Ari shook her head. “No. I get to pick what people see.”
“But there are so many of them. And all they’re interested in is your face. Your body.”
Ariana’s eyes drifted toward the ceiling. She sank deeper into the tub, burying her chin in foam. “I know I don’t look like that in real life. I’m not, like, delusional.”
“Ari, you’re beautiful in real life. That’s not my point.”
“Insta is great, because on there I’m in control of what I look like. And what I say and how people see me. Every new follower is like a point, and if I get enough points, I’ll be successful. That’s just how things work now.”
Ruth was scared that if she said too much, Ariana would stop talking. And she was scared that if she said nothing, Ariana would ruin her life.
“Successful at modeling?”
“Yeah, or anything.”
Ruth was confused. Her own passion had led to a level of fame that, without the scaffolding of basketball, would have been a nightmare. Did Ariana look at her mother’s life and long for the effect without the cause? The fans without the game? Unease washed over Ruth. The water was too hot, the various perfumes and moisturizers seeping from her child’s pores too fragrant.
Ruth said, “What do you want to be when you grow up, Ari? What would make you happy?”
The knobs of Ariana’s shoulders rose briefly from the bubbles. “I want to travel everywhere. And meet all kinds of people. And feel good about myself. And make a lot of money, like you.”
Ruth wanted those things for her daughter. She did not, in this moment, want to argue with her daughter. Too often she tried to figure out what she thought of Ariana, or what others must think of her—whether Ariana was turning out good or bad. Wouldn’t a better mother try harder to understand how it felt to be Ariana? To want what she wanted, to get what she got?
Ruth asked, “Is modeling the only career you can imagine for yourself?”
Curls spilled from the pile atop Ariana’s head. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were wide and Lester’s. “No. I think I’d be good at it, though.”
This was the end of their conversation, and the start of Ruth’s knowledge that she would, ultimately, do nothing to undermine her daughter’s confidence. For all of Ariana’s posing and preening, she was savvy in a way Ruth hadn’t been at her age. (In deciding where to go to college, seventeen-year-old Ruth had accepted Georgetown’s offer in no small part because she liked the colors of the team’s uniforms.) It should not have come as a surprise to Ruth Devon that her own daughter intended to follow her dreams to the end of the earth and back. Ruth only wished that Ari’s talents had less to do with the pout of her lips, with her body mass index, with the silky ditches of her hipbones.
Back in their room, while Ariana took a shower, Ruth was reunited with her phone. The Sonics had won Game Seven and would advance to the conference finals against the San Antonio Spurs. Ruth, who had predicted their victory, was nonetheless stunned she hadn’t been there. She opened Twitter and scrolled past highlights of Darius and Emory pick-and-rolls. Past alley-oops and corner threes. Past Coach Hollis Waters tugging on his tie as he scolded the ref. Attached to a tweet of a single blushing emoji was a video of Emory’s walkout. Ruth hit play faster than she could assess whether she really wanted to.
Ruth had told Phillip to give the assignment to Dominique Lord—a thirty-six-year-old Black reporter whom Ruth had known since Dom was a kid fresh out of J-school. On the sideline of WNBA games, Dominque’s combination of warmth and frankness loosened her interviews. She had a unique willingness to meet players where they were, asking “How are you doing tonight?” when there was no other question they wanted to answer. Ruth was sure she would handle the pandemonium of the playoffs with poise and perceptiveness. But Phillip had gone with Brittany Glass, an anchor the network had poached from Fox a year earlier.
Brittany was a fan favorite, but she lacked postseason experience. Flustered under pressure, she asked Emory Turner about a “beautiful outlet pass” to Tobin Whitestone. A competent question—except that Emory’s pass had not been to Tobin. Emory had passed the ball to Chris Washington. Both Chris and Tobin had entered the NBA four years ago. They had similar haircuts. Emory balked, offended. “When I passed the ball to who, now?” His side-eye would be preserved in a GIF, repurposed for replies to conservative politicians.
Brittany turned the color of canned beets. “When you passed to Tobin? No—Chris! I’m so sorry. It was Chris. Chris Washington.”
By the end of the walkout, the flames on Brittany’s face had died down. Emory even thanked her (though not, Ruth noticed, by name). In the scheme of things, it was a small fuckup, and one that would have been forgotten if not for the GIF. Still, Ruth found herself entertaining a conspiracy theory: Had Phillip, with his unrestricted access to Brittany’s ear, sabotaged the interview to punish Ruth?
The notion was absurd. Each broadcast was Phillip’s baby, the network the love of his life.
In Ruth’s hand, her phone dinged.
Get back to Seattle, he had written. And all will be forgiven.
GAME FOUR
Cincinnati, Ohio
Wildcats – Supersonics
2-1
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Ruth and Emory are in folding chairs at the free-throw line. Facing each other, hours to go until tip-off. Emory is tense. His elbows dig into his quads as he leans forward in his chair, rocking like a ship unwillingly docked. He touches his hair, his face, the back of his neck. While Ruth’s stage manager confers with a camera operator, a skills coach—young and white and lanky—jogs across the floor and delivers to Emory a paper bag marked with an S. Emory nods his thanks.
In the bag is a sandwich. Peanut butter slathered on thick, jelly a ribbon of crimson between two slices of Wonder bread. In four mechanical bites Emory makes the sandwich disappear. As he crushes the bag in his fist, he catches Ruth’s eye. Freezes.
“You want one?”
She laughs. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
Emory sustains eye contact, staring down the depths of her hunger. Athletes and pregnant women have cravings in common. “Strawberry or grape?” he asks.
Ruth swallows. “Grape.”
Emory turns to the skills coach, charms him with a half smile, a flash of teeth. “Can we hook Ruth up with a PB&J? Grape?”
The coach lifts an eyebrow. He would rather stretch a rookie than fetch a snack for a reporter. “No problem,” he says, and jogs back toward the tunnel.
Ruth’s stage manager tells her it’s time. She shakes some feeling into her crossed leg and takes a breath. The red light shines in her periphery.
“Emory Turner. How are you doing? Are you ready to talk about Game Three?”
Emory’s expansive smile is an unconvincing mask. “I’m always ready to talk to you, Ruth.”
“It was a tough loss. That last possession, under a minute left, you guys were up one and you got a good look. But you missed it. Next thing you know, Darius Lake grabs the rebound. A little bit of isolation play, and he hits it from over thirty feet.”
Emory’s smile has evaporated. He’s looking at her with clinical boredom, as if listening to a receptionist read his phone number back to him.
“That wasn’t good basketball,” he says. An official diagnosis.
Ruth’s silence hovers attentively.
“It was a bad shot. You say there was an iso? There was no iso. He didn’t give me a chance to guard him. That was dishonest basketball. Ask anyone—ask Darius in a few years. He’ll tell you.”
Looming somewhere behind Ruth is the Sonics PR staff. Ruth can sense their eyes closing, faces falling into splayed hands. The network will rush to get this soundbite online, no question. By tip-off, Emory’s comments will have expedited his transformation from rival to villain. Cincy fans will boo every time Emory touches the
ball—and Ruth knows the satisfaction of rooting against someone! But she also harbors a soft spot for the players who struggle with their off-court conduct. It takes no effort to imagine her younger self scowling into a lens or muttering into a mic, deriding her opponents. Truth is, Ruth sympathizes with a sore loser.
“You say it was a bad shot—” Her tone is thoughtful, therapeutic—“but it was a game winner.”
Emory slumps in his chair and pulls the neck of his hoodie over his mouth. His eyes roll toward the rafters in reluctant consideration. He could redeem himself. He could admit fatigue or jealousy and take it all back—but does he want to?
When Ruth remembers Emory and Darius of past seasons, before the trade split them up, she thinks back to a goofy promo video she filmed with them halfway through their eight years as teammates. The interview was largely scripted, structured like a game show. She quizzed them on each other’s favorite foods and most irritating habits. She compared their strained memories of the first time they met. The terms bromance and man crush left Ruth’s lips. Then Ruth presented the players with a garbage bin full of household items. Darius and Emory shot baskets with a football, a loofah, an eggplant, a slinky, a saucepan, a plush Sasquatch in a Sonics jersey, a head of cauliflower. The immediate, unselfconscious pleasure they took in the game was obvious, their rotation of trash talk and high fives mesmerizing. So much raucous laughter reminded Ruth of partnering with her best friend for a school project or staying home alone with her brother. She could not resist calling a bank shot with a bag of Basmati rice, and when the bag slid down the glass and tumbled through the net, Ruth threw her arms in the air. Emory roared her name.
What’s clear, now, is that the headlines have eclipsed the friendship. By sneering at his former teammate, Emory is trying to start something. Or to turn something real into something demanded by the market. Because an enemy is less distracting than a friend.
In basketball, anyway.
Ruth can’t offer him relief. The brothers-to-enemies narrative is one she helped construct—she doesn’t deny this. For Emory there is no way out but through, and there is no way through but to win.
“Luck,” he says finally. “Not skill. Luck. Next question.”
Ruth has infinite questions at the ready. She could ask him about his morning workout or his ever-evolving relationship with Coach Morris. His new signature shoe. His nearness to breaking the record for triple-doubles in a postseason. The video of him and his two daughters lip-syncing to the Moana soundtrack. She could simply ask him how he is. It’s tempting to treat him like a buddy—to let her shoulders unfurl and expression soften and say, “Emory, how’s it going?” Sometimes, it’s the right call. But today, wanting the network’s approval more than Emory’s, she lingers on the player’s frustration. It’s not her job to lead Emory out of it, but to bring viewers into it.
“You and Darius, the leaders of your respective teams, are under a tremendous amount of scrutiny. You’re expected to be players first, humans second. Is there anything you want to say to the fans who might not understand that kind of pressure?”
The word pressure triggers a response Ruth has heard from Emory before. “Pressure? This isn’t pressure. I’m the youngest of four boys. Single mom. She cleaned houses. She cleaned houses even when we had the flu. Even when she had the flu. Pressure was her putting food on the table. Pressure was making sure I got that offer from Duke.”
She wants to tell him that he’s allowed to experience this, too, as pressure. Contrary to frequent tweets chastising him for perceived ingratitude—strangers citing his wealth and stardom, his boyish fantasy of a career—he is allowed to feel burdened by those anonymous eyes always watching, waiting.
“So you don’t experience public criticism as pressure?”
Silence follows, but the air isn’t dead; the air is fraught, taut with possibility.
“It’s a distraction. It’s noise. One more thing to block out.”
“When you’re on the court, and it’s the finals, and you’re playing against your best friend, is it possible to block out the noise?”
Emory’s hands grip his knees. He levels Ruth with a look, and now she knows she has him. He’s speaking to her alone.
“The NBA is a business, okay? And getting my team to the finals, that’s my job. Winning tonight is my job. It doesn’t matter who’s on the other team. Bell could put my mom in the game and I’d still win. But this is a job I’ve given my whole life to. My time, my energy. My family’s time and their energy. My body and my mental health. So what happens on the court isn’t always going to be pretty; it can’t always be some cold transaction between emotionless guys—it just can’t. We’re human. And I’m not apologizing for that.”
Over Emory’s shoulder Ruth sees the skills coach return, paper bag swinging from his fist. Ruth’s longing for the sandwich has ebbed. Still hungry, she’s no longer sure she can keep anything down.
“Thank you, Emory,” she says.
Before calling Ariana from the greenroom, Ruth checks the app that tracks the location of her daughter’s phone. For years, Ruth would have given anything for a portable crystal ball, the ability to spy on her kid. Both to alleviate her anxiety—Ari was safe, not sobbing—and because she was curious: was Ari kind to other children? Did her teachers favor or resent her? Now, with the combination of the tracking app and Ariana’s social media accounts, Ruth’s surveillance of her daughter is more tantalizing than satisfying. She can see where Ariana is. Whether she has tweeted or liked other people’s tweets or responded to inquiries about her skincare routine. What good is this information, really? Her daughter is alive, chin dipped periodically toward her phone. The confirmation, though comforting, will never be enough.
Tonight, Ariana’s icon is stationary, nestled within a Potomac Falls cul-de-sac. Chandler’s house.
Ariana picks up the phone cooing “Hiiii,” in that way that signals delight to the people by whom she’s surrounded and remoteness to the person, the mom, on the line.
“Where are you?” Ruth asks, as if she can’t already picture the two teenagers folded into one corner of a leather sectional, tangle of limbs obscured by a soft blanket.
“I’m just at Chandler’s. We’re studying for our calculus final and then we’re going to watch the game.”
Wasn’t Ariana through with Chandler? Wasn’t she ready to move on from predictable parties in carpeted basements? Ruth supposes it’s no mystery: what bores also comforts. And what could be more comforting to Ariana than a skinny boy in sweatpants, rising to socked feet to yell at the game?
“You’ve been hard to track down lately,” Ruth says.
“Yeah, sorry. I have finals, and Manny’s been bugging me to stay on top of my social. Especially with the Brandy Melville shoot coming up? I’m taking a bunch of meetings in LA, apparently.”
Across the room, Phillip is spreading cream cheese on a bagel while gesticulating at a director. In a corner beneath a panel of flat screen televisions, Roxanne is interviewing Supersonic Tobin Whitestone. Ruth has retreated to the greenroom knowing the presence of her colleagues will prevent her from burdening Ariana with news of the embryo, the pre-sibling about whom Ruth promised her daughter she would never have to worry. (How recently did she make this promise? Ari was maybe fourteen or fifteen, looking askance at her mother after Ruth mentioned her own gynecologist appointment.) It’s not that she wants to tell Ariana, but that her daughter is a person to whom Ruth sometimes blurts things out, honesty seeping from her like sweat.
“Remember to prioritize your exams. Those will matter more in the long run,” Ruth lies.
“Don’t stress. I’m handling it. Honestly, Mom, I’m in a really good place right now. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so centered. Manny’s really confident this Brandy Melville shoot will open doors for me. I just feel like it’s all happening, you know?”
With each of h
er daughter’s claims, Ruth’s heart beats a little faster. Ariana is reciting Instagram captions into a cell phone. She has demoted Ruth to audience member, a casual fan to be safeguarded from reality. When it’s over, when Ariana has run out of affirmations, Ruth says, “That’s great, honey.”
“Mom,” the diamond-hard brightness suddenly gone from her voice, “are you for sure not coming to graduation?”
Before Ruth became a mother, she expected the primary emotions of motherhood to be love and pride and maybe fear, if only because so much love leaves a person vulnerable to the devastating loss of the source. No one warned Ruth the dominant emotion would, in fact, be guilt. As a mother she understands her own flaws as malignant, her own missteps as violence. Her absence is the worst crime of all. The night Ruth called her first-ever game, Ariana woke up screaming, smacking and scratching at the stitches holding her hairline together. Though Lester calmed her down with a bottle and the last few minutes of Dumbo, Ariana fought sleep until Ruth returned to rub circles on her back, to sing, “You Can Close Your Eyes,” her voice cracked, compromised by the game.
Sometimes Ruth’s absence resulted in a loss for Ruth—the first time Ari peed in the plastic Elmo potty, it was with a babysitter cheering her on—but mostly Ariana was the victim. When Ari’s second-grade best friend betrayed her, Ruth was in Minneapolis. When Ari got her first glimpse of herself in braces and passed out cold in the orthodontist’s chair, Ruth was in Sacramento. When Cheryl had the audacity to inform Ariana that, unfortunately, yes, Ruth was going to hell, not heaven, maybe purgatory if she really cleaned up her act, Ruth was in Oklahoma City. And when Ari bled through a pair of white denim shorts on a date with a fellow eleven-year-old named Sawyer, Ruth was in Miami. Whenever these reports reached her secondhand, Ruth thought her breastbone would snap.
Now Ruth feels a twinge of irritation toward the high school administrators for the scheduling gaffe. If the ceremony coincides with the championship, how many dads will spend the evening pining for their televisions, hoping to make it home in time for tip-off? She’s beginning to resent the graduation march as a concept. Masquerading as a gift to moms, isn’t it another test? Like the junior high newsletter’s plea for chaperones or the daycare’s Mother’s Day brunch? If Ruth had been free to don a paper crown and eat a Costco cupcake in the middle of a Friday, she wouldn’t have required the daycare’s services in the first place.
The Second Season Page 14