I’m ready to give it my all today. Whatever that is … I’m not really sure. I spot Liz crossing the street and speedwalk to catch up to her. “Hey, girl, wait up,” I yell.
She turns around. “I thought I smelled you.”
“Ha, funny. It’s probably your new perfume.”
She sticks her armpit in my face and makes sniffing noises.
“It’s you.” I laugh. “Is Harry coming to the game?”
“He wanted to, but then he’d have to get off work early. I told him to come on Thursday instead. That’s his day off. What about Graham?”
“What about him? After he meets with my dad today, the game will be over.” I hit the walk button and wait for the little man to appear.
“Come on, coast is clear.” Liz pulls my arm and we dash across the street.
“Yeah, I guess it’s better to get hit by a car than be late for a game.”
“Hey, do you want to run extra laps?” Liz is a few feet in front of me. She swings open the court gate.
Coach is over on the grass talking to some parents and a few girls are already doing their stretches. The Brown team has gathered at the other end of the court. As far as I can see, they don’t have any players as tall as Thunder or Zoey.
Liz and I spread out on our side of the court with the rest of the Red team. We’re finished with the jumping jacks when Zoey and Thunder arrive. Joy to the world!
Coach joins us on the court. “Good, everyone’s here. Finish your stretches, then grab a ball and practice your shots.”
Wait a minute—did she not notice that the Amazons were late? How unfair!
We all line up, but Thunder cuts in front of me. “What’s the rush, chica?” Liz asks.
“Well, excuse me,” Thunder barks back.
“Damn right, excuse you.” Liz clicks her tongue.
“Go ahead, Kate,” I say, hoping to avoid an all-out cat fight.
“Now, she speaks.” Kate looks me dead in the eye. I think she has smoke coming out of hers. I guess that makes me the fire extinguisher.
I hold my hands out to either side in case one of the cats decides to pounce. “It’s really no big deal guys.”
Coach walks up to us. “Is there a problem, girls?”
“No,” I mumble.
Kate hisses, but then grabs a ball, runs up, and shoots. She misses and slams the ball on the ground.
“Cool it, Kate,” Coach yells after her. “Don’t make me bench you for the game.”
“Don’t let that psycho chica intimidate you,” Liz says to me once Coach is out of earshot.
“Yeah, you’re right.” I reach for a ball. “She’s getting on my nerves with that ’tude.” I know that if I just said the word, Liz would threaten her with a barrage of insults in Spanish and her evil stare, but I don’t want her to fight this battle for me. Instead, I’m going to do what I usually do: try and ignore the Thunder beast and hope she goes away.
“Keep it moving,” Coach yells.
I quickly run down the court. I pretend the ball is Thunder’s head and throw it hard. It bounces off the rim, but I give “Thunder” a good slam.
We practice shooting until Coach calls us over for a team huddle. I make sure to stay away from Thunder and so does Liz. Coach is sporting a brand-new Nike outfit with spandex shorts. She looks like that tennis player Serena Williams. Her legs are ripped.
We pile our hands together inside the huddle and Coach says, “Strong defense today. Keep your eyes on the ball.” We finish up with, “Pride!” The huddle folds and the starting lineup assembles.
Liz, Kate, Maria, Zoey, and Teri make up the fabulous five today. One wrong move from Thunder and she’ll be struck by Lightning Liz. Liz definitely has balls, but she’d never risk being thrown out of a game.
The ref blows his whistle and the Browns and Reds become one mesh of color. Mud and blood. By the middle of the first quarter, Mud is up by four points. Some of those girls are really built. Their center looks like she has coconuts for calves. I wonder if they double as a wrestling team.
Lightning Liz moves fast with the ball. She avoids the Thunder and passes off to Zoey. Zoey scores again and again. The Browns are fierce, though, especially Number 20, who plows through anyone who gets in her way. I keep my eyes on them, trying to learn their secret. By the time the first-quarter buzzer goes off, I realize there’s no secret—they’re just that good. The score is 16 to 10, Browns in the lead.
I’m in and out during the second and third quarters. The game is tight at the end of the third quarter. Browns are up by four. I only make one basket, but I hustle like Coach said. I don’t give the Browns the opportunity to steal the ball from me, and I make a couple of decent passes.
Liz’s mom cheers me and Liz on. It’s nice to hear her boisterous voice over all the unfamiliar ones. The Browns have a lot of support. They even have a cheering squad of little girls in Brownie uniforms. I don’t know if it was planned, but it does seem very appropriate. It would be kind of hard to get the Red Cross or the wait staff at TGI Friday’s to show up as our supporters.
Fourth quarter, I’m in with five minutes left in the game. Browns in the lead, 32 to 28. Coach says we can still beat them.
“Eyes on the ball, girls,” she yells from the sideline. I watch the orange circle move back and forth. Teri has the ball. I need to let her know I’m open. This is my chance to score big. My elbows are flexed back and I make like a brick wall, guarding Number 20.
“Over here, Teri.” I wave my hands back and forth like I’m a damsel in distress in one of those old black-and-whites that Lucien has us watch every Christmas. I should’ve invited Lucien to the game. He would’ve showed, even if he had to leave Monica in charge of the gallery. I peer out into the crowd. There are a lot of fresh faces; I’m sure most of them are for the Browns.
Teri tosses me the ball and I hold on tight. I look left, then right, planning my next move.
A couple of guys yell, “Pass, Eleven.” Eleven, that’s me. I look over by the huge oak. There are two guys. One is big and beefy and the other is … no, it can’t be. The one with the blond spiky hair looks like Graham. I’m pretty dehydrated, so it could be that my mental status has been compromised.
“It’s all you, baby,” the beefy guy yells, and Spiky Hair says, “Go Kate!”
What? He knows Kate by name? Graham knows Kate.
Bam! I’m knocked to the ground and the ball rolls away. Ouch, that hurt. I blindly reach for the ball, but somebody grabs it and what seems like a herd of elephants stampedes by me.
I’m wide open again, but now the whole team is at the other end of the court … watching the Browns score … a three-pointer. How did that happen? And the whistle blows … Coach calls for a time-out. Isn’t anyone going to help me up? I look around. My fellow teammates are all gathered over by the bench. I get up and hobble over to them. Coach stops talking and turns to me. “Are you all right?”
I look down at my legs. My left knee is red. But no blood. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Good to hear. But what were you thinking? Eleven out, thirty-two in.” Coach shakes her head.
So much for sympathy.
“Idiot cost us three points. No chance of winning the game now.” Thunder kicks the side of the bench, narrowly missing my leg. No one answers her, but no one springs to my defense either.
The ref blows the whistle and the players are back in position. Four minutes left in the game. Browns are up by seven.
“Are you okay?” Liz taps me on the shoulder, but before I get a chance to answer, she sprints to the court. She quickly scores a shot and everyone cheers. We’re only behind by five now. Miracles can happen.
I remember the potential Graham sighting. Now I really hope it’s not him. He’s leaning against the tree, with the big guy partially blocking him. Besides, the big guy really doesn’t look like someone Graham would hang with. He has his arms crossed and a sneer on his face. I hope that sneer’s not meant for me.
“Oh,
damn,” I hear someone yell. The Browns have stolen the ball and Number 12 is dribbling furiously up their side of the court. Thirty seconds left on the clock. The Reds are not going to come out alive. But wait—Thunder steals the ball, passes off to Teri. Ten seconds left on the clock, and … Teri scores. The buzzer sounds and people are cheering, but it’s the Brown team that won, 35 to 32.
I don’t want to face my team, so I walk over to the tree instead. I’m about five feet away when I get a really good glimpse of the two mystery guys. Definitely not Graham. But still I stand there, mouth gaping. I’m not sure what just happened.
Someone pushes me from behind. “Thanks for screwing up the game, Cashew.”
Ugh, it’s Thunder again. “It was only one shot.”
“Yeah, the shot that cost us the game. Stay home next time if you want to take a nap.” She pushes me again and runs off toward Beefy Dude.
“Bitch,” I say when she hits the outer edge of the court, out of earshot. I watch as she hugs the guy and high-fives Spiky Hair. Thank God, it’s not Graham. But I take one good look at his butt just to make sure.
I walk over to the side of the court to collect my bag and try not to make eye contact with anyone else. No need to tell me how much I sucked. I already know. I almost trip over Coach’s foot when I walk past the bench, which is pretty stupid considering the size of her boats.
She stops talking to Maria and turns to me. “You sure everything’s okay, Cassia?”
“Yeah, I’m really sorry. Everything’s fine,” I say to her Nikes.
She pats me on the back. “Go home and clear your mind. I want you back tomorrow for practice refreshed.”
I lower my head. “Coach, I promise I won’t space out again.” All I had to do was pass or shoot the stupid ball, but instead I totally zoned out.
“You did some good hustling out there today. Just need to keep your focus.”
I nod and take off to meet Liz over by the gate. She has her cell glued to her ear. For once I really wish she would get off the phone. I haven’t talked to her since my big screw-up exactly twelve minutes and twenty seconds ago.
“Let’s get out of here.” I tug her arm.
She gets the picture, makes a kissy sound into her phone, and hangs up. “Are you okay?” she says again.
“Yeah. Why does everyone keep asking me that?” I walk toward the crosswalk, but Liz pulls me back.
“My mom’s bringing the car around. You just seemed kind of out of it at the end.”
“So apparently I’m transparent. I know it’s stupid, but I thought I saw Graham.”
“My mom has pills for that stuff.” Liz laughs.
“This is no time for jokes. I thought the spiky-haired guy with Kate’s scary-looking boyfriend was Graham.”
Liz sticks her finger in her mouth and makes a gag noise. “You’re right. That’s no joke. And her boyfriend does kind of look like an ex-con. Don’t worry, Graham would never hang out with a toad like her.”
“How would you know?”
Her mom beeps her horn and waves. “Go to the gallery and see if he’s still there,” Liz says. “Wanna ride?”
Maybe I should walk. I need to clear my head, let off some steam. Plus, the last thing I need is one of Liz’s pep talks: You can do it, Cass. Keep your head in the game. I don’t need a second coach. One is enough.
“No, I’m fine. Thanks, though.”
Liz hops in the car and holds her fingers up like a phone and mouths, “I’ll call you.”
Yeah, but not before you call Harry back, I think.
golden shower
Half a block from the gallery, I realize I’m still wearing my sweaty polyester basketball uniform. Red, no longer the color of victory; rather, the color of temper and anger. After all, red attracts raging bulls (Thunder). My psychology teacher, Ms. Kravitz, said it’s no coincidence that one of McDonald’s official colors is red. Studies have shown that red stimulates the mind and sucks people in. My theory about the game: the red shirts of our team lured the dull browns in and allowed them to soar to victory.
I’m standing in front of La Reverie now, too tired to turn around, go home, and shower. Actually, I’m hoping Graham is long gone and I can talk to Dad. Alone. I could really use a hug right now. When I was little and came home from school with a frown on my face, Dad would pull out two huge blankets. We’d cuddle up on the couch until he put a smile back on my face.
I finally step inside the gallery and stand at the entrance. The cold air is a welcome change from the extreme humidity of Miami summers. I check for Lady in Red; she’s still there. A smile instantly spreads across my face, and if I squint my eyes, it feels like she’s smiling back at me. For all I know she could be asleep under those shades, but I like to think she’s looking beyond the canvas.
Then I head upstairs to Dad’s studio. I hear them before I see them. Dad and Graham. Talking. Laughing. Talking. Laughing. Aren’t they supposed to be working? What time is it, anyway—five thirty? Shouldn’t Graham be dust by now?
Dad sees me first. “Ay, Cassia, ma cherie, how are you?”
“You had a game?” Graham asks.
Yeah, don’t remind me.
I look at Dad, not Graham. “Yes. We lost.”
“Sorry,” both Graham and Dad gasp, like they’re Siamese twins sharing one brain.
“Yup,” I say, still frozen in the doorway. All the lights are turned on and the studio has an unfamiliar brightness to it. Everything here is communal, so you would never know that three people share this loftlike space. There are easels spread about, a table and chairs in the back, a large cabinet and boxes of paint and supplies in every corner. Lucien’s half-finished painting of a marina is perched on an easel by the door.
“Tell me about it,” Dad says.
I shake my head. “It was really crappy … ”
Dad holds up his pointer finger, signaling me to hold on, and turns to Graham. “Now I remember the name of the Russian artist. It’s Malevich. See if they have anything on him at the library.”
Graham just nods.
“Thanks for asking, Dad,” I grumble, and walk toward his desk in the back.
“Sorry, cherie, please continue.”
“Nevermind.” I position myself against the wall instead, away from them. “So how was it here? At the gallery?”
“Graham’s building an impressive portfolio.” Dad pats him on the back. “He’s got a great eye for detail.”
“That’s nice,” I say, and really mean it until I remember my not-so-great attention to detail. Apparently, I wouldn’t even know a basketball if I was holding one in my hand. No, I was too busy mistaking Thunder’s friend for Graham. That’s like mistaking prune juice for Coke, which, by the way, I only did once.
I think Graham senses I’m an emotional wreck; either that or my high rate of perspiration sends him running because he asks if we have any water. Dad directs him downstairs to the mini-fridge and I take a seat on the paint-splattered footstool.
With my elbows pressed against my thighs, I let out a huge sigh. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
Dad pulls up another stool and sits facing me. “I’m sorry. I know how you feel.”
I lift my head. “You do?”
“Of course. I told you the other day I wanted to come. And I bet all the other parents were there, too.”
His face is peppered with tiny whiskers. He can’t go one day without shaving.
“Don’t worry about it. I sucked anyway. Messed up an important play.”
He leans in closer and squeezes my arm. “You don’t have to tell me. I’m really sorry. I’ll come to the next game. I promise.”
I hear footsteps on the staircase. Graham’s back with a bottled water. “Everything’s fine, Dad,” I say, and get up from my perch.
“Good to hear.” He stands up, too.
I feel like crying. I cost us the game, and I need to curl up on the couch under heavy blankets even though its eighty-five degrees out
side. Sure it was only one shot, but why did it have to be THE shot?
I look over at Graham, sketchbook tucked under his arm and a permanent smile tattooed on his face. How can I throw a hissy fit when someone else is so genuinely happy? I can’t. That’s not me.
“I’ve got to run. I didn’t realize it was so late. But thanks so much, Mr. Bernard, ah, Jacques. I’ll be here at ten tomorrow,” Graham says.
“My pleasure.” Dad reaches out to shake his hand.
Then Graham turns to me. “I’ll see you later, Cassia.”
My body perks up. “Okay, great,” is all I can think to say. But then my shoulders quickly slink down into hunch mode. Of course he’s going to see me later. That’s like stating a fact. The sky is blue. I look like crap today. I’ll see you later. Graham’s got what he wants now. Full access to my dad.
He leaves, and I wait for another half hour until Dad finishes up a small canvas he was commissioned to paint for a friend. It’s a painting of the guy’s Nemo fish. Fish don’t count as portraits, apparently. Plus, money talks. I don’t know too many people willing to shell out a grand for a picture of their fish. What’s next, a still life of the guy’s toaster?
I don’t even want to think about going to practice tomorrow and facing everyone. I’m such a moron. From now on I’m not going to look at anything but the ball. Maybe I should wear horse blinders.
I play the scene over in my head. Teri has the ball, can’t move due to overload of Browns. Cassia is open. Cassia waves her arms wildly to proclaim her freedom, and catches the ball. Cassia thinks of Dad (always him), turns for a split second to the oak tree, mystery man is standing there shouting “Pass, Eleven!” Cassia falls into a deep hallucination and thinks mystery man is Graham. With her mind elsewhere, Cassia gets slammed by a Brown and drops the ball, causing damage to her already compromised brain. Now if only I can convince my team that cerebral injury is the most likely explanation of the events that unfolded.
“Why so blue, kiddo?” Lucien pulls up Dad’s stool and sits beside me. He’s wearing a cream-colored linen shirt and suit pants. He looks funny sitting on a small, paint-splattered stool. There’s something on the corner of his shirt. Looks like a ketchup stain.
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