by Liara Tamani
Rex pulls me close to him. “Well, at least you don’t have to deal with that.”
REX
Fuzzy hair on my face before I feel her lips.
CARLI
I kiss him a thousand times. Until I exhaust my guilt about ditching his pain. My guilt about lying. Until there is only me and Rex. And the urgent pleasure of our lips. And my insides turning colors. Brilliant colors.
REX
I open my eyes. Pull my lips away from hers. Push her hair back away from her face. My hands are shaking.
I need her to know what she’s given me.
Shaking so bad it feels like I’m taking off.
What I’ve always wanted . . . my whole life.
Like I’m blasting through dark clouds.
More than anything else.
CARLI
“I love you, Rex,” I tell him. And I feel his trembling hands go still on the crown of my head. See his tender face burst open. Hear a hundred tiny bells toll in my heart. No false alarms.
REX
“I love you, too,” I say, looking at her, looking at me. Feeling her, feeling me. “So much. You don’t even know.”
I kiss her.
After a while she pulls away and stares at me.
She kisses me.
After a while I pull away and stare at her.
And it’s like we’re two trees secretly sharing nutrients underground, two stars orbiting around all the things there’s no language for.
Two and Two
CARLI
It’s official. Shannon wants to be me.
“Do you see this chick?” I ask Jordan. We’re walking toward the middle of the Alamodome court for the jump ball. The whole first level of the arena is packed out. Forty-five thousand people, Cole told me before the start of the game, in San Antonio to see us ball.
“How could I not? Girl got issues,” Jordan says, and ties her new twists—royal blue to match our uniforms—up in a ponytail.
“Yeah, Single Black Female–type issues,” I say, catching a shot of Jordan and me above on the jumbotron.
“I don’t know. Maybe she’s doing it to mess with you.”
“Mess with me?”
“Yeah, maybe this is her version of the Lance Stephenson ear-blowing move. It sure did mess up LeBron. Don’t let her throw you off your game, Carli,” Jordan says before lightly elbowing me and walking to her position on the other side of the circle.
I’m in the middle of the circle, under what feels like a million bright lights, facing Shannon—that forward from Langham who gave us problems last year. The one who wears my number, twenty-two. Yeah, her.
Home chick has decided to dye her hair the same color as mine. Not a fiery red or a burgundy red or a violet red, which could all pass as reasonable ways to switch it up from her old black hair. Oh no, she chose a born-with-it red. A brownish, golden red. Ain’t too many black ginger girls in this world, and I guess she just so happened to decide to become one of us.
“I like your hair,” I tell her.
“Thanks,” she replies, and shyly smiles—the corners of her pale lips, almost the same color of her pale skin, barely curving up. She clearly doesn’t get the intended sarcasm. I need her to get it, but now the ref is here about to toss up the ball.
“Okay, ladies. We all know what’s on the line. But let’s keep it clean. Good luck,” the spiky-haired man says, and steadies the ball in his right palm.
I place my right foot down so that it almost touches the center court line and bend down, ready to leap. Shannon does the same. I give her the hardest look I can muster—eyes squinted, nostrils flared, upper lip raised up. But her face stays calm, like she’s unfazed. So, when the ref makes the toss, I take it back to first grade and shout, “Copycat!”
When I tap the ball to Jordan, Shannon’s hand is nowhere in sight.
After I land, the ref gives me a cautionary look, but doesn’t blow his whistle.
“Let’s go!” I shout, and run back to get on the block. Time to teach this Shannon girl that she could never be me. Not even the girl I no longer want to be.
REX
Carli has been on fire the whole game. Jump shots, hook shots, bank shots—all dropping. She even had the nerve to drain two threes. Dang, and another one! I stand up and shout, “That’s my girl! That’s my girl right there!”
The rest of my team is looking at me like I’m lame, but I don’t give a damn. It’s the fourth quarter, and Allen High is twelve points up. Carli is about to take home the state championship! And as soon as she wraps up her game, your boy is about to snatch his championship up, too. We’re out here doing it like Jay-Z and Beyoncé!
Cole sits down beside me. He’s been rotating between me, his dad, and his mom the whole game. We’re all spread out in the arena behind Allen’s bench. “Did you see that?” he asks.
“Hell yeah, I saw it! I mean, I knew your sister could ball but damn. Threes? I didn’t know she could shoot like that.”
“Oh yeah. Carli can do it all,” Cole says. Then he stands up and joins the cheerleaders clapping their hands and chanting, “D-E-F-E-N-S-E, go defense!”
The girl Carli’s guarding, also sporting number twenty-two, misses another turnaround jumper. Carli snags the rebound, makes an overhead throw to Jordan, and sprints up the court. Jordan passes it back to her near the basket. Another two points for Carli, and the other team calls a time-out with six minutes and twenty-one seconds on the clock.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Cole shouts before sitting back down.
Man, I love having Cole around. He stays coming with the good vibes. “You know you’re like the little brother I never had,” I say, and put my arm around him.
In total Cole-fashion, he gently bangs his right fist on his chest a few times. “Dude, you don’t even know what that means to me. I’ve looked up to you since as long as I can remember. I seriously can’t wait to ball with you next year. It’s going to be a dream,” he says excitedly. Then he leans forward, looks over to my team, and shouts, “Woodside High here I come!” None of them pay him attention.
Wait, I’m confused. How is he talking about coming to Woodside when Carli told me last week that they were staying at Allen? Did things change? And if so, why didn’t she tell me?
Well, maybe something changed today. “Yeah, it’s going to be sick,” I say, fronting like I know what’s up. Can’t be out here looking like my girl doesn’t keep me in the loop. “Me, you, and Carli at the same school? What! They ain’t ready,” I say, half believing the words coming out of my mouth.
“Oh, has Carli been talking about living with Dad, too?” Cole asks, looking surprised. “Awesome! She’s been talking like she wants to stay with Mom and go to Allen. I thought I’d have to put in work to bring her around, but it looks like you beat me to it. Thanks, bro!”
I’m too stunned to bother correcting him.
The time-out buzzer sounds, and Cole is back on his feet. “If I don’t catch you before your game, good luck! Not that you’ll need it. I know you’re about to stomp them Matthew Gaines boys.”
“Thanks,” I say through a thin, forced smile. I swear to God, I’m a complete fucking fool. Not because she’s choosing to stay at her school instead of coming to mine. (That’s a huge decision dealing with family stuff that’s way bigger than me.) But because I believed there was no way she would she lie to me. After all we shared? No way. In my sacred place? No way. When she promised no more secrets on everything? Nah, man. But she fixed her lips to tell me a lie anyway.
CARLI
After the time-out, I’m back in Shannon’s ear. “Fine, if you wanna be my impersonator, go ahead.” We’re running up the court. I’ve been hitting her with copycat lines all game. I’ll admit, they’re getting kind of stale. But hey, if it ain’t broke. . . .
“I’m not trying to be you,” Shannon responds, breathing heavily, and gets in position on the block. It’s the first time she’s responded the whole game.
Standing behind her, I give her a little shove in the back to let her know how much of a liar I think she is. Nothing the refs will notice, though.
She whips her head around, glares at me, and then calls for the ball. The two guard with the brown bob whips her a chest pass, and Shannon turns to face me.
“Oh, look. It’s me on me,” I say.
She pulls up to shoot, and I’m off my feet ready to block, ready to knock her shot into next week.
But she doesn’t shoot. And I’m still in the air. And now she’s around me scoring an easy two. Damn.
“I’ve had red hair all my life,” Shannon says, catching the ball after it falls through the net. “I only started dying it black when I started playing you.” She shoves the ball into my solar plexus on the sly.
All my breath rushes out at once. Everything in me wants to bend over, to wrap itself around the hurt. But I stay upright and pass the ball to the ref. “Why you so worried about me?” I manage to push out in a normal voice.
“You really don’t know, do you?”
I take off running up the court and she runs right beside me. Like, literally her shoulder touching my shoulder. “I know you have an obsession with me. That’s what I know.” Jordan holds up a four, and I run to the free-throw line. She passes me a quick overhead pass.
“Sure, I’m curious. How could I not be? You’re my sister,” Shannon says, and gives me a little shove in the back. I throw myself forward, like she’s just pushed me hard, but the refs don’t buy it.
I square up to face Shannon and laugh. Then I pivot while holding the ball with my elbows wide to create some space. “Sister? You officially need help.” I try to drive right, toward the basket, but she stays in front of me and cuts off my driving lane.
“Have you ever wondered where your dad goes every Sunday?” she says, hands way up.
Not that it’s any of her business, but Daddy drives out to Waller to visit his parents’ graves every Sunday. I look to shoot, but I can’t get a shot off with her crowding my space. I’ve already picked up the ball, so I can’t put it down again without double dribbling. I look to pass, but no one is open.
The ref blows the whistle and points three fingers toward Langham’s goal. Shit, three-seconds.
“Come on, Carli!” Jordan yells at me with her face scrunched up.
“My bad, my bad,” I reply, and look at the scoreboard. Eighty-seven to seventy-seven with five minutes left on the clock.
“It’s not your fault you don’t know,” Shannon says, running back toward her goal. “I only found out a couple years ago when I saw you play in the All-American game on TV. Saw Daddy cheering for you in the stands—”
“Daddy?” I interrupt, and give her a hard shove. This girl has really lost her mind. She thinks she’s me. Like, I may need security after the game.
She shoves me back. “Yeah, at first I wondered why he was there. But it wasn’t hard putting two and two together with me and you looking so much alike. He denied it at first. But when I pressed, he admitted it . . . made me promise to never tell or he would stop coming to see me,” she says, straight faced, standing out beyond the three-point line.
I know she’s only trying to distract me, but I wish she’d shut up. I’ve never seen her make a three, so I play off her a little and try to ignore all the nonsense she’s talking. She’s probably trying to clear the way for their point guard to run a pick and roll with their post. And after my last mess up, I want to be ready to help.
Their point guard passes to Shannon, and Shannon readies herself to shoot. I throw up my hand and yell, “Copycat!” Super trite at this point, but it’s the only thing I have time to think of. Doesn’t work. Her three drops.
Coach Hill calls a time-out.
“Shame you have to make up such elaborate lies to get a shot off,” I say before walking toward the bench.
“Ask your mom,” she replies. “She knows. My mom finally called her and told her about a month ago.”
About a month ago, I think. That’s when all this drama started going down with the divorce. Well, five weeks, but still.
“Hustle up, Carli!” Coach yells. When I get close, she hands me a bottle of water. I squeeze it all over my face, hoping to wash Shannon’s words away. Coach leans in close to me, so close I can smell the spearmint gum in her mouth. “We’re almost there, Carli. But you have to give it your all these last few minutes. Do you hear me?”
I nod my head yes.
“Are you tired? Do you need to rest?”
I shake my head no.
“Well, I need you to get your head in the game. They’re closing our lead,” she says, and turns to speak to the whole team huddled around her.
I look up at Daddy, sitting in the third row, halfway between our bench and Langham’s bench, but he’s not looking at me. I follow his eyes over to Shannon. She’s standing over her team drawing on the clipboard like she’s the coach or something. I swear I hate that girl.
But Daddy looks like . . . like he’s proud of her. I know that face—soft and bright, mouth stretched wide over a concealed smile. Wait, she’s not wearing my number. She’s wearing his old number. I look down at the twenty-two on my own jersey and remember him telling me as a kid that he’d be honored if I continued the Alexander legacy.
“Carli!” Coach Hill shouts. “Have you heard anything I said. What the hell is wrong with you? The championship game is on the line and you’re over here daydreaming? Vanessa, go check in. Carli, take a seat.”
I don’t even protest.
I sit here and watch as Shannon takes it to Vanessa. Back dooring her, posting her up, and taking every rebound. I sit here and watch as we go from being up seven to five to two to none.
With less than a minute left on the clock, Coach Hill looks down the bench at me, ready to put me back in the game, ready for me to save the day. But I slump down in my chair and look away.
REX
Right, left, and jump. A simple-ass layup. But here I am spelling it out to myself, trying to keep my mind on the court and off Carli.
Head fake, crossover, pull up, and shoot. I miss. Halfway into my pregame warm-up, and I haven’t seen her yet. After her team won (thanks to a last-minute three by Jordan) and everybody’s family and friends rushed the court to celebrate the new champions, she wasn’t there.
I was there. Even though I was still mad about her lying, I was in the middle of the court, wading the crowd, looking for her face. Waiting to pick her up and twirl her around—ready to celebrate. Cole, her mom, and her dad were looking for her, too.
You know what, forget seeing Carli. Good that she’s off pouting somewhere just because she didn’t get to play the last few minutes of the game.
Girls in royal blue warm-ups walk down the sidelines toward the stands. My eyes can’t help but scan the line for big red hair. No Carli, so I sit down toward center court to stretch and look again. I hate myself for needing to see her. Why can’t I get her out of my head!
“You ready to take this ass-whooping?” a voice beside me asks. I already know who it is before I look: Russell Price. I didn’t even see him stretching before I sat down.
I don’t have time for this dude right now. Carli’s team is taking their seats low in the stands. I scan them again for her face, but don’t see her.
Did she leave? I think. No way. They save the joint trophy ceremony until the very end, so I know she’s still in the building. Plus, her mom and dad are still up in the stands. Cole just left their dad and is walking toward their mom. He catches me looking at him, pumps his fist in the air, and yells something I can’t hear. Something encouraging, I’d bet from his big grin.
I smile and give him a thumbs-up.
My father and Angie, sitting right below where Cole is walking, must think the thumbs-up is for them because they start to wave.
I wave back right before the game clock sounds.
“Shame you’re about to disappoint your fans,” Russell says, standing.
&
nbsp; “At least I have fans,” I say, get up, and scan the crowd one more time. Wait! There she is! Up in the middle of the stands. But why is she sitting with Langham? Damn, not her. Just that girl she was guarding who looks like her.
CARLI
Same height. Same nose. Same pale skin with freckles. Same red hair.
Every Sunday for as long as I can remember.
Daddy.
She called him Daddy.
Suddenly and swiftly crumbling the vision of my own.
I can’t go out there. I can’t look at that man who’s lied to me my whole life. That man who hid a whole sister from me.
This shower stall isn’t hiding anything. I’m sitting balled up in a corner with my tears, snot, and iPhone between an empty bottle of Dove bodywash and a rusty Venus razor. A nest of brown hair covers the drain. The moldy bottom edge of the beige shower curtain almost hides a used tampon, but it’s not long enough. All signs of my shitty life.
So many years of hiding her in plain sight. I wipe my nose with the sleeve of my warm-ups.
According to Facebook, Shannon Alexander Jackson was born November eighth—about a year and a half after me and two months after Cole. A throwback Thursday post shows a baby photo of her at the hospital in her mom’s arms. In the background there’s a man ducking underneath the doorway, leaving the room.
How am I ever going to leave this stall? As nasty as it is, I wish it would swallow me whole, keep my life on pause.
What am I even going to say when I have to see him?
Should I ask him about all the times I asked to go with him on Sunday? All the times he said he needed to be alone.