Pure Red

by Danielle Joseph

Maria zooms across the court. She’s good at guarding the ball, too. I guess Liz’s crash course paid off because I’m following everything that’s going on in the game.

  Blue team fouls and the ref blows his whistle.

  “Eleven, in,” I hear someone scream.

  “That’s you, Cass.” Liz gives me a wake-up slap on the back. “Go get ’em!”

  “Now?” I stand up.

  Coach cups her hands and yells, “Move it!”

  I dash onto the court and the whistle blows again. It’s Red’s ball. Number 45 is right in front of me trying to make a block. She’s flailing her arms around like a wild monkey. I do the same. I’m glad nobody I know is watching. Number 45 knocks the ball from Alex, but it bounces off her chest and I snatch it.

  “Go eleven,” I hear a few people scream. Without even thinking, I dribble toward the hoop. Number 45 is glued to me like an acrylic nail. I look to my left. Maria’s only a few feet away. She has her hands up but she’s totally blocked by Number 10, a tall blond girl with a ribbon of sweat dripping down her forehead. I look to my right. Number 6. Short black hair and braces. There has to be someone to pass to, but nobody is open.

  I peer up at the net. It seems so high, so far away. I aim and shoot. The ball bounces off the backboard and slides into the net. Holy crap, a three-pointer!

  Applause erupts from all sides of the court. I arch my back and smile. What do you think of me now, Ms. Cable? I think of the mole on her face and her tightly knit eyebrows glaring down at me, about ready to jump off her face and shake me. “Get a hobby, a sport—anything looks better than blank space. Do it now, Cassia, before it’s too late.” You would think she was talking to a thirty-year-old, not a teenager.

  “Nice shot.” Alex moves swiftly past me. I look to the side of the court, Coach is smiling. Liz’s mom and sister are wide-mouthed too. Sweat stings my eyes. With the back of my hand, I wipe my face and follow the motion to the other end of the court. The white numbers on the backs of our jerseys make us look like paint-by-numbers.

  I glance over to the grassy area facing the street to see if maybe Dad decided to show. My stomach churns. What if he’s really going on a date tonight and that’s why he didn’t answer me when I asked him to come? If it wasn’t for this nameless woman, that’s where he’d stand, in the green spot with the perfect view of the game but away from the other parents. Green, the color of broccoli, basil, and St. Patrick’s Day cookies. My eyes immediately dart back across the court and focus on Thunder sitting on the bench. Her face is a pale green. Jealousy, greed, and envy.

  Where’s your team spirit? I want to call out. I shake off the image of her with gritted teeth and fire in her eyes. I shake off the image of my dad with his arm slung around his date and focus my energy on keeping the ball away from Number 45. My arms are spread wide and I guard the ball like a celebrity bodyguard working a rock concert. I manage to grab a few rebounds.

  The whistle blows and Coach calls us over to the side for a team huddle. We’re up by three, 23 to 20. I made it all the way to the half. I splash water on my face and take a place next to Liz.

  “Nice work, Cass.” She high-fives me.

  “Thanks.” I smile. “Lucky shot, I guess.”

  “You never know, this could be your thing.”

  “Yeah, right, Liz.” I laugh. I guess I’m a rare breed. Most sixteen-year-olds have been playing the same sport for years, but not me. Besides dabbling in drawing and painting, I’ve never really participated in any extracurricular activities. And now I have to play major catch-up if I ever expect to find my true calling. I was on a soccer team for a few years in elementary school, but it’s too long ago to sneak it onto my college applications. I gave it up after Dad pulled me out of school for three months when he was commissioned to paint Parisian Life for the American-French Institute in Paris.

  While he painted, I wore my box of sixty-four Crayola Crayons down to the nub. They were my third box since Mom had died. Dad gave me the first box the day after her funeral. Apricot reminded me of Mom because that was the color of her bathrobe. So that was the first crayon to go. Black (at the time I only associated it with death) was the last crayon left standing; well, that and dark yellow-orange, but that was just because it was an ugly color. I haven’t worked with crayons in quite a while. Now I mostly like the simplicity of an ebony sketching pencil. What you see is what you get.

  –––––

  Thirteen sweaty bodies, including Coach, cling together like Saran Wrap. “Good job out there, team. But don’t get comfortable. We’re only up by three. Hustle, hustle.” She taps several girls on the shoulders. “You, you, you, you, and you are up.” Then, as we break free, she looks over at me. “Good job, Cassia.”

  “Thanks.” I smile all the way back to the bench.

  I settle down, happy to rest my feet. I watch Liz shimmy up and down the court. She’s zips through people almost like they’re invisible. She scores a couple of baskets, but Thunder’s in the lead with two three-pointers. Hopefully that’ll keep her happy for a while.

  It’s funny to be here at the Y. Dad doesn’t play any sports except for the occasional game of tennis, but I wonder about Mom. Did she play ball or run track in high school? She looks fit in all the photo albums. I bet she would’ve come to watch me play. I picture her sitting under the oak, crossed legged, with the other mothers. She’d be fanning herself with a book, her long black hair tied loosely in a ponytail. Just like the picture Dad painted of her looking out at the ocean on their honeymoon in Mexico.

  Thunder’s out, Zoey’s in. Liz’s out. Maggie’s in. I’m starting to get the hang of this. The rotation. Play until you look tired. Or until Coach is tired of seeing you run up and down the court without making an impact.

  The Blues, calm and cool, are gaining. But an over-saturation of blue is depressing—an overturned sailboat lost in the depths of the sea, a body during the final stages of rigor mortis, Picasso suffering through his blue period.

  I’m not going to let them bring me down. They’re behind by one point, 36 to 37. I bite my cuticles. Damn, they score another point. Only five minutes left in the game. Alex dribbles the ball to half-court. She’s blocked by Number 45. She passes off to Kate. Kate reaches for the ball but loses her footing and kisses the pavement. Ouch, that must’ve hurt. Coach calls a time-out and a couple of assistants help Kate to the bench to assess her condition. Her face has gone from green to translucent. She looks like she’s going to hurl.

  Coach glances at Zoey, then me. “You, in.”

  “Me? Okay.” I jump up.

  I weave my way through the numbers and settle in my position. Center. I’m not used to being in the center. I usually hang out in the wings. I focus my eyes on the ball. So round. So perfect. I wonder how they’re made.

  A girl from the Blue team bumps into me, nearly knocking me over. I didn’t see her coming. “Keep your head in the game, eleven!” Coach yells from the sidelines.

  Focus, Cassia, focus. You can’t stand still for a second. I move quickly up the court, following the orange circle to its destination. Dribble. Pass. Shoot.

  I try to stay open, spreading my arms wide like a bird spreads its wings. Sophia passes the ball to me and I catch it. Thirty seconds on the clock. We’re up by one point, 41 to 40. Don’t let the other team get the ball. I sprint toward the basket. I want to make this final shot. Number 45 moves up beside me. She blocks me like a hat blocks the sun. I can’t see the basket. I glance around the court. Alex is open. Throw the ball to her. I take a deep breath and Number 45’s sweat fills my nostrils. Wish I hadn’t done that. I look to the left. Then right. I do the only thing I can think of. The monkey dance. I flail my arms and sway my hips, clutching the ball like a monkey clutches his banana. Then I pass to Alex. Six seconds left on the clock. People are shouting. Alex catches the ball and shoots. She scores!

  Red team wins, 43 to 40.

  Red stands for victory.

  orange energy

  It�
�s just after eight when I walk in the door from dinner. Gerry’s Pizza has the best slices—I don’t even bother with toppings. It’s a sin to add anything to their mozzarella. I invited Liz over, but she has plans with Harry, so her mom dropped me off.

  Dad is finally dressed. Khaki pants and a navy blue Polo shirt. His hair has been tamed back with gel. He doesn’t look like an exclamation point anymore. More like a period. He’s at the kitchen counter sipping a Perrier. “Hi Cassia. Where have you been?”

  Huh? I’m drenched in sweat, wearing a basketball uniform. Didn’t we have this conversation less than five hours ago? “Remember, Dad? My game. Then dinner.”

  “That’s right.” He spins the bottle cap around on the counter. “So how was it?”

  “We won and I scored a three-pointer.”

  “Bravo!” He smiles.

  “So what about you? Did you go out?” I bite my lip waiting for his response.

  “Never left.”

  Did she come here? I look around the room. The place is a mess. The kitchen floor needs to be mopped, and painting supplies are spread all over the living room. I breathe a sigh of relief.

  “So when’s the next game?” Dad asks.

  I place my water bottle into the dishwasher. Top rack only. “Monday.”

  “Okay, remind me. I don’t think I have anything scheduled for Monday.”

  “Really?” That would be totally cool, especially if I score a few baskets. “I’m taking a shower.”

  “We’re having a wine-and-cheese thing at the gallery tonight. You want to come? I’ll wait for you here.”

  “Sure. I’ll be out in ten.”

  I like going to the gallery. It’s a great place to people-watch. It’s easy to tell the artists from the buyers. The artists are people-watchers too, reading the expressions of the buyers, approaching them carefully if an explanation or greeting is needed. The buyers are painting-gazers, soaking in the work, commenting to their companions. You know a piece has generated interest if a buyer doesn’t move from it, ignoring the world around them.

  My favorite buyer is the crazy lady, Mrs. Murble, who once accused her husband of cheating on her with a painting. She said that after they hung the picture in their bedroom, he stared at the thing more than her. I don’t blame him one bit!

  After my shower, I slip on a pair of white capris and a scarlet tank top. I’m sticking with the color of victory for the night. I leave my hair down (it’s wavy if I don’t brush it) and I join Dad in the kitchen.

  “Shall we?” He reaches for my hand and escorts me out the door.

  I stumble over a loose spot in the hallway runner, but I grip Dad’s hand tighter and don’t fall.

  “You all right, ma cherie?”

  “Yes.” I smile.

  There’s a nice breeze outside now and we walk the five blocks to La Reverie Gallery. We’ve walked this route so many times, I could do it with my eyes closed. Straight past the cafes and clubs, swing a left at the farmer’s market, and the gallery’s on the corner. Dad’s been at the same gallery forever. The owner, Lucien Pierre, is like an uncle to me. We spend a lot of holidays over at his house.

  An old weathered guy, with a green mesh tank top and tattered jeans and a paper cup, blocks our path. Dad pulls a bunch of change out of his pocket and drops it into the cup. “Have a good night, Jimbo.”

  Jimbo shakes the cup and gives us a toothless grin. “Thanks, Jacques. You know, you’re the man.”

  We keep on walking, past the laundromat, several coffee shops, and the Bubble Club. When I was small, I thought the Bubble Club was a place for kids to blow bubbles. But judging by all the gigantic boobs that go in and out of the place, I now have a very different picture of what goes on inside.

  La Reverie sits on the corner of Collins and 57th Avenue. There’s Jordana’s hair salon on the right and All-Fed Mini Mart across the street—my favorite place to stock up on cheesy magazines that make me glad no one is chasing me, trying to snap a photo of me in a bikini. Now if I had time to glam up, that’d be another story, but it always seems like the celebs are caught picking a wedgie in their sweats or throwing a major tantrum.

  From outside the gallery, it looks like they have a good-sized crowd inside. Maybe Dad will sell a painting. Hopefully not Lady in Red, one of my favorites. It shows a fair-skinned, bikini-clad tourist sunning on the beach, who obviously forgot to use sunblock. I see this all the time. Don’t leave home without your SPF 50.

  “Good evening, Jacques. Good evening, Cassia,” Monica says, holding the door open for us. What seems like a dozen silver bracelets dangle from her arm. She’s Lucien’s on-again, off-again, now apparently on-again assistant.

  She gives Dad a kiss on the cheek, then me. I walk through the gallery, imagining I’m some super singing sensation just flown in from London on my private jet. Wave. Greet. Smile. Kiss. Exhausted when I make it to my final destination; in my case, the wooden chair behind Lucien’s desk. Dad only makes it halfway across the room. He’s stuck talking to Mrs. Murble. She has on a long flowered skirt that sweeps the floor and her hair is piled high like a sno-cone. Hopefully someone will catch his distress signal (tugging on his left earlobe) and rescue him. Not me. I like to witness her insanity from afar.

  I look up. Lady in Red. Still here, in her yellow-wood frame. Not my first choice in frames—it doesn’t do justice to the beauty of the painting. It’s like a really hot guy wearing suspenders and a bow tie. I’d never tell my dad this, though.

  I can’t exactly explain the feeling, but the first time I saw Lady in Red, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her. She looks like a movie star in her cherry-red bikini and over-sized sunglasses, relaxing on her pale blue beach chair. She’s surrounded by powder-white sand, and at her feet sits the ocean. But it’s more than that. Everything in the painting is in perfect proportion. It’s one of Dad’s finest pieces. Next to it is Lucien’s Masquerade, two couples seated on jumbo-sized wicker couches overlooking a gigantic swimming pool. If you look closely into the clear, aquamarine water, you see a crushed rose at the bottom. Lucien never talks about his love life.

  A waiter approaches with a platter of cheese. He hands me a napkin and I spear a few squares with a toothpick. I leave the fancy crackers for the guests because I know Lucien keeps a box of Saltines in his desk. There’s an open packet sitting in the drawer; I turn it upside down and watch as the four remaining crackers slide out, along with a multitude of crumbs. I lay two down, top them with cheese, then add another cracker.

  I munch on the little snacks and soak in the crowd. Much more interesting than the families at the basketball game. Dad’s talking to some lady with short blond hair. She’s very pretty. She keeps on grazing his arm and smiling. I wonder if she’s the one he’s dating.

  I feel a strong grip on my shoulder. “I see you found my secret stash,” Lucien says. He laughs and crumples up the empty packet.

  “Yup. Every time.” I laugh too, but my gaze doesn’t move from the lioness pawing my dad.

  “How’s basketball going?” he asks.

  “Good.” I nod. “B-ball might just be my thing.”

  Lucien stares at me and strokes his chin. “I can hear the WNBA announcer now: ‘Cassia Bernard scores another three-pointer!’ ”

  “Lucien, Lucien,” Monica yells, mid-crowd.

  “See you later, kiddo.” He pats me on the back and rushes over to speak to a man with a really wide straw hat.

  I wonder if he was serious. Nah.

  My focus is quickly back on the blond lady until she moves on to talk to someone else, giving my eyes a rest. Why hasn’t Dad introduced us? How long have they known each other?

  I take a small piece of note paper, fashion it into a mini broom, and sweep the crumbs on the desk into a pile. I’m about to throw them away when I realize the garbage can has been moved.

  There’s one near the door and another in front of a painting of a homeless woman searching through the trash for newspaper. How fitting.

 
The garbage can near the door looks like my safest bet; no need to upset the homeless lady. I clutch the crumbs in my hand and weave through the crowd. I avoid eye contact with Mrs. Murble and nod at Dad’s accountant, Hank. Somebody is staring at Lady in Red. Somebody new. Somebody with a very cute butt! I feel compelled to catch a glimpse of the butt’s owner, so I inch closer. Then closer.

  We’re almost standing side by side now. Without turning my head, I check out the rest of the goods. He has spiky blond hair and is wearing cargo pants and an orange (energy, power, and strength) Ron Jon T-shirt. Orange, the color of basketballs, Mars, and jack-o’-lanterns, cannot survive without red. He looks about my age. I hope. And he’s tall, too, over six feet. Bonus! Kids never come here alone, though. With my luck, he’s the son of Mrs. Murble.

  He’s not moving. I wonder if he’s interested in the painting in general or just the lady in the bikini. But who am I to talk? I’m staring at his butt.

  “What do you think of this painting?” Cute Butt asks. He speaks! Sexy voice, too.

  I can’t praise Dad’s work. Isn’t that bragging? I return the question. “What do you think?”

  He cocks his head to the side like he’s thinking. Really thinking. “I love the realism and use of shading. They bring out the lady’s emotions.”

  Interesting viewpoint. I would’ve commented on Dad’s brilliant use of colors; all the reviewers usually do.

  “Yeah, this is my favorite of Dad’s paintings.” Oops, did I say that aloud?

  “Jacques Bernard is your dad?” Cute Butt’s emerald-green eyes double in size. He stares at me with the same amount of intensity that he stared at the painting. I feel the heat rise to my face like a 100-watt light bulb overpowering a small room. If you look closely, the lamp has a caution sticker on the top of the base—Bulb not to exceed 60 watts. I hope I don’t explode.

  “Um, yeah.” I back up a bit.

  “Graham Hadley. Nice to me you.” He holds out his hand. Phew, he didn’t say Murble.

  I extend my hand, uncurl my fingers, and watch as a handful of crumbs fall to the ground like confetti. Most of them land on Graham’s black-and-white-checked Vans.