Wannabe More

by Billie Dale

  Can you hear the but coming?

  Mazric Jason Vortex is six foot nothing with a glowing warm soul and he’s smart. But if you told me he’d become a phenom headed for the NBA I’d laugh you out of the room. Let’s face it; basketball players are trees. I’ve helped him since he was ten years old to be better than his height. He could’ve been a football, soccer, or any other player where his stature wouldn’t be a factor, but he has dreamt of being the next Michael Jordan for years. We worked to perfect his three-point and beyond shot because the only way to shoot a basket over a towering defense is to do it from a distance. He’ll never be a short-court player but he’s quick, precise, and consistent. A secret weapon who, if left open, will take a shot from two steps beyond half court and swish it.

  He’d throw away years of training and hope if he knew about the baby. No way would he stay in California and he can’t enter the draft for a year per the National Basketball Players Association. We could ride it out until he’s nineteen and then his career could begin, but a young draftee on the road for eighty-two games a year isn’t the way to raise a new baby. Since he lost his dad, he wouldn’t risk living without his child and I need the help offered here. When the time is right, I’ll tell him, but for his future and mine this needs to stay my responsibility.

  Twenty-eight weeks back my world imploded and opened at the same time.

  Carrie and I finished the cabin, she stayed with me Monday through Wednesday while I attend class, then we drive back to Double V Ranch and I spend the rest of the week helping Dad fix cars and doing chores. Thanksgiving is right around the corner, and Carrie is hounding me to talk to Mazric. Yes, I’m still avoiding his calls. I thought being caught up in practices, studies, and parties he’d put me out of his mind. We weren’t talking much before because of his schedule, but the more I circumvent, the more tenacious he becomes.

  Only a handful of people know I’m pregnant and since I avoid town, no one’s noticed my recent development. The baby bump. Thanks to the cooler temperatures and a raid of Mazric’s closet, I stay hidden in oversized hoodies and yoga pants. Carrie found me a doctor near campus in Lexington and I’m due in April. We’ve fallen into a great rhythm, and with my second trimester the vomit rave the fetus kept partying up with my insides faded. I haven’t felt the lima bean move yet but the doc promises it’s soon.

  Mazric and Preslee aren’t coming home for Thanksgiving. One perk of being poor, they can’t afford two trips so by the time they arrive for Christmas I’ll be ready to deliver my lie. Two days before Turkey Day I receive a red alert text from Preslee. Panicked I call her from Carrie’s house phone.

  The second the call connects, “HE’S GONE,” screams through the line. “Oh my God, oh my God, Sam, did you hear me?”

  “What do you mean gone?” I ask.

  “I went to campus to see if he wanted to hang out and have turkey with me. After searching the courts, I went to the athletic dorm where I ran into his hot teammate. Whew, that is one fine man...”

  “PRESLEE! Stay on subject.”

  “Right, sorry. Any who, this fine ass guy told me Mazric said he had an emergency at home. I guess he’s been a real dick to deal with and the coach isn’t happy. His buddy loaned him the money and Maz took the first cheap flight he could find.”

  “When did he leave, Pres?” Sweat dots my forehead and my lungs refuse to fill with air.

  “Sometime yesterday, I think.”

  “He should be here by now. Shit, shit, shit.” I pace twisting myself in the chord. “Preslee, thanks for the heads-up. I gotta find him. He doesn’t know I’m not in...”

  “Baltimore.” His voice rushes through my ears, punctuated by the slamming of the screen door. “You want to tell me what the fuck you’re doing here?”

  My breath hesitates and my shaking hand slowly lowers the receiver. I spin meeting his chill popping glare. “Mazric,” escapes on a whisper. Preslee shouts for me to call her later as I replace the handset on the cradle.

  His hair is longer, disheveled from frequent fisting, and the back hangs below his collar. The dry-wicking material of his Under Armour shirt pulls snug on his chest, and I notice he’s bulkier. The strap of his duffle drops from his shoulder, he grips it, throwing it across the kitchen.

  “So, Samantha...” He mocks my name. “Tell me why you’re not nor have ever been in Maryland? ‘Cause I’m fucking confused.”

  “Things changed after you left and going to school in Massachusetts didn’t pan out. I transferred to the University of Kentucky.”

  He shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “And these things prevent you from answering the damn phone when I call?”

  I shift from foot to foot unable to meet his glare. “M-m-maz, there’s something I need to tell you.” This is not how I wanted this to go and now as I prepare to rip us apart, I hate myself. He’s here and I’ve missed his voice, touch, and friendship. The second I saw his face I wanted to throw myself in his arms. All the sickness and confusion of the past weeks left me craving the clearness listening to the beat of his heart brings. He’s here, in snuggling distance, and I know if I nestle under his chin his arms would hold me and the shaking anger clinching his fists would melt. I’ve hidden from this moment because this fragment of time is where I lose him forever.

  My stomach flutters with a muscle twitch. As if a butterfly tickled my skin by spreading its wings inside. The tiniest of spasms holds the largest meaning. Unthinking my hand sweeps under my sweatshirt to my bump. Against my palm the flesh thumps with the first kicks of my unborn child. Awestruck, I stay motionless, reveling in the phenomena of life growing inside me.

  “Sammy?” His questioning tone shocks me back to the situation, killing the smile tipping my lips. For a millisecond I want to grab his hand and share one of many firsts. But when my wet lids blink up, he’s not watching my face instead his stare locks on where I’ve pulled up my top.

  His tanned face pales and his eyes narrow to slits, locked on my stomach, as his feet close the space between us. “Maz,” I whisper fighting tears.

  I could tell him. Perhaps he’d be okay and we could figure it all out together. Formulas and plausible solutions stack like Legos in my mind. I factor each variable, working the math into a favorable outcome. The truth tangles my tongue, ready to spill from my lips when his stare meets mine.

  The reality of spilling my secrets reflects in the pure confused fear fluttering his eyelids. His black pupils expand consuming the whiskey brown. The warm honey I love vanishes and his eyebrows stretch to his hairline, digging thick wrinkles in the smooth flesh. Rapid breaths shake his torso as though he sprinted the length of the Boston Marathon.

  In between the squinting flip of his eyelashes, my hopeful equations morph, factoring with his horror-stricken expression my split second of hope cyclones down the drain. I choke down those words of honesty, replacing them with my original lie. Before I change my mind, I shove out the syllables on a single breath. “I went to a party after you left. There was a vat of mixed alcohol-laced punch, and since I’d been drowning in sadness, I imbibed too much, enjoying the blissful numb comfort the high proof provided. Honestly, I don’t remember a whole lot beyond a certain point in the night, but the next morning I woke up next to a guy. I can’t even tell you his name because I ran out of there so fast. We were both drunk and I guess we didn’t use protection or the inebriated fumbling led to inaccurate application. I’m pregnant.”

  Thirty-Eight

  SAMANTHA

  HIS HEAD JERKS AS THOUGH I’ve punched him. Tripping over his feet he stumbles backward. “Bullshit!” he spits. “No, no way,” he bellows, shaking his head with violent jerks. “Who? Who is the father?”

  “I-I-I told you, I don’t know his n-n-name.”

  “Fuck, Sam. Do you think I’m stupid? If, and it’s a big, non-actual if, you ever got pregnant from a one-night stand you wouldn’t stop until you questioned every person at the damn party and had a name. Plus, even drunk ou
t of your mind YOU DON’T FORGET ANYTHING! It’s not rocket science. I could go there now and return with the fucker’s family history in ten minutes. So tell me, Samantha Lee Gentry, why are you lying to the man you proclaim to love about getting knocked up by some random?” The small patch of flesh between his brows relays an entire thesaurus of emotions. More than I thought possible: distrust, rage, curiosity, and possible insanity.

  All the time spent rehearsing floats off like a turd in the sewer. I thought I had an ironclad story with cohesive believability. After the mess with my first go at lying, I closed the holes in my tale, but I got distracted with all things ‘my life kinda sucks’ and dropped the proverbial ball.

  Hands on my hips, I retort, “Well, what you think doesn’t matter now, does it? I’m having a baby. Who the sperm donor was is of no consequence, and frankly, it’s none of your damn business. You and I agreed to stay close, to keep the friendship we had before intact, but you didn’t have time for me and now, I don’t have it for you. Go back to California, Mazric.”

  Hurt and disbelief flash with each slash of my words but at the end pure rage reddens his face. “Nice, real nice. Flipping the bitch switch to get rid of me. Who. Is. The. Fucking. Fath—”

  “I am. The baby is mine.” Hendrix stands at the screen door. “We got drunk and hooked up while commiserating over broken hearts.” He steps inside, allowing the door to slam behind him. “I’m sorry, Mazric.”

  I want to shout and scream because this wasn’t part of the plan. Hendrix was never a variable in my solution.

  Mazric’s jaw drops and his body recoils as if I ripped the heart from his chest. “No. No fucking way. I rode with you all the way from New York, and you listened to me go on and on about what was going on with Sammy, and you think a simple apology will make it all better?” He shifts from foot to foot, clenching his fists open and closed. Red splotches paint his cheeks. “She’s mine, you sonvabitch.” His fist connects with Hendrix’s mouth, throwing him through the door. The sick thwack of muscle meeting flesh echoes in the quiet.

  Frozen in place, trying to understand what the hell is going on I’m helpless to stop Mazric from following his prey. Hendrix tumbles down the stairs, landing on the ground. Mazric straddles his waist, holding his shirt in one fist while pummeling his face with the other. I snap from my trance racing to help. “Stop, Mazric, please.” My begging falls on the deaf ears of Mazric’s rage.

  “Maz! Honey!” Carrie bellows, running from the barn but her son isn’t listening. “MAZRIC JASON!” she screams as my dad sprints across the meadow. My pulse rushes through my ears, slowing the scene and filling my drums with static. Daddy sweeps an arm around Mazric’s waist, dragging him off our friend. He thrashes, using his arms and legs to fight the hold.

  “Enough, son,” Daddy grunts out, adding his other arm to keep Mazric from breaking free. Carrie tends to Hendrix, helping him off the ground. Blood coats his chin, dripping from his nose and lips. Smudge red scrapes highlight the swelling of his right eye, growing exponentially by the second. I’m torn between who needs me more. Lost in aching fright, I miss Dad’s hollered warning. Mazric breaks free, rushing Hendrix once again but this time I step in his path. My hands up and eyes squinted closed I brace for impact from his adrenaline-infused charge.

  The bones in my wrist bend and crack from the blow. Blinded in his rage, he didn’t see me until it’s too late. My legs falter, sending me backward with a second to brace myself for impact. I wrap a protective arm around my stomach, hoping when my ass collides with the ground the baby’s cushioning will protect it against the fall. Hands dig in my armpits and strong arms stop my tumble.

  “Mazric Jason Vortex, what in the Billy-blue-hell do you think you’re doing?” Pappy Joe roars, setting me upright he shields me with his body from his grandson.

  “Oh God, Sammy. No. Are you okay?” Panic shades his crimson face white as the raging anger drains from his body. His mop of chestnut hair hangs on his sweaty forehead and blood stains his knuckles as his hands reach for me. I recoil from his touch, afraid of him for the first time in my life.

  He’d never hurt me, and I thought there wasn’t a malicious bone in his body, but the hamburger mess of Hendrix Carmichael’s face tells a different story.

  Hurt flashes in his eyes at my retreat and his anger returns. “Forget it. I’m sorry you got in my way, but I’m sure you’re fine. Take that piece of shit, so-called friend of mine and yourself off my fucking property. Neither of you are welcome at Double V ever again.”

  “Mazric, you’re angry. Don’t say words you can’t take back,” Carrie warns.

  “Angry? Seems too simple a word to describe this fucked-up mess. You kept their secret. All of you sat here on this juicy little nugget, while I worked my ass off setting up a routine to give me an hour every night to spend talking to my girl. Only to find out she was off fucking my friend because she felt neglected and sad.” He paces the drive kicking up rocks and dust with his furious stomps.

  “Boy, careful with those barbs you’re slinging, that’s my girl you're putting down.” Daddy’s shoulders stiffen as he tucks his hands into the tight cross of his arms to keep from striking out at Mazric.

  A cold, hard barking laugh leaves Mazric’s lips. “Unbelievable,” he thunders.

  I deserve his hate. Breaking him was the goal, right? Make him despise me enough so he’ll move on with his life and never look back. So why does it hurt so much? The stupid little girl in me thought we’d all come out of this for the better and still friends. I mean this is us and after the fire flames out, we will still be Mazric and Sam. Best friends forever. A miniscule part of me hoped when the rains of understanding doused his fury he’d be by my side. If I tested my genius on this clusterfuck, my resulting IQ would be in the negatives.

  Hendrix claiming paternity of my unborn child came out of left field, socking me in the head like a stray fly ball and killing any hope of forgiveness. My brain’s still trying to process his reasoning.

  “It’s best if y’all head home.” Pap’s grips my elbow, nudging me toward my dad.

  Carrie worries her bottom lip between her teeth, glancing with concerned heavy lids between the three of us. “Yes, for now take Sammy and Hendrix and go.”

  I step forward to say something, anything, to Mazric. “Samantha,” Hendrix’s swollen mouth lisps my name.

  “Yeah, let me save you the trouble, since you all chose sides already. I’m outta here.” His brisk steps move to a sedan sitting in the drive. Standing in the open door he hesitates, skipping a glance past me his hardened glare lands on Hendrix. “Best of luck, man. I’ve known her for years and never knew she had the attention span of a gnat. The second she feels alone, she’ll screw one of your friends and get her a new baby daddy.”

  “Not cool, Maz,” Hendrix mutters, fighting his injured lips.

  Shaking his head. “No, it’s not, but it is the truth.” He slips behind the wheel, starts the engine, and tears down the driveway.

  CARRIE LYNN DEMANDED we explain ourselves. I countered with her patching up Hendrix first. I spilled all the ugly leading to why he resembled the loser in a Mike Tyson fight, while she cleaned up the blood and applied butterfly bandages. Bags of frozen vegetables over both eyes, he pretends to be invisible when I reached the curious part of the story where he made his grand announcement.

  Drumming her nails on the table, Carrie cocks a brow giving him the stink eye. “Yes, Hendrix, you want to explain what the hell you were thinking telling my son this baby is yours?”

  He lowers the icy packs, mocking her glare. “Have you heard her try to sell the story of conception? I mean the story of Jesus is more believable.”

  “How are you even here?” My teeth grit together, and I tuck my hands under my thighs to keep from slapping him. He deserves a good thump to the back of the head but he’s already black and blue.

  “Preslee called yesterday with an SOS.”

  Yesterday? If she knew then why did she wait
to tell me?

  “I see the wheels turning, Samantha. Don’t kill her yet. After she found his room empty, she followed the music to a major party in one of the communal areas. Attempting to blend, she grabbed herself a red cup teeming with punch no human should drink, and worked her way through the people asking about his whereabouts. Fast forward an hour and a half, combined with too many drinks, and she ended up horizontal with one of his teammates.”

  A searing pain passes through my forehead, throbbing in my temples. I massage at the ache with my fingertips, squint my eyes closed, and bargain myself out of screaming the list of obscenities piling on my tongue.

  He saves me some effort by continuing. “Remember this is Pres we’re discussing. The yeast in the breadbox of her brain is known not to rise. Beautiful, creative, but not always bright. Instead of carrying her beverage as a prop, she kept drinking. While collecting her morning after, hungover walk of shame belongings she remembered what started her quest. Basketball stud spilled the beans about another teammate loaning Maz the money because he’d been a pain in the ass for weeks and the coach was ready to give him the boot. Guess where he flew to?”

  Since I never told him I changed schools, he would’ve knocked on the door of my sponsor family, who sent him here, but it still doesn’t explain the addition of Hendrix Carmichael to the mess.

  He made a snap decision. Figuring Mazric would demand answers from his sister, Hendrix told Preslee to send Maz his way in New York. Thinking he could steer him back to California when Mazric arrived, he scrambled then Nona Carmichael intervened and rented a car for Maz to drive home. Figuring he could hedge the drama he agreed to tag along. The grueling nine-hour impromptu road trip involved more questions than the Spanish Inquisition. “He never doubted your fidelity, so when you spouted your awful story, I knew he would never buy it, plus you’re a shit liar. Think about it, Samantha. He was seconds away from putting the puzzle pieces together. I panicked and said the first thing to pop in my head. Not my best moment but it worked. You got what you wanted; he went back to school believing I’m the father.”