juan chuckles and attempts a basket. The ball bounces off the backboard and ricochets in the opposite direction to where we’re standing. Alejandro cracks up while Juan jogs over to retrieve it.
“Yo bro,” Marcus says. “You need help with your math?”
Alejandro starts to shake his head but then changes his mind and nods.
“If you want, I can come over after work tomorrow and help you.”
Alejandro nods, eyes averted. I can relate to how he feels. I never thought I’d need a tutor; I mean, other than Trent. But our tutoring sessions were more about us making out than his helping me with math, which he did anyway. He knew if I didn’t do well on my tests, I’d be grounded and there would be no make-out sessions.
“He’s a great math tutor,” I tell Alejandro as Juan returns with the ball. And I mean it. “He’s been helping me.”
“I could help you with your math,” Juan says in a suggestive tone. This time I don’t contain the urge to roll my eyes.
“So how come you don’t play for UIC?” Marcus asks, changing the subject.
I take the ball from Juan and bounce it near a crack in the concrete, watching the ball instead of Marcus. It still hurts that I’m unable to pursue my dream of playing for a woman’s collegiate team. That, and being a vet were my lifelong goals. But Paul took one of them away, and has put the other in jeopardy.
“I couldn’t play during my senior year ’cause I was recovering from the burns.” And I couldn’t face my former teammates. Trent was the star player for the boys’ team. The player who could have taken them to the playoffs last year. He never had the chance.
I blink back the tears. “How come you aren’t playing with the men’s team?” Marcus is good enough that he could if he wanted to.
I bounce pass him the ball. He catches it and turns it in his hands, studying it, the corners of his mouth twisted down. “I had to work, so I couldn’t play varsity.”
I sense there’s more to it, but I don’t have a chance to ask. Lightning lights up the sky and the crackle of air molecules sets me on edge.
I stand by the car, and stare at my flat tire. “Hurry up, Michael,” I mutter to myself. Headlights approach then pull off to the side of the road. The car parks behind mine. It’s too dark to make out the driver. I just know it isn’t Michael.
The driver’s door opens and someone steps out. I can’t see who it is with the headlights glaring in my face.
Lightning streaks across the sky and I startle at the crackle of electricity. I hate storms. My father walked out on us during a storm. Trent died during a storm. My throat closes in on itself at that memory, still fresh, like his grave.
“Hi, Amber,” a familiar voice says. I can’t place it, but something about it sets off alarms.
Chapter Eighteen
Marcus
One minute I’m talking to Amber. The next she’s curled up on the ground, arms around her knees, muttering to herself and crying. It’s like she’s not even here. Her mind is somewhere else.
I crouch next to her. “Amber?”
“What’s wrong with her?” Juan asks.
I touch her arm. She flinches but other than that, it’s like she doesn’t even know I’m here. Shit. “Kitten, tell me what’s wrong.” I don’t know how to help her or what to do. She’s seems so lost and helpless.
“Go get Dave,” I tell the guys.
They don’t hesitate. They both run inside, leaving me alone with Amber.
Another flash of lightning lights up the sky and thunder rumbles, loud and deep, not long after. Amber screams and buries her head in her arms.
I reach out to touch her, but then snatch my hand back. I rub the back of my neck instead. What the hell is wrong with her? I want to hold her, comfort her, but after how she reacted last time, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.
The youth center door opens. Dave spots us and rushes over, blanket in hand. He drops next to us and examines Amber without touching her. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. She was talking to me, then she collapsed to the ground and started doing this. I don’t even know what she’s talking about.”
Dave is silent at first, then nods as if answering his own question. The one he never voiced out loud. “Was there anythin’ else that happened before she collapsed? A loud noise perhaps?”
“There was thunder and lightning.”
Dave scoots closer. “Amber, I want to help you. Is that okay?”
She doesn’t respond.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he explains in a slow, calming voice.
Without warning, the sky opens up and pea-sized ice pellets pound us with their stinging touch. I can’t tell if Amber even notices. She doesn’t flinch when the hail hammers her skin.
“We have to get her inside,” Dave yells over the noise. Her T-shirt, shorts, hair are plastered to her skin and she shivers uncontrollably. Dave wraps the blanket around her shoulders, shielding her, then scoops her in his arms and carries her to the building, her head on his shoulders. The entire time, he tells her that she’s safe, no one is going to hurt her, and that I’m here. I’m not sure if the last one matters to her, but I have a feeling the first two are important. Between what happened with the guy at the party and her wanting me to fake being her boyfriend at Nightshade, I sense it’s been a while since she’s felt safe.
And that makes me more than anything want to be the one to help her feel safe again.
A pinched feeling in my gut reminds me that I don’t have a strong track record when it comes to keeping the peopl
e I love safe. So far, I’ve failed every time. Me trying to keep Kitten safe is nothing but a joke. The kind with a disastrous outcome.
Once inside, Dave carries her to the common area and settles her on a tired-looking couch. He indicates for me to sit next to her, and an overwhelming desire awakens inside me to cradle her against my body and make her feel safe, or at least attempt to shelter her from her demons.
Even with the blanket, she’s shivering. I sit next to her, and praying I won’t upset her again with my touch, pull her against me. She stiffens at first, but just when I think she’s going to pull away, she relaxes and cuddles closer. I kiss her on the head and hold her tighter.
I’ve never held a girl like this before. Never wanted to. I’ve only wanted one thing from them, and that’s all I’ve ever given of myself, until now.
Dave crouches in front of her. “Amber, do you remember what happened?”
She shakes her head and glances around the room, like she doesn’t remember how she got here. I almost expect her to pull away from me now she’s aware I’m holding her, but she doesn’t. More than anything she seems too exhausted to move more.
“Have you ever been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder?”
“No,” she says, voice weak.
“How do you get it?” I ask. I’ve heard of it before but that’s about it.
“What?” Dave asks. “The diagnosis or the disorder?” He pulls a plastic chair closer and sits. His folded arms rest on his knees.
“The disorder.”
“It’s the result of being traumatized. So a car accident, combat, being attacked. Any of those can cause it.”
Being in a burning building. Amber’s scarred leg peers from the opening in the blanket. A scar that could have been a lot worse.
Her boyfriend’s dead. Was he in that building, too? That would be enough to traumatize anyone.
“Not everyone who is in a traumatic situation experiences PTSD,” Dave explains, “and it’s hard to predict who will suffer from it. Some people can experience a horrendous situation and be fine, and someone might witness something on a smaller scale and end up with it.”
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