by Ann Herrick
He stopped and slowly turned around. "What is it? Why are we whispering?"
"I'm sorry for what I said before. I was upset. That's no excuse. I'm really sorry."
"Yeah, well, it ticked me off," Russ said. He shrugged. "I guess I didn't need another doughnut. So … why are we whispering?"
"I'm going out to meet Keeley and I don't want to deal with Mom and Dad." I hesitated, then said in a moment of sibling unity, "He's taking me to a wheelchair basketball practice. Why don't you come too?"
"Okay. Sounds fun," Russ said. "Besides, I don't want to deal with Dad either."
We sneaked downstairs and slipped out the front door. I saw Keeley coming down the street and tried to signal him not to pull into our driveway. But he didn't see me.
"Come on," I said. "Let's go before Dad hears us."
We made a dash for the van and climbed in as fast as we could.
"Hi," Keeley said.
"Hi, could we get going?" I checked the door for any sign of Mom or Dad.
"Sure," Keeley said. "But what's the hurry?"
"Hold it, young man!" Dad ran out the back door shaking his fist.
"Hello Mr. Groner. How are—"
Dad stuck his finger through the unrolled window and jabbed it in Keeley's face. "I knew you were trouble. You're responsible for Sivia's outburst. Just because you can't get involved in sports doesn't mean you have to talk my daughter into quitting softball!"
"But, sir," Keeley said. "I—"
Dad aimed his finger at me. "Sivia! Don't let this guy influence you!"
"Keeley, please." I dug my fingers into his arm. "Just get us out of here."
"Okay." Keeley's big brown eyes revealed his confusion. To Dad he said, with exaggerated politeness, "Excuse me, sir. I don't want to be late for basketball practice." He backed into the street, leaving Dad sputtering in the driveway.
After we'd ridden a couple blocks in silence, Keeley said, "Mind telling me exactly what's happening?"
"It's what is popularly known as 'a long story.'" I spelled out the whole messy scene. "The worst thing was Mom not coming to my defense."
"Do you expect your mother to always come to your defense?"
"Whose side are you on, anyway?"
"You're the one I'm concerned about." Keeley pulled into the parking lot of the community college. "We'll talk about it more after practice, okay?"
"Okay," I said, only partially placated.
The community college was just a few years old, so it was completely wheelchair accessible. It didn't take us long to find our way to the gym.
At first it totally was a jolt to see so many guys in wheelchairs. I mean, I've seen a few people around town, and, of course, now I knew Keeley. Still, it was weird. Once Keeley introduced all of us, however, I didn't feel so awkward.
"Some of us are Class III players, the top classification in this league," Keeley said. He laughed when he saw Russ's jaw drop. "Don't look so surprised. It just means we're the least impaired. For instance, you'll see that guy, Bill, over there get out of his chair after practice. He can walk, but with a limp. Some of these guys could play college basketball if they didn't have some form of disability."
Russ whistled softly.
I had to admit that I was impressed too.
"Wait'll you see the Class I guys play," Keeley said. "They have the highest level of disability. Some have problems with balance and struggle to stay in their chairs. But lots of them are great shooters."
"Hey, Parrish!" Bill called. "Are you going to practice or talk to your girlfriend all afternoon?"
Keeley laughed, and wheeled out on the floor.
I grabbed Russ's arm and we headed for the bleachers.
The players started out with easy laps, then raced each other while fast dribbling. Next, they did sprints up a steep ramp.
"Man, they do tougher laps than my team does," Russ said.
Keeley started doing pushups while holding onto the side of his wheelchair.
"Yikes!" I said. "I'm tired just watching."
"Too bad Dad's not here." Russ grinned. "I'd like to see his face when he saw what an athlete Keeley is."
"No kidding," I said. Maybe when things were settled with Dad and me—if they ever were—I could get him to go to one of Keeley's games. With the proof staring him in the face, he'd have to be impressed.
I pushed a lock of hair in back of my ear. If only I could figure out a way to talk to Dad without either of us losing control. Maybe I could get him to see that pitching wasn't the problem, that it was the pressure from him. That, and Marcy.
"Man, this game can get rough." Russ sat perched on the edge of the bleacher.
I noticed that if a player fell out of his chair in the center of action the game was stopped and he was helped back into his chair. But if he fell away from the play, he had to try to get back into the chair himself.
Players who raised themselves off the seats were called for fouls. Fouls were also called for contact, but I did see a lot of fingers pinched between wheels, and there was no whistle.
Practice moved at a fast pace. Players didn't lack coordination. They easily made passes, faked shots, and made baskets. They moved and spun so quickly that I expected a mass collision. But when they had to, they could stop their chairs almost instantly.
If Todd saw these guys, I thought, he'd be inspired. I think. I hope.
Before I knew it, practice ended. Keeley wheeled over to the bleachers and wiped his brow. He puffed. "I think I'm out of shape."
"You looked good to me," I said.
"Ah." Keeley clasped his hands to his chest. "How I've longed to hear you say that."
"Don't let it go to your head."
"No problem. It went to another part of my anatomy."
Before I could even blush, Russ, who was apparently oblivious to the conversation so far, said, "Do you guys practice that hard all the time?"
"That was my first practice with those guys," Keeley said. "But it was fairly standard. You have to stay in shape for this sport." He thumped his chest and looked at me.
"If you're waiting for me to say 'you're in great shape' again—"
"Thanks."
"But I didn't actually say—"
"'You're in great shape.'" Keeley grinned. "Those were your exact words."
"Why do I feel as if I'm on the witness stand?"
"Hey, I just remembered," Russ said. "I'm supposed to meet some of the guys at the park in fifteen minutes."
"Okay," said Keeley. "Let's go."
We dropped Russ off at the park, then Keeley drove me home.
"Is it safe to pull into the driveway?" Keeley asked, only half joking.
"Yeah, I don't see Dad's car."
"Okay." Keeley pulled in, but left the motor running. "You know, so far my advice hasn't brought any great results. But I think you should try talking to your folks again."
"Yeah, well, I might want to start with some Middle East Peace Negotiations first and work my way up to Mom and Dad."
"Whatever." Keeley grinned.
"Hey, you know what I'm thinking?" I said.
"I can only wish I could read your mind."
"Ha, ha." I punched Keeley's arm. "I was thinking that when Todd gets out of the hospital, we could take to one of your basketball practices."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, I mean, even if his leg is going to okay, he's not going to be running around on it for months. Maybe if he sees what you guys can do …."
"That we actually get out and play basketball and stuff, you mean?"
"Yes." I smiled. "So, what do you think?"
"Anything for good old Todd." Keeley leaned over and brushed my cheek with a kiss.
"Um, thanks." As I got out of the van, my breath quickened and my cheeks grew hot.
In the kitchen I found a note from Mom. She'd gone shopping. I let out a short sigh of relief. Maybe time alone would help me think. Was it Todd Keeley was willing to do a favor for—or was it for me? Maybe I wa
s looking for a reason to spend more time with Keeley, with Todd as an excuse. Did it matter, as long as we helped Todd?
I couldn't keep going around in circles about it. I had Dad to think about too. Meanwhile, I felt like having a snack, so I splurged by heating up a blueberry muffin to have with a cup of chamomile tea.
I broke the muffin in half. I watched the steam rise out of it. That was how I felt about my "discussion" with Mom and Dad, as if I'd opened up and let out all my steam.
I hadn't planned on threatening to quit softball. But now that I'd said it, maybe it was something to consider seriously. No pressure from Dad, no condescending looks from Marcy.
After I finished eating, I tossed out the muffin crumbs for the birds. I tried calling Ilana again. No answer.
Since I had the house to myself, I decided to take a rare long, luxurious bath. I filled the tub with scented bubbling bath oil, and slid down into the hot water until I was up to my chin in bubbles. At first I wanted to stay there forever, half-floating in a perfumed paradise. But after a while I got kind of bored. And I was starting to look like a prune.
I hopped out of the tub, wrapped myself in my long, blue terrycloth robe, and called Ilana again. This time, connection! "Hi," I said, hoping I didn't sound as desperate as I suddenly felt. "I need to talk."
"Sure," Ilana said. "What's up?"
"Plenty." I gave an anxious little cough. "I don't know where to start ...."
Chapter Ten
I decided I needed a face-to-face, so the next morning Ilana and I met downtown at The Shelf Paper, a café and used-books store. I got my usual tea. Ilana, always head of me in the adventure zone, ordered a mug of Hot Mocha-Carob with a huge dollop of whipped cream. We slipped into a booth next to a wall of books.
Ilana stirred her whipped cream into a mocha-carob froth. "So ...?"
I decided to take it one thing at a time. I started with the blowup with my folks over me not playing softball.
"You really want to quit?"
"I don't know what I want." I swallowed a sip of tea. "The real problem is that my folks are furious, and I don't think I even got my point across about the pressure I feel when I play softball. Dad flipped out. I threatened not to play. That's how it stands."
"Hmm." As Ilana sipped her mocha-carob, her brows drew together in an expression of deep thought. "Maybe you should try talking to them again."
"I know that!" I tried not to let my exasperation show. After all, Ilana was trying to help. "But in my family differences of opinion always turn into shouting matches."
Ilana drummed her fingers on the table. "Okay, why not talk to your parents alone. I mean, separately. You know, one at a time."
I thought for a minute. "That might work with Mom. I don't know about Dad. He's always so ... intense."
"Let me think." Ilana closed her eyes and wrapped her hands around her mug of hot mocha-carob.
I sat there, expectantly, watching the steam rise from her mocha-carob. It hit me. "I know! I'll get Dad to meet me here."
"Here?"
"Sure. In public. Home is like a pressure cooker with memories of all our old fights ready to explode." Similes and metaphors poured out of me. "Here, out in the open, maybe we can let off steam slowly, until it evaporates."
Ilana blinked. Then the little cloud of confusion lifted. "I get it. Good idea."
I raised my cup of tea in a toast. "We've dealt with Problem Number One. Now for Problem Number Two."
"There's more?"
"Keeley."
"Keeley?"
"Well, really, it's me."
"You?"
"I mean, it's how I feel when I'm with Keeley."
"Which now is ...?"
"Well. You know. Fine. When it's just the two of us. Or maybe us and Russ and Mom. Or us and the guys at practice—"
Ilana held up a hand. "I get it. The question is, But?"
"But when we're out in public ...." I paused, then continued. "This so sounds yucky. I still feel uncomfortable. I can't help it. I wonder if people are staring at Keeley. Or me. Or me and Keeley."
"You mean 'cause of, you know."
"Mostly." I couldn't help releasing a small smile. "With Keeley, he could have the world's strongest, sexiest legs with absolutely no need for a wheelchair, and he still would look kind of ... dorky." I hesitated and stared into my tea. "But, yeah. It's mainly the wheelchair and all." There. I said it. Out loud. "You must think I'm a creep for feeling that way."
Ilana shrugged "You can't help how you feel."
"Thanks."
"It's how you act that counts."
Blind-sided! "B-but how can I stop acting self-conscious in public?"
"Remind yourself how you feel when it's just the two of you."
"Easier said than done." I swallowed hard.
"Isn't everything?"
I had no answer for that one.
"Okay," Ilana said, "if you want easy, well, giving up is easy."
"Yeah …." I sipped my tea. "That reminds me of Problem Number Three."
"Maybe I'd better check my calendar," Ilana said. "How many problems do you have and how much time will we need to discuss them all?"
"This is the last one. For now. I promise."
"Okay." Ilana sighed. "So what is Problem Number Three?"
"Todd."
"Todd, as in Todd Bowman?"
"How many other Todds do you know?" I tried to keep the annoyance out of my voice.
"Several, actually."
"Point taken." I ran my finger around the edge of my tea cup. "I want Todd to see that even if … if the worst happens, he can still have a good life."
"And you are planning on doing this how exactly?" Ilana's question was accompanied by a significant raising of one eyebrow.
"Okay, I know it won't be easy." I paused, then said, "I thought that when he gets out of the hospital I'd take him to one of Keeley's basketball practices."
"Sounds good. So what's the problem?"
"Um, that's just one idea. I thought maybe you could help me come up with some more."
"Hmm." Ilana drummed her fingers on the table. "I don't know. You don't have to drag him to a hundred different events with people who have handicaps doing stuff. Just make Todd see that Keeley doesn't sit around feeling sorry for himself, he just goes out and lives his life."
"Yeah, I guess that's the thing to do," I said. I sipped my tea, trying to wash away the guilt I felt because Keeley was way more comfortable about his not having legs than I was.
That night, I tossed and turned as I thought about what Ilana said. Giving up would be the easy way out. Giving up softball. Giving up on Todd.
Giving up Keeley.
Was that what I wanted? A life where I just gave up every time things got tough?
It'd always been so easy to give up and do what Dad said rather than question his decisions or plans. But whose life was I living? His? Or mine?
I had to start making my own decisions. I wondered if I even knew how.
Chapter Eleven
Cornering Mom the next day was not as easy as I'd thought, considering it was one of those Monday holidays.
"I'm sure I told you I invited Ted Hawkins over for brunch," Mom said as she cut up chunks of melon for fruit salad. "But if you really need to talk ...."
"It can wait." I didn't want to compete with a melon for Mom's attention.
Russ sauntered into the kitchen and tried to snitch a freshly baked cinnamon roll. Mom slapped his wrist. He dropped the roll back onto the platter.
"You know," Mom said as she washed a bunch of grapes, "it'd be nice if you two were dressed by the time Mr. Hawkins gets here. You are included in the brunch." Her left eyebrow rose a fraction of an inch. "I'm sure I mentioned it."
Russ whispered to me, "Love turns the brain to mush."
I rolled my eyes. Mom and Mr. Hawkins? Well, at least it put her in a good mood.
"What was that, Russ?" Mom scooped coffee into the filter basket.
; "Nothing," Russ said. "I was just going upstairs to change."
The brunch was kind of weird, but kind of nice. Mr. Hawkins brought flowers, which made Mom practically swoon. At first nobody said much.
Mr. Hawkins mostly blushed. But after a couple of cinnamon rolls and a big helping of fruit salad, he opened up. I'd never thought of accounting as a source of humor, but he told some stories that got us laughing.
He asked me and Russ about school and skateboards and cooking-class assignments. He showed genuine interest in our responses, and, best of all, didn't offer a word of advice. Of course, I suppose that could change if he and Mom got really serious. But it was nice that he didn't start off with a dose of unsolicited suggestions.
"More coffee, Ted?" Mom asked with a smile that took years off her face.
"No, thank you." Mr. Hawkins held up his hand. "Everything was delicious. But I'm stuffed. How about a walk to wear off some of those calories?"
"What a wonderful idea," Mom said, as if it were truly revolutionary.
"We'll clear the table and load the dishwasher," Russ said.
"Thank you, dear." Mom must have been in another world not to have gone into shock at Russ's offer.
As soon as Mom and Mr. Hawkins left, Russ said, "I wanted to make sure they didn't ask us to go on the walk with them."
"Not much danger of that," I said. But as we loaded the dishwasher, I got the feeling Russ wanted to talk to me, though he'd never just say so.
"Think they'll get married?" Russ tried to sound casual as he asked a question that was anything but.
"Maybe." I shrugged. "At this point, who knows?"
"He's an okay guy, don't you think?" Russ tossed a fork into the silverware basket. "Mr. Hawkins, I mean."
"Seems nice enough."
"Mom likes him, and, well, he's, you know, calm."
"Yes ...." It was weird discussing Mom's love life.
"Maybe if he was around a lot that calm would rub off on Dad."
Don't count on it, I thought. "Maybe."
"But I don't think he'd try to replace Dad. Do you?"
"No." I placed my hand on Russ's shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze. "I don't think so."
The only time Russ had ever come to me with a series of questions like this was when it was starting to look as if Mom and Dad would get a divorce. This time, however, Russ didn't sound scared, just concerned that, well, all this was okay. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves," I said. "After all, Mom and Mr. Hawkins have just started seeing each other."