by Liara Tamani
Said he was afraid to tell us. Such a punk. Can’t even look at him the same. Can’t wait to get out of this house
Want me to come scoop you?
Actually my girl just pulled up outside. Gotta go
OK . Call me if you need anything
Thx. Will do
“Sent you another one from her site,” my dad says.
“Huh?”
“Barbara A. She’s really good.”
“Yeah?”
“I was just saying I sent you another photo from her site.”
I know he means feed, but I don’t correct him. I’m too busy thinking about Carli. I can’t even imagine what she’s been going through. She tried to tell me, but I refused to listen. I could’ve been there for her, but all I did was break up with her on top of everything else she had to deal with. And all because she missed my game? My game is nothing compared to what she found out. Nothing!
I swear I hate myself. No, I take that back. Talking shit about myself has way too much power. But why didn’t I listen to her? I close my eyes and shake my head, wishing I could press Rewind, go all the way back to the game, calm my ass down, and wait to hear from Carli. But there are no do-overs. Only what I can do now.
“What’s wrong? You don’t like it? Ignore the pink sofa. I was referring to the overall look.”
“No, no. It’s not that,” I say, standing up, knowing I’m too late. But I take off running toward the stairs and up to my room to call Carli anyway. Too late is for damn sure better than never.
CARLI
After the sun goes low and the shadows disappear from my walls, I bust out my colored pencils and sketch some heavily cratered moons, a few blazing suns, and a ton of tiny stars around and throughout the pencil-sketched squares.
Then I allow myself to thumb through a magazine, where I find Sabina Karlsson and cut out her face and big, red hair. I place the bottom third of her face underneath a moon, her freckled chin disappearing off the page. The left side of her face to the right, between a sun and some bud-filled branches. And her right eye and big red hair at the top among the stars.
Make her a part of everything, one piece at a time.
I even have the nerve to allow myself to bust out some books of poetry and look for passages that speak to me. Not so I can try to figure out what they mean for my future (that was driving me crazy), but so I can experience what they make me feel right now. And because I love the act of doing it. Come to think of it, I’ve always loved hunting through pages and writing my favorite passages down in my prettiest handwriting.
From Tracy K. Smith’s Life on Mars, I write:
everything
That ever was still is, somewhere
Something about the passage makes me feel like I’m okay. Like everything will be okay. I draw a speech bubble around the passage, across three squares in the middle of the page, and listen. I hear a faint ring. Dang, what does that mean? Wait, I’m trippin’. That’s my phone.
I get up and run down the hall to the living room, but it stops ringing before I get there. I grab my phone off the sofa and see a missed call from Rex. I want to roll my eyes, but before I can, my heart starts spinning then leaping then going still like it doesn’t know what to do with itself.
A text from him pops up: Talked to Cole. Sorry about your dad. I can’t even imagine what you’ve been going through. Sorry I didn’t listen. I should’ve listened. I hope you can forgive me. And I hope you’re okay. You don’t have to call me back. I just wanted you to know how sorry I am
With his words floating around inside me, tears flood my eyes. I read his text ten more times, and a million thoughts rush in.
Does his apology mean that he wants to get back with me? If so, what was that whole you-don’t-have-to call-me-back business? Is he trying to play games? Maybe not, but he’s still messed up. But what do I really know? I know he loved me. I know I didn’t really give him a fair chance. I didn’t even tell him anything going on with me and expected him to understand. That’s still no excuse for what he did. But he said he’s sorry. I wonder if he still loves me. Is love enough?
All this thinking about Rex is taking me far, far away from myself. And after finally being so close, I want to hold on tight for a little longer. I want to go back to my bare room, sit on my bed, and listen for the words to go in my speech bubble. And afterward, hunt for more images from magazines. Oooo, maybe some lava or a blazing blue fire or something fiery red or maybe even something beige. I’ll know it when I see it.
But definitely more sketches around whatever images I find, and a fact or two or three or four. And I don’t know what else. I just want to keep at it long enough to know that I’ll always be here.
Sounds crazy, I know. Like, where else am I going? But this just-being thing I have going on with myself is new. And between dealing with thoughts and emotions and decisions and plans and parents and siblings and boyfriends, I need to be able to trust that I can always get away from the world and back to just being myself.
I look down at Rex’s text. The only thing I know for sure about him, about us, right now is that I appreciate him apologizing. It makes the part of me that feels wronged by him want to close its case. Thanks for texting . . . I’m okay, I write back, and toss my phone on the sofa.
Above it, a waxing gibbous moon glows in the just-dark sky outside the window. I stand still for a while and take it in, resisting the urge to think about what the moon means for me and Rex, resisting the urge to think about anything.
Nothing and Everything
REX
Saturday morning and I’m crouching down in the mudroom, lacing up my LeBrons, when my phone pings. Man, I hope it’s Carli. It’s a stupid hope—when a girl thanks you for texting her, it’s pretty much a nice way of saying she’s done with your ass—but I allow myself to have it anyway.
I mean, maybe she misses me. I know I miss her. It’s been a week since I’ve texted, but it feels like a lifetime. Nah, make that seven lifetimes because every day that passes without talking to her feels like a new death. But I’m trying not to bother her about us when she’s dealing with so much else.
I stand up and dig my phone out of the pocket of my basketball shorts. Still on?—a text from Cole. He asked me to meet him up at the secret court today. He’s spending the weekend at his dad’s and wants to get out of the house. I definitely get that.
You know it, I text back. Heading up there now. I’d planned to go up there today anyway. Been going all week after school, too, since Coach is still too pissed to open the gym for me.
Yep, I’m back to ballin’. I figure to hell with what everybody is saying about me. What they think won’t get me any closer to my dream. Yes, your boy’s dream is still alive! Can’t let it die. Shit, nobody’s ever accomplished anything without trying. And I’m telling you, now, I’m about to put in work. Major work.
I thought we said 2, Cole replies.
Yeah, going early to get some shots in
Dang, I u
Ha! I’m trying!
Below Cole’s conversation is a conversation with Danny. He texted to invite me to a party he’s having tonight. Said his parents were out of town for the weekend and he was getting kegs. Been to enough white-boy wasted parties (one) to know it’s not my thing, but I plan to go anyway. Can’t pass up the opportunity to try to smooth things over with the team.
Below the conversation with Danny, Carli’s message of thanks still sits, staring at me like a hand up in my face. I swear every time I see it, all the air rushes out my lungs.
This can’t be the end of us.
I type, Miss you, and erase it. Miss you again and press Send before I can lose my nerve. Maybe she’s done with me, maybe she’s not. But how will I ever know if I don’t start trying to fix what I’ve messed up.
CARLI
I’m driving back to Daddy’s from my Photoshop class at HCC. Missed the first class of the session last Saturday, but I still killed it. And I was afraid I was going t
o be too far behind . . . afraid I wasn’t going to be as good as those college kids. Chile, please! The teacher even said he was impressed by me.
Let me back up. After basically spending all last week filling up my notebook with sketches and quotes and facts and magazine clippings—each page with a totally different look, giving a completely different feel—I realized I was pretty good at collage.
Sounds crazy, I know. I’ve basically been doing it on my walls since I was a kid. But I always thought putting random things together in interesting ways would eventually tell me what I really wanted to do with my life. I never considered the possibility that it could actually be the thing I do. Duh!
And even when the possibility first popped in my head, I was still like, A collage artist? Me? Nooo. But I am. Not to say that it’s all I’ll ever be. Maybe it will be, and I’ll just keep getting better and better. Or maybe it will lead to something else I love. Or maybe I’ll end up doing something completely different with my life.
All I know is that right now, I want to take my collage skills to the next level. I want to learn how to do it digitally. Where it takes me, who knows? But getting better at something I love feels like a step in the right direction. And that’s all I can ask for.
Plus, it will keep me out of the house on the Saturdays I have to spend at Daddy’s. Oh, I forgot to tell you: the judge decided that I’ll live with Mom during the week and Cole will live with Daddy. I still don’t know how I’m going to live without Cole, but at least we’ll be together on the weekends—first and third at Daddy’s and second and fourth at Mom’s. If there’s a fifth weekend, we get to choose where to spend it.
Anyway, it’s not like I’m still that mad at Daddy, but all he wants to do now is cry and apologize and explain the same things over and over again. It’s like listening to the same sad song on repeat. A sad song that’s not about to fix anything.
Pulling up to the house, I see Jordan’s Jeep in the driveway beside Daddy’s Tahoe. She beat me here. I had to beg her to skip ballin’ today to come over here to be my backup. Figure things can’t get too depressing with company around.
Walking up the driveway, I notice the magnolia tree is better. It has way less of that nasty white stuff on its limbs. Whatever the tree guy sprayed on it must be working. Makes me want to fish my phone out of my backpack and send Rex a pic, but I don’t.
Got his text this morning—Miss you—and I swear I could feel him whispering it in my ear. But I’m in such a good place with myself. Don’t know if I’m ready to risk that by starting things back up with Rex. Plus, I don’t know if I can ever really trust him again.
Jordan thinks I should give him another chance. I think her exact words were, Yo ass act like you’ve never messed up. And I haven’t even told her about his latest text yet. No doubt she’s about to give me a hundred reasons to call him back. I grab the gold door handle—warm from the sun—push the latch down with my thumb, and press open the door, already hearing some of the reasons.
Now I can’t hear anything. I can only see Shannon. Yes, old-enemy-new-sister Shannon. I know I told Daddy that we needed to get to know her, but I didn’t expect to come back today and see her standing in the living room. Cole is giving her a hug.
Cole lets go of her and they both look over at me. Daddy, standing beside them, looks at me. Jordan, half-swallowed by the sofa, looks at me, too. Everyone’s eyes are red and glossy like they’ve been crying, including Jordan’s. And Jordan doesn’t cry.
“Hey,” I say, feeling like I’m not even here, like this isn’t real.
“Hey,” they say, voices dragging. No one even tries to fake a smile. Boy, was I wrong about things not getting too depressing with company around.
This has to end. It would be different if these were finally-united-and-it-feels-so-good tears. That would actually be nice. But tears from another stop on Daddy’s apology tour? Nobody has time for that. I’m mad Jordan had to sit in on it. This heaviness is not hers. Really, it’s not any of ours. It’s Daddy’s.
“It’s super nice outside. Y’all wanna go up to the basketball court?” I ask, hardly believing the words coming out of my mouth. But dribbling and shooting under the sun would be way better than staying here in this funk.
Brighter faces all around. Except for Daddy’s. He’s looking down at the floor, his mind somewhere else.
Jordan climbs out of the sofa. “Hadn’t planned on ballin’ today, but you know I’m always down.” She’s wearing her Jordan 9 Retros. She doesn’t usually ball in her Retros.
“I thought ballin’ was always the plan,” Shannon says, and bites the nail on her pointer finger. She’s dressed in a baggy T-shirt, long shorts, and some Nike Dunks—clearly ready.
“Plan?” I look at Daddy, but he’s still looking down at the floor. Then I look at Cole. His long, lightly freckled cheeks are going pink. Of course it was Cole. But you know what? I can’t even be mad.
Shannon is our sister. Like, I have a sister. And she’s real. She’s standing in our living room with chewed-up nubs for nails (does she know how many hundreds of thousands of bacteria can live under just one dirty nail?) and her hair tied back in a bun. Wait, did she tie it back for me? I need to tell her she doesn’t have to do that. I need to tell her so many things.
I mean, I’d be lying if I said Shannon being here doesn’t feel strange. But it feels more normal than when I first walked in. And I’m sure it will feel even more normal when we get out of this house. Will it ever feel completely normal having a sister I only learned about at sixteen? I don’t know. But life isn’t about to sit around and wait on normal.
REX
Carli just walked through the opening in the hedges. No. Can’t be. But the way the sun is glinting off the gold medallion on her chest, and the way her big hair is bouncing off her bare shoulders, tell me I’m not trippin’.
She’s walking behind Cole—and wait, is that Shannon?—rockin’ some high-top yellow Blazers with a tank top and some cut-off jean shorts. And now Jordan just walked in, too. Cole never said anybody else was coming.
Man, but Carli. I wasn’t prepared to see her today. I swear to God I’m so happy I could cry. All I want to do is run to her and scoop her up in my arms. But I know I don’t have the right. And the face she’s making isn’t giving me any type of permission.
You’d think that when every picture you’ve ever looked at of a person, and everything you’ve ever done with a person, constantly plays like reruns in your brain, that you would’ve seen every face they could possibly make. But this one is new.
She’s looking straight at me . . . like what? Dude, I don’t know. Definitely no smiling or sweetness going on. Probably too much to ask. But no anger or attitude, either. At least I could’ve worked with that. Normally when girls get mad, that means they still care. But Carli’s face is straight-up blank, like she doesn’t feel anything.
I drop the ball at the free-throw line and walk toward her, hoping to see something I’m missing.
CARLI
When I see Rex on the court, I swear the sun turns up a notch. It’s like my world literally got brighter.
But should I be feeling this? I look back at the sidelines, at the shade along the chain-link fence with the tall, green bushes poking through. It looks so tempting. I could go sit down, lean back, and wait for some kind of sign to tell my confused heart what to do.
But I don’t. I keep walking, putting one yellow Blazer (they’re new) in front of the other on the green court. I wonder what it’s made of. It’s a lot softer than concrete, that’s for sure.
Ahead of me, Cole gives Rex a hug. Then Shannon awkwardly hugs him, too, like she doesn’t know what else to do. Jordan runs ahead of me, daps him up, and tries to beat Shannon to the ball.
My turn.
REX
How I’ve missed her little nose, her quiet brown eyes, and her fierce freckles. They snatch me up, pull me in, and I get lost inside.
CARLI
Being this close t
o Rex has my heart speaking in colors again. A kingdom of colors. Making all the arguments for our love that words and thoughts couldn’t come up with. It’s such an unbelievably good feeling. Like my heart just gave birth to it. Like I’ve never felt it before.
But I have.
And as much as I want to let the feeling carry me away, cocoon me in all the colors, I can’t. Not yet. For now I feel safer with things being beige.
REX
“Hi,” I say, my eyes moving from the patch of freckles on her nose up to her eyes.
“Hi,” she says, her eyes resting on mine, but somehow not giving me anything.
“I’m really sorry for what I did to you,” I start. “I was just—”
“Wait, can we not do this?”
Damn, she doesn’t even want to hear my apology? She’s really done with me. But she doesn’t even know that I’ve been working on myself. I need her to know. “Can I at least apologize?”
“You already did.”
“But it’s different in person.”
“Yeah, but the sun is shining. And the sky is so blue. We’re here. Back at the secret court. It’s so soft,” she says, and hops up and down a little bit. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice this the last time we were here.”
I really don’t know what’s going on right now, but I hop up and down a little, too, try to see what sees talking about. I guess it’s got a little spring to it. “Yeah, much better than concrete.”
“Exactly,” she says, staring at me.
I can’t think of anything else to say, so I don’t say anything.
And neither does she.
We stay like that for a while, and I finally see what her eyes are giving me. They’re here . . . she’s here . . . right now . . . with me. And I swear it feels like we’re out of our skin. Like there’s nothing covering us. Nothing in the way.