by Liara Tamani
“My bad. I wasn’t even thinking about the surgery. What’s the doctor saying about your chances of being ready for the playoffs?” he asks.
Periwinkle, I decide. I’m lying in my bed with my notebook, filling in the white space around Rex Carrington with the words Numbers never really die in multicolored columns. “Don’t know. I have an appointment next week. Supposed to tell me then.”
A text comes in from Jordan: I’ll get it back from him tomorrow. I swear
You better, I text back. I can’t believe this girl has lost the menu with the first kisses fact on the back. And I still can’t find the original fact on my walls anywhere, so it’s even more crucial for Jordan to find it. And no, I can’t just write it again like she suggested. It wouldn’t be the same. For real, Jordan
Ok . . . ok
Earlier, Jordan’s mom said she couldn’t go to the game because she needed to study. So Jordan gave the menu to her brother to give to Cole to give to me. The problem is, her brother never gave it to Cole. When Cole didn’t show up for shootaround, he gave it to Chico—this dude I used to date on Cole’s team. Now, everybody and their mama know I dumped Chico over a month ago, but I guess Jordan’s brother didn’t get the memo.
So now the first sign on me and Rex’s path is in the hands of a dude who doesn’t know the difference between they’re, their, and there, but who had the nerve to call me stupid for saying that crossing the train tracks on Westheimer at the exact same time it started pouring down hail (it was only pea-sized, but still!) was a sign that we should take a break.
“I’m sure you’ll be good to go.”
“What?”
“You know, good for the playoffs.”
“I guess we’ll see,” I say. And then add, “But when can I see you, though?” to get on to more important things.
“When do you want to see me?” he says, putting some extra smooth sweetness in his voice, like he’s spreading a layer of Nutella over his words. I can’t even lie. . . . It’s sexy.
“Like now. Like right now,” I say, and laugh. “But I guess I could settle for this weekend.”
“Look, I’ll drive out there this second if you want me to.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“No, I’m serious,” he says.
My heart lights up at the possibility of seeing him. “You wouldn’t get in trouble? You can sneak out this late without your parents noticing?”
“I wouldn’t have to sneak. It’s only my father and me, and he doesn’t really care what I do,” he answers in a voice that tells me he doesn’t feel lucky to have so much freedom.
The hurt on his face earlier today jumps to the front of my mind, and I want to ask why his father doesn’t care and where his mom is. But thinking about turning the conversation toward parents is making my own pain feel naked. A dark cloud swoops in, covers it, and I say, “Well, I’d definitely get in trouble. What about Friday?”
“I have a game on Friday. What about Saturday?” he asks.
“That works.”
“Okay, text me your address.”
My address. Dang, that’s what Daddy called about earlier. Cole and I will be staying at his new rental house this weekend. But how can somewhere I’ve never been, somewhere Daddy doesn’t belong, be my address?
Daddy’s supposed to be lying on the sofa in our living room right now, watching SportsCenter. He’s supposed to be standing in front of the stove tomorrow morning, whisking pancake mix in his big plastic bowl (the only plastic bowl in the house . . . Mom’s tea is not the only thing she’s bougie about). I swear sometimes I can still hear him shouting at the TV. I can smell his aftershave when I walk past the stove. But he’s never there to reach out and hug me.
The cloud grows larger, but it’s still not big enough to cover the pain. I put down my notebook and pen and gently reach for the lamp on my nightstand—cover myself in pitch darkness.
“I mean, not right now or anything. I can get it from you later.”
“Huh?”
“Your address. No rush. We have all week,” Rex explains.
“Yeah,” I say, struggling for more words. Lying in bed with Rex on the other end of my phone should feel like heaven. But the darkness all around me, inside me, won’t let me feel anything good. “I’m about to go to bed.”
“Okay, talk tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
“And the day after that?”
“Yeah.”
“And the day after that?”
A tiny sun peeks up from behind the cloud inside of me and I answer, “Yeah,” smiling a little.
“And the day after that?”
More suns, rising higher. “Yeah, and the day after that,” I say, and add a brief “bye” before hanging up, holding on to the good.
REX
Carli’s street has a dope canopy of trees. Getting out of my pickup truck, I can’t help but look up at the bright February sun peeking through the leaves of the large oak at the end of her driveway. Through the leaves of the oak beside it. And the one beside that, leaves wilding out in the wind. The sidewalk is lined with live oaks on both sides.
But walking up her driveway, I stop when I notice a sick magnolia tree alone in the middle of her yard. It makes me think about how trees like to grow close to each other. How they depend on each other. Sure, aboveground they may throw a few ’bows to get the most sun. But underground, they share—water, nitrogen, and nutrients—especially when one of them is suffering.
Even the strong trees, like the oak at the bottom of her driveway with the huge trunk and the mature crown stretching across the street, go through things. Even the strong ones do better when they’re not alone.
CARLI
It’s half past noon, and I’m sitting on the sofa in the living room of Daddy’s rental house, which is way out in Woodside, closer to his job. Closer to Rex, too, who’s supposed to be here any minute.
I should be happy that I’m here with Daddy, that I’m about to see Rex. But it feels weird having Rex come here to pick me up for the first time. To this foreign house, where he’ll look at these foreign walls, walk on this foreign carpet, and sit on this foreign couch. And as if all this foreignness wasn’t bad enough, everything is beige. It’s like whoever decorated this house had a motto: If it ain’t beige, I ain’t buying it.
But apparently beige is the color of the universe. Yes, all the color of all the light of all the galaxies amounts to what scientists call cosmic latte—basically beige. Wouldn’t think it, would you? Just found that fact on Google. I needed to find one good thing about this sad color around me, about this sad situation that led us to this sad house where Mom will never be. This bland house with no memories.
I write down the cosmic latte fact in my notebook with my brown Le Pen, cursive letters taking up most of the page, and draw small messy stars all around them, hoping they’ll help light the way forward in this new house. Then I crease the paper around all four sides, folding it back and forth, and run my nail along the creases to make sure the paper tears clean.
Now that’s a good rhombus! And I already know exactly where it needs to hang. I push myself off the sofa. Hard. Even harder because it’s one of those sofas that tries to swallow you whole. Good thing my stomach is feeling better. No way I could’ve done this last week.
My new room is bare except for a bed underneath a large multipaned window, two cherry nightstands with iron scroll lamps, a matching dresser, and that life-sized poster of Candace Parker. I know, I know. I said she was coming down. But I didn’t have the heart. Daddy was too proud of her. But you know what I will do? I’ll pin this cosmic latte fact over the orange-and-white Spalding she’s dribbling up the court.
Much better. Candace’s yellow Los Angeles Sparks uniform will be next. Then her black knee braces, then her orange high-tops, and finally her black socks. Her face can stay. It would be a shame to cover such a determined face. Oooo, maybe I’ll add a little speech bubble next to her mouth with a quote about those anc
ient penguins who grew to be almost seven feet tall.
The doorbell rings. Rex. If only I had the hospital menu to give to him today. But Chico claims he gave it to Cole, who claims he never got anything from Chico. So who knows where it’s at now?
“I’ll get it!” Cole shouts from the kitchen. He’s been in there making snacks for Rex for the last hour.
Dang, can I be the one to answer the door? Rex is my date.
“Oh, is Rex here?” Daddy yells from his bedroom.
“Yeah,” Cole shouts back. And by the time I walk out of my room, Cole is already whizzing past me to answer the door. I swear, Daddy and Cole have been entirely too excited about Rex coming today.
Cole swings opens the front door. “What up!” he says, and reaches to give Rex a hug.
REX
Cole hugs me, and it feels like love. Carli, standing right behind him, smiles at me, and it feels like love. Carli’s dad comes around a corner, filling out the hallway frame with his tall body, and it feels like love.
Hold up. I’m not used to this. My father doesn’t give two shits about me—fact. No need to sugarcoat it. And sure, Angie checks for me. But at first, she was paid to. And she has the people she’s never been paid to care for waiting for her at home. Also fact. And no girl has ever truly cared about me. Maybe the basketball me, but never the real me.
And now it’s like a few people are showing me a little love and I’m losing it. Filling up with way too many feelings, way too fast. I cannot, will not, start crying again. Crying in front of Carli once was enough. Twice in less than a week and in front of her family? Nah, dawg, I’m not even going out like that.
“Derek,” her dad says, sidestepping Carli for a handshake—weaker than what I expected coming from a man even taller than I am.
Carli rolls her eyes, only a little bit but I still catch it. She’s standing behind him, sliding her small, gold medallion back and forth across its chain.
Her dad continues, “Carli tells me you live close. Hope it wasn’t too hard to find.”
“Nah, not at all.” I say.
Carli playfully throws up her hands and says, “Dang, is it my turn now?”
Man, does she look good. She’s wearing this faded black 2Pac T-shirt under a pale purple cardigan, some ripped jeans, and her burgundy Blazers. Doesn’t even look like she has on makeup. Not that she needs any.
I take advantage of her open arms to get up in there for a hug. I don’t want to hug her too tight now. Not with her surgery. And not with Cole and her dad standing right here watching, either. But her hair. I forgot how good it smells. It’s like putting my face in a hedge of jasmine. I take two deep breaths, forgetting all about the audience.
Carli lets go of me. “Come,” she says, and takes my hand.
We sit on the sofa, situated in front of three large windows, and I sink into its softness. I’d almost forgotten what it feels like to sit on a comfortable couch. It feels like home.
Without telling us to pose, Cole snaps a pic of Carli and me with his phone and then says, “Made some fresh guacamole and lemonade. Want some?”
“Do I?” I say, smiling. Love me some guacamole. Makes all of the frozen taquitos and burritos I eat feel like a real meal. And I must say, my guacamole goes hard. Cole better come with it.
“Hope you can take a little heat. I make mine spicy.”
“Trust, I can take the heat. I make mine with jalapeño and serrano,” I respond.
“All right, then,” Cole says, and disappears into the kitchen.
“Hope you can take all this attention,” Carli says, and widens her eyes, “because damn!”
“I have something I want to show y’all,” Carli’s dad says excitedly, like he has big news. He’s standing up in front of the TV with two remotes in hand. Once he gets Apple TV up on the screen, he settles into the love seat beside a big fake tree.
Can somebody please tell me the point of fake trees? They don’t give oxygen. They don’t clean the air. They’re frauds. Who wants to be looking at a fraud every day? But I try not to let the fake tree bother me. This house is only temporary anyway. Carli said her mom and dad are just taking a breather. A little space for a few months, then her dad is gonna move back in this summer.
Carli is up on the screen. Ah, man. Look at her. Can’t be more than six or seven with a million twists, and she’s dribbling a basketball. Even that young, the girl had handles.
“Daddy!” Carli protests. “Really?”
“It’s not too long, I promise,” her dad says, staring at the screen, eyes wide and full of pride.
Carli rolls hers, but I don’t know why. I can’t imagine my father looking at me the way her dad looks at her. I can’t imagine my father taking the time to do something this special for me.
The montage of videos and photos moves from year to year, uniform to uniform, and hairstyle to hairstyle with Carli dribbling, shooting, stealing balls, breaking away for layups, headlining newspapers, accepting awards, and—wait. That’s me.
At a basketball camp hosted by the Houston Rockets when I was eight. How did he find that picture? I’ve never even seen it. And me again, winning my first AAU championship when I was, like, ten. Angie took that same pic from a different angle. Newspaper clippings, team photos, and online articles from over the years. The times I made the highlight reel on ESPN.
I can’t believe he did all of this for me. He doesn’t even know me. Damn, here it comes again. This feeling of love, filling me up, trying to spill over. I blink it back.
Cole walks in with a tray of guacamole, chips, and lemonade, and I’m over the brim. A tear falls down my right cheek, and I wipe it quick. But not before Carli sees. I let go of her hand and stand up.
“Excuse me for a minute,” I say, trying to hold my voice steady and get up out of there.
CARLI
“Not cool,” I say, and stand up. “Rex is my date. Mine. Y’all around here trippin’ over him so hard that y’all scared him off.” I walk over to the front door. “I swear if y’all have messed this up for me—” I can’t think of anything to complete the threat, so I repeat, “I swear,” and walk out, annoyed I’m not dramatic enough to slam the door behind me.
Outside it’s bright and cool. Rex is standing near the big tree in the center of the yard.
“Your magnolia has scale,” he says.
“Yeah?” I say, not really knowing what he’s talking about. I walk onto the freshly cut grass, crunching beneath my Blazers, to be with him.
“The infestation is pretty bad. It needs to be sprayed.” He runs his fingers along the branch of the tree and starts picking off some gross-looking white stuff.
It’s a pretty tree, I’ll admit, with its huge, waxy leaves and white flowers. But this is not my tree or my house. “We’re not going to be living here that long.”
“I know, but if the tree doesn’t get treatment, it’ll die,” he says like it’s a big problem. Like it’s my big problem.
“Okaaaay.” Look, I don’t want the tree to die, I really don’t. But I also don’t have time to be worried about a random tree right now. “Why you so worried about a tree?”
REX
I really don’t want to be this dude. This crying-ass dude. Where did he come from? I’ve been going through life cool. Sure, I have a father who hates me and a dead mom, but that’s been the case from day one. And I’ve been cool.
But it seems like ever since I met Carli, this dude keeps creepin’ up on me. I came out here to get away from him. Started telling Carli about the scale on the tree to keep away from him. But here he comes again.
“Trees make me feel close to my mom,” I say, truth pouring out of me. I pick at the scale on a small limb, trying to keep the crying-ass dude away.
“Where is she?” Carli asks, and interlaces her fingers with mine. She starts to walk.
I let go of the limb and walk with her, off the grass and onto the sidewalk. “She died,” I say.
“I’m so sorry,” she says
, looks over at me, and squeezes my hand.
I want to kiss her. Yeah, the timing might seem a little weird, but I need something to help me kick this dude to the curb. It’s time for him to go.
But before I can stop and lean in, Carli says, “Can I ask how she died? How old were you?”
I start to overflow. I mean, I’m crying hard. Right in front of Carli.
Carli stops walking and turns toward me. “It’s okay,” she says, and brushes my cheeks with her thumbs.
But it’s not okay. Not only is it ridiculously embarrassing to be crying like this, I’ve never talked about what happened to Mom to anyone. Not even Angie. Sure, we’ve talked about her, but never what happened to her.
Carli grabs my hand and starts walking again.
I look down at my blurred, black-and -red Jordans—one in front of the other, in front of the other, on white concrete. I am dude and dude is me. There’s no getting away from him or the answer to Carli’s questions. It’s banging around inside me like it wants to be free. Like it’s been waiting to come out since the day I figured out what I’d done.
I was four and Angie was showing me a stack of old pictures she’d found. Mom pregnant at the park. Mom pregnant at a museum. Mom pregnant in the living room. Mom pregnant at the hospital. And then the pictures ran out.
But do I really have to admit out loud to killing Mom? I admit it to myself every day. I tell Mom I’m sorry every morning when I wake up and every night before I go to sleep. I ask her for forgiveness every time I go to the free-throw line. I hate myself for it. Isn’t that enough? But the banging is getting stronger, blurred J after blurred J, and then looking into Carli’s teary eyes.
“She died giving birth to me,” I admit to her. “Yeah, I’m the asshole who killed his own mom.”