Pure Red
Page 1
Woodbury, Minnesota
Pure Red © 2011 by Danielle Joseph.
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First e-book edition © 2011
E-book ISBN: 9780738730844
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Acknowledgments
I would like to thank the following people and places for inspiring me and helping me bring this book alive.
Delle, l’amour de ma vie, the person I can always bounce an idea off of even when he’s half asleep. My editor, Brian Farrey, for helping me dig deep into the heart of this story and for shedding a tear. Sandy Sullivan, the master of continuity and logistics. Courtney Colton for all her publicity efforts. My agent, Rosemary Stimola, for being my fairy godmother.
Joyce Sweeney for helping me find Cassia’s motive and Adrienne Sylver for reading early drafts of this story. Christina Gonzalez for being my trusty “officemate,” and Teri Gotgart Andersen for sharing her ceramics expertise. Linda Bernfeld and the Wednesday Night Critique Group for all their valuable comments. Museum of Fine Arts Boston for having such an amazing collection of art.
And many thanks to Dad, Mom, Cindy, Kenny, Nikki, and Emma, all of whom added color to my childhood; and to my little artists, Marley, Makhi, and Naya, for creating something new every day, even if it’s just a mess.
For my mother, who volunteered, year after year, to teach art appreciation at Hunnewell Elementary School.
ordinary brown
Red is the color of passion, but I haven’t found mine yet. After my guidance counselor, Ms. Cable, basically told me last winter that I’d be “lucky to work as a grill scraper at Paloma’s Diner,” I promised myself I’d know exactly what I wanted to do before I turned sixteen. But my birthday was three months ago and I’m still passionless. So that’s my goal for this summer. To embrace my heart’s true desire, find my reason for living. And by the time I return to school, I’ll be so focused that Ms. Cable will go cross-eyed with surprise.
For now, though, I’m sitting here in my living room, completely still. Usually I could rival any store mannequin, but today I have a crick in my neck and a mosquito bite on my left ankle that itches like hell. If I move, it might break Dad’s concentration, and I definitely don’t want to start all over again.
I zone out. Try to think of the basketball game taking place later this afternoon. Of the sweat dripping down my back and pooling in my sports bra. Of my new green sneaks skidding across the cement top. I like running up and down the court. It feels good to get my blood pumping. I spent last summer sunning at the beach and watching Dad paint the breathtaking view of the ocean from our condo balcony. That was okay, but it will not get me any closer to discovering my true calling. Nor will it help my “nearly catatonic resume,” as Ms. Cable put it. She also went on to say that if I didn’t pick up some extracurricular activities and find something I can excel at, I’d just be a blip on the college radar.
I pretended not to care as I huffed out of her office, but truth be told, I don’t want to be a blip. I don’t need to make a huge splash, but I at least want to make a wave. So before school ended, I asked Coach Heller if he knew of anyplace where I could play basketball during the summer. He said I should give the league at the Y a try. He also told me that it was a great idea, because I handled the ball well in P.E. So I got to thinking, maybe this is my thing. Maybe it’s something I could be really good at. I’ve always enjoyed playing basketball with friends, but besides P.E., I’ve never had any formal instruction.
Thankfully, I got Liz to join with me. She played school ball our freshman year, so she was all for it. We practiced at the hoop in her driveway the entire weekend before our first day. She taught me how to block shots and go up for rebounds so I wouldn’t make a dumb-ass of myself. I guess that’s what best friends are for.
I can’t hold off any longer. I reach down and scratch my ankle. I have to.
“Ay, Cassia, I’m almost done with the highlights. Sit still.” Dad dips his brush into the brown oil paint. He says my hair color is hard to recreate. I thought brown was brown. The color of mud, chocolate, and tree bark. He says it evokes energy and relaxes the soul. Maybe if this living room was painted brown instead of fuchsia (joy, compassion, and prosperity), I could take a nap.
Every year, shortly after the last day of school, Dad gets all nostalgic and paints a portrait of me. He says he’s celebrating the fact that I’m a year wiser. All I gained this year were a few pimples and size-ten feet. I hope none of that shows up on my portrait. School’s been out two weeks, and thank God sophomore year is over and Dad’s almost done with my mug shot. Don’t get me wrong. My dad, Jacques Bernard, is a great artist, but there’s only so much a girl can take. Two more years of school equals two more portraits. Unless he follows me to college.
I straighten up again and sigh. I hope I get a lot of playing time in the game today. At our scrimmage on Tuesday I played two quarters. Not bad for a rookie with no formal training, especially with two Amazons on the team.
I roll my eyes to look at the clock on the wall. Thirty minutes until we have to be in uniform on the court. Coach Parker already made it abundantly clear that she despises tardiness: “You’re late! Take a seat on the bench!”
“Dad, I’ve got a game in half an hour,” I say, keeping my lips as still as possible.
“Perfecto! Your hair is like silk.” He tilts his head to the left, then to the right.
My neck is beginning to freeze up. My mouth is Sahara-desert dry. I instinctively lick my lips. “Can I at least get a drink?”
He takes the brush, dips it in a cup of murky water, and runs it back over the painting. I watch his arm move the brush up and down the canvas with delicate strokes. He looks like he’s conducting a sleepy orchestra. He steps back a few feet and smiles. His thick black hair sticking up in all directions, coupled with his animated smile, makes him look like an exclamation point. I can’t help it. I smile, too.
“How do I look?” I ask.
Dad blows me a kiss. “Magnifique, ma c
herie! ”
“Good.” I pull myself out of the papasan chair. My legs are numb and tingly. It takes me a second to steady myself. Dad stands next to me as we soak in the painting. I pull my hand up to my face and run my finger over the bridge of my nose. I never realized how long it was. I graze my cheekbones; are they really that high?
Still, I look so … ordinary. Not like the cover of Cosmo—more like the girl in a phone book ad for sedation dentistry. Poor girl, she doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into.
I close my eyes and quickly open them again. The painting stares back at me. Creepy. Even after all these years, I’m still not used to having my likeness up for all to see.
I take one last glance before running to my room. I trade my teal sundress for a red reversible tank, gray shorts, and Reeboks. My hair is up in a ponytail and I’m back in the living room in less than three minutes.
I walk past Dad. “I’ll be home around eight. We’re getting pizza after the game.”
I swing open the fridge to grab my water bottle. The emptiness inside glows. A stick of butter, two partial heads of lettuce, and a liter of Perrier, all huddled together on the top shelf. I throw the lettuce into the vegetable drawer, tuck the Perrier into the side door, and put the butter in the shelf marked Dairy. I glance over at Dad. His eyes haven’t moved from my portrait, prickly stubble framing his face. It’s almost three p.m., but he’s still in his undershirt and plaid boxers.
“Dad, want me to bring you home a couple of slices or an egg salad sandwich?”
He pulls on a tuft of hair but doesn’t answer. There’s no way he’s having butter and lettuce for dinner. Maybe he has a date. Someone willing to take him out for a four-course meal and a stroll along the beach.
I grip the side of the door. My knuckles turn red. Then white. “Or maybe you want to come to the game. And join us for dinner. There’ll be other parents there, I’m sure.”
His eyes don’t leave the painting. “You look so much like your mother,” he mumbles, then lights a cigarette.
My eyes go wide. “Really?” He’s said we have the same smile or posture before. But he’s never actually said I look like her. And even when a relative or old friend comments on the resemblance, he just clams up.
He takes a drag of his cigarette and exhales. I wait for him to speak, but he doesn’t say anything more.
I glance at my watch. Fifteen minutes until pre-game warm up. Exactly the time it takes for me to walk to the court. It kills me to be late, but it’s not often that Dad mentions her. Mom.
“Did she like having her portrait painted?” I ask.
“Mmm, yes.” Dad looks up from the painting.
“But did she like sitting still?” I play with the spout of my water bottle.
Dad’s lips part. It looks like he’s trying to say something but somebody has muted the sound in the room. Even the air conditioner is quiet. He stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray. “You don’t want to miss your first game.”
So he was listening.
red for victory
I speedwalk the twelve blocks to the basketball court. Despite the heat, near ninety degrees, there are tons of people out today. Most are in bikini tops, sarongs, and flip-flops, heading to and from the beach. Only a few crazy people like me are actually exerting energy.
A group of girls drives past in a BMW convertible, “no you’re not dreaming, it’s really me gleaming” busting through the speakers. The girls are throwing their heads back to the music and laughing. I think they go to my school, but I can’t be sure. Dolphin High is a big place. With over three thousand kids roaming the campus everyday, I stick to my usual group of four—Liz, Skyler, Anna, and me, all friends from Sands Middle. This summer, it’s just me and Liz. Anna’s at her grandparents’ farm in Peru and Skyler got into a math-nerd program at Harvard.
I stop at the crosswalk and wait for the light. The court is easy to spot from here. It’s near the street, but thankfully separated from the traffic by a big chunk of sidewalk and a short walkway, or else we’d be in danger of pegging people with our three-pointers. Behind the court is a grassy area for soccer, and a baseball field. On the other side of the park building are the tennis courts and a little-kid playground, where I used to spend hours on the tire swing and monkey bars.
My teammates are already warming up. I look at my watch—two minutes left. I hit the light again. The walk sign finally comes on and I jog across the street. Maybe if I stretch my way up the sidewalk, Coach Parker will think I was here all along.
I can’t wait to find out how Liz’s date went last night. I yank the metal gate open and shimmy around the edges of the court to get a place next to Number 3. That’s been Liz’s lucky number ever since she eyed the Miami Heat’s Dwayne Wade. She looks like a coconut sandwiched between two palm trees—Kate and Zoey. But what Liz lacks in height, she makes up for in speed.
Liz has her hands high in the air, stretching from side to side. I take the spot right behind her. Coach looks at her watch and frowns, but doesn’t say anything. I now realize when she says be here at three, she really means 2:55. Unlike my dad, who actually means 3:25 because he’s notoriously late.
As usual, everything about Coach is precise. Her coffee-colored hair is cropped short and meets evenly on both sides. There’s not a wrinkle in her shorts or tee and her laces are tied with perfect symmetry. Dad would not last a minute on her court.
“How was it last night?” I whisper to Liz as we’re crouching close to the pavement.
“Amazing.” Her long chestnut ponytail swings to the side. That thing could be considered a weapon. “Harry sure knows how to kiss!”
“Sweet! He’s hot.” We exchange high-fives. Coach Parker barks another order. “Tell me more later,” I say. Harry’s been after Liz for a while. At first she dismissed him as a dork, but after watching him sweat it out during a lacrosse game, she finally broke down. I’m glad she said yes.
We warm up for another five minutes. Twelve red jerseys stretching back and forth. Red, the color of warmth, excitement, and cheer (and of course passion). The Miami Heat, blood, and cayenne pepper. Also the color I’ll end up after this game if I don’t slather on some sunblock. I quickly smooth the lotion over my face and shoulders.
“Did I get it all?” I point to my face.
Liz touches the center of her nose. “Just a little here.”
I wipe in the cream and follow Liz to the bench. I drop my bag and plop down next to Kate. Suddenly my size-ten feet and oversized hands don’t look so huge. I wonder if the men’s department is her hookup for shoes and gloves. She’s 6’1’’, the tallest girl on the team, even taller than Coach. I thought I was tall at 5’8’’ until I met her.
We’re all waiting for Coach Parker to finish talking with one of the program directors. Kate glances over at me. I’m compelled to talk. “Hey, Kate. Should be a good game.”
“Yeah.” She looks me straight in the eye. “And don’t try and steal my thunder. Just because you did well in practice doesn’t mean you know how to play.”
Wait a minute; are we at the same place? I look around the faded court, up at the rusty pole and weathered backboard. I don’t see any sign placing us in the WNBA. No, this is summer league at the YMCA—all can play. Like a few other girls here, Kate also plays for our high school team during the school year. My team experience consists of me and my friends playing a mean game of horse at Skyler or Anna’s house.
“Moi? ” I squeak.
“You heard me, Cassia. I’ve been playing for four years. I know what I’m doing.” Kate stretches her arms out to either side. Her elbow jabs me in the ribs. Is that supposed to intimidate me? Well, it does. How can she think I’m a threat? Like I’m going to go from one summer at the Y to varsity ball at school.
Kate gets up to refill her water bottle and I nudge Liz. “Did you hear what she said to me?”
“No, what?” Liz smacks her gum.
“How could you possibly miss that?”
I let out a huge sigh. “She told me not to steal her thunder.”
“Loco bitch.” Liz rolls her eyes. “I’ll get her later.”
“No, no, let it go. It’s nothing.” I don’t need Liz getting us kicked off the team.
Coach Parker motions for us to gather in a huddle. I stay clear of Thunder. Somehow I end up next to Coach. Her shoulders are broad and by the way she stands, it seems like she’s in position to block a tackle. Maybe she played college football. With a helmet on she could easily be mistaken for a guy. If necessary, she could squash Thunder.
“Heavy on the defense today. The Blue team has some aggressive players. Look out for Numbers 45 and 22.” How does she know this stuff? We’ve only had one scrimmage so far. Maybe they were on her team last year. Or maybe, in her free time, she’s a scout.
“We have them covered, Coach,” Maria yells, even though we’re smushed together like sardines, our heads pressed against each other. Zoey’s sweaty hair sticks to my face momentarily before we pull out of the huddle. Nasty.
Coach glances at her clipboard and calls out the names of the starting players.
Thunder snickers at me after her name is called and not mine. Gee, what did I do? This girl definitely seems psycho.
I take a seat on the bench next to Liz. Liz’s mom and little sister, Crystal, wave from beach chairs on the side of the court. There are a bunch of other parents hanging around, too. Some in chairs, a few in the tiny patch of shade under the big oak tree, and others sprinkled on the two metal benches. I wipe my forehead with the bottom of my shirt. Sweat’s dripping down my face and I haven’t even begun to play. I chug some water.
The whistle blows and the game starts. Reds and Blues hustle back and forth. Thunder makes the first basket. A couple of guys in baseball hats hoot. What if one of them is her boyfriend? Poor guy!