Pure Red (6 page)

I get up from the couch. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” I walk over to Dad’s studio and open the door. He’s printing out invoices and stuffing them into envelopes.

“Is your friend still here?” Dad asks.

“Yeah, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” I lean against his chair. “He wants to know if he could study with you. He’s doing some directed-study thing for school and he’s got to put in a certain number of hours working under a professional. He’s in the art magnet.”

Dad looks up. His brown eyes are big and round. They look like frying pans. I run my finger over the lids of my own round eyes. Are mine that big?

“Me, a professional?” he asks.

We both laugh. “Yeah, you, Dad.”

“What do you think?” He licks an envelope shut.

My eye catches the Disney photo of us again. Mom’s smiling at me. I think she’d like Graham. At least for his initiative. I feel like she’d be proud of me for helping him.

“I think he’s really excited about it and he seems like a nice guy. He’s a lot different than most guys my age. Definitely more mature.” Okay, so I don’t want to overdo it, to tell Dad that if I sit next to Graham any longer, I’m going to need a bib. The drool factor is that bad.

“Tell him to come by La Reverie on Monday, around three, and to bring his sketchbook. We’ll take it from there.”

“Thanks, Dad.” I wrap my arms around him.

Dad picks up an invoice from the printer and frowns. “I can hardly read this.”

“Change the type size.” I lean over him to grab the mouse, then click on Font in the toolbar and select 14. “Now print again.”

Dad smiles. “What would I do without
ma cherie
?”

“You’d still be using one of those wall telephones and washing your dishes by hand.” I shut the door and walk back to Graham. He’s exactly where I left him, playing with a loose thread on the pocket of his pants.

I sit on the arm of the couch and tell him to be at my Dad’s studio with samples of his work on Monday at three.

“Really?” Graham stands up.

“Yup.” I start to smile but stop abruptly when I realize that my next basketball game is scheduled at the very same time.

“Something wrong?” Graham’s eyes move back and forth, surveying my face.

Geez, I’m like an open book. I force my lips to form a smile. “Nothing. I’m sure everything’s going to be great!”

“Thanks, you’re the best.” Graham hugs me.

I hug him back and a tingle rushes through my body. My face rests gently on his shoulder. I push a little closer to his neck and am immediately drawn in by his sensual smell. Wow. I breathe in. I’ll call it vanilla rain. One of the purest smells on earth.

Cassia Hadley. Now that has a good ring to it!

mud and blood

“Hi, I’m Cassia Bernard Hadley. Nice to meet you.”
On center court we have Number 11, Cassia Bernard Hadley. Cassia Bernard Hadley breaks the world record for balancing a penny on her nose for seven hours and fifteen minutes!

I have to admit, this Cassia Bernard Hadley gig is working really well for me. It’s perfect. Both Graham and I are tall, sixteen, Floridians, and love my dad. Oh, my dad. I can’t forget that to Graham, there’s no Cassia without Jacques. And there’s going to be no Jacques at my game this afternoon.

Dad probably wouldn’t be happy watching us play the Brown team anyway, and definitely wouldn’t want to see the Gray team on Wednesday. I’ll invite him to the game on Thursday instead, when we play Purple (spirituality, peace, and imagination). They’re much more his color.

Mid-morning, Dad appears from his bedroom with an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. His first stop is always the balcony to get his morning fix. That was Mom’s first stop, too, but her reason was to smell the fresh ocean air, not pollute it. For months after she died, I was afraid to go out on the balcony. I don’t know if I was more scared of falling over the railing or actually seeing her ghost standing there in her bathrobe. When Dad would go out, I’d hold my breath (or at least try) until he came back inside.

It wasn’t until that next summer that Lucien got me to go out there. He bought me a small pink plastic chair with a butterfly painted on it. He placed it next to one of the big white patio chairs. Then he gently took my hand and led me outside. Even though it was the middle of summer, I got goose bumps and asked him to grab me a sweater. He brought me my fuzzy pink sweater, to match the chair, he said, and kneeled down next to me, wrapping his arm around me. He pointed to the ocean and said, “If you speak to her here, she can hear you.” Through the warmth of my sweater, Lucien’s arm around me and the beating sun, I told Mom that I loved her with all my heart.

–––––

I’m lying on the couch, still in my PJs, watching the Cartoon Network. The perfect channel to space out to. I have the little eraser ball in my hand from the other night.

Half a smoke later, Dad comes in from the balcony and plants a kiss on my forehead. “Good morning
, ma cherie
.”

“Morning,” I say back.

Dad heads to the kitchen. I hear drawers and doors opening, then slamming shut. “Looking through these cupboards, you’d think nobody lives here.” He laughs.

Yeah, real funny
. I had maraschino cherries for breakfast; some trip he must have made to the market yesterday. Our house is all condiments, no sustenance.

“If you leave me some money, I can pick up a few things this morning,” I offer.

Dad strolls back into the living room eating peaches straight out of the can. No utensils. I wince as a trickle of juice dribbles down his chin. “That would be great. I’ve got a busy day today.”

I guess part of that’s my fault. I’m the one who set up the date between Graham and Dad. I could’ve said no.

“Dad, I think Graham’s really excited.”

“Good. What time is he coming by?”

“You said three.” I throw the eraser up into the air and catch it with one hand. Coach Parker did tell us to practice, and she didn’t stipulate the size of the ball. To make my efforts more authentic, I use my cup from breakfast as the basket.

“Right, I did. Okay, I have a lunch at one at Café Monsoon. Plenty of time.”

I flatten the eraser with my palm. “A date? While I’m left home foodless.”

“It’s with a couple of guys from the bank. Their treat. I suppose you could come.”

As long as the blond lady’s not eating a jumbo steak while I’m lugging home groceries from the market. “Nah, I’m fine.” Besides, if I’m even going to consider basketball as my passion, I need to spend more time practicing. I fashion the eraser back into a ball and continue shooting.

Dad pulls some bills from his wallet and sets them on the coffee table. “That should cover the basics, and there’s an extra twenty in case you want to go to the movies with your friends.”

I’m five for five with the baskets. I move the paper cup a little farther away so I can work on my three-pointers. “Thanks, Dad. But I’ve got a game today.”

“Well, maybe afterwards, then.” Dad goes to shower and I blast the volume on the TV. I pretend it’s the crowd going wild during my exhilarating paper-cup basketball game. The stands are full. Dads are yelling
Go for it!
and moms are clapping so hard, their hearts are popping out of their chests.

Everything hinges on this last shot. Ten seconds left on the clock and the two teams are tied. Cassia Bernard Hadley has control of the ball. She runs down the court, eyes the basket, and … shoots! Ladies and gentlemen, she knocks the basket over by the sheer force of her shot. The refs call it a freak act of nature and demand a replay. This time the basket is reinforced by an empty glass of lemonade that can withstand winds upward of 130 mph. Cassia focuses her eyes on the basket and releases the ball. Ladies and gentlemen, we have a superstar in the making!

I finally get up from the couch around lunchtime and head for the grocery store. It’s always limiting when I shop by myself because I can’t carry much home. I pick up some bread, milk, cereal, spaghetti, and marshmallows and call it a day.

My basketball garb is on way before three, so I laze around on the couch until it’s time to leave. I hope I don’t run into Kate and Zoey again; I’m not in the mood for their crap. I walk fast, past the shops and restaurants, past the beachgoers and bike messengers. No time to even look at wacky tourists as they whiz by. I just want to get out on the court and hustle. I’ve got to really focus on the ball today so I don’t lose control. Coach told us during the first practice that nothing beats determination. Where does she gets this stuff? Did she read it in a self-help book? Or is it from years of coaching?

I’m ready to give it my all today. Whatever that is … I’m not really sure. I spot Liz crossing the street and speedwalk to catch up to her. “Hey, girl, wait up,” I yell.

She turns around. “I thought I smelled you.”

“Ha, funny. It’s probably your new perfume.”

She sticks her armpit in my face and makes sniffing noises.

“It’s you.” I laugh. “Is Harry coming to the game?”

“He wanted to, but then he’d have to get off work early. I told him to come on Thursday instead. That’s his day off. What about Graham?”

“What about him? After he meets with my dad today, the game will be over.” I hit the walk button and wait for the little man to appear.

“Come on, coast is clear.” Liz pulls my arm and we dash across the street.

“Yeah, I guess it’s better to get hit by a car than be late for a game.”

“Hey, do you want to run extra laps?” Liz is a few feet in front of me. She swings open the court gate.

Coach is over on the grass talking to some parents and a few girls are already doing their stretches. The Brown team has gathered at the other end of the court. As far as I can see, they don’t have any players as tall as Thunder or Zoey.

Liz and I spread out on our side of the court with the rest of the Red team. We’re finished with the jumping jacks when Zoey and Thunder arrive. Joy to the world!

Coach joins us on the court. “Good, everyone’s here. Finish your stretches, then grab a ball and practice your shots.”

Wait a minute—did she not notice that the Amazons were late? How unfair!

We all line up, but Thunder cuts in front of me. “What’s the rush, chica?” Liz asks.

“Well, excuse me,” Thunder barks back.

“Damn right, excuse you.” Liz clicks her tongue.

“Go ahead, Kate,” I say, hoping to avoid an all-out cat fight.

“Now, she speaks.” Kate looks me dead in the eye
.
I think she has smoke coming out of hers. I guess that makes me the fire extinguisher.

I hold my hands out to either side in case one of the cats decides to pounce. “It’s really no big deal guys.”

Coach walks up to us. “Is there a problem, girls?”

“No,” I mumble.

Kate hisses, but then grabs a ball, runs up, and shoots. She misses and slams the ball on the ground.

“Cool it, Kate,” Coach yells after her. “Don’t make me bench you for the game.”

“Don’t let that psycho chica intimidate you,” Liz says to me once Coach is out of earshot.

“Yeah, you’re right.” I reach for a ball. “She’s getting on my nerves with that ’tude.” I know that if I just said the word, Liz would threaten her with a barrage of insults in Spanish and her evil stare, but I don’t want her to fight this battle for me. Instead, I’m going to do what I usually do: try and ignore the Thunder beast and hope she goes away.

“Keep it moving,” Coach yells.

I quickly run down the court. I pretend the ball is Thunder’s head and throw it hard. It bounces off the rim, but I give “Thunder” a good slam.

We practice shooting until Coach calls us over for a team huddle. I make sure to stay away from Thunder and so does Liz. Coach is sporting a brand-new Nike outfit with spandex shorts. She looks like that tennis player Serena Williams. Her legs are ripped.

We pile our hands together inside the huddle and Coach says, “Strong defense today. Keep your eyes on the ball.” We finish up with, “Pride!” The huddle folds and the starting lineup assembles.

Liz, Kate, Maria, Zoey, and Teri make up the fabulous five today. One wrong move from Thunder and she’ll be struck by Lightning Liz. Liz definitely has balls, but she’d never risk being thrown out of a game.

The ref blows his whistle and the Browns and Reds become one mesh of color. Mud and blood. By the middle of the first quarter, Mud is up by four points. Some of those girls are really built. Their center looks like she has coconuts for calves. I wonder if they double as a wrestling team.

Lightning Liz moves fast with the ball. She avoids the Thunder and passes off to Zoey. Zoey scores again and again. The Browns are fierce, though, especially Number 20, who plows through anyone who gets in her way. I keep my eyes on them, trying to learn their secret. By the time the first-quarter buzzer goes off, I realize there’s no secret—they’re just that good. The score is 16 to 10, Browns in the lead.

I’m in and out during the second and third quarters.
The game is tight at the end of the third quarter. Browns are up by four. I only make one basket, but I hustle like Coach said. I don’t give the Browns the opportunity to steal the ball from me, and I make a couple of decent passes.

Liz’s mom cheers me and Liz on. It’s nice to hear her boisterous voice over all the unfamiliar ones. The Browns have a lot of support. They even have a cheering squad of little girls in Brownie uniforms. I don’t know if it was planned, but it does seem very appropriate. It would be kind of hard to get the Red Cross or the wait staff at TGI Friday’s to show up as our supporters.

Fourth quarter, I’m in with five minutes left in the game. Browns in the lead, 32 to 28. Coach says we can still beat them.

“Eyes on the ball, girls,” she yells from the sideline. I watch the orange circle move back and forth. Teri has the ball. I need to let her know I’m open. This is my chance to score big. My elbows are flexed back and I make like a brick wall, guarding Number 20.

“Over here, Teri.” I wave my hands back and forth like I’m a damsel in distress in one of those old black-and-whites that Lucien has us watch every Christmas. I should’ve invited Lucien to the game. He would’ve showed, even if he had to leave Monica in charge of the gallery. I peer out into the crowd. There are a lot of fresh faces; I’m sure most of them are for the Browns.

Teri tosses me the ball and I hold on tight. I look left, then right, planning my next move.

A couple of guys yell, “Pass, Eleven.” Eleven, that’s me. I look over by the huge oak. There are two guys. One is big and beefy and the other is … no, it can’t be. The one with the blond spiky hair looks like Graham. I’m pretty dehydrated, so it could be that my mental status has been compromised.

“It’s all you, baby,” the beefy guy yells, and Spiky Hair says, “Go Kate!”

What? He knows Kate by name? Graham knows Kate.

Bam! I’m knocked to the ground and the ball rolls away. Ouch, that hurt. I blindly reach for the ball, but somebody grabs it and what seems like a herd of elephants stampedes by me.

I’m wide open again, but now the whole team is at the other end of the court … watching the Browns sc
ore … a three-pointer. How did that happen? And the whistle blows … Coach calls for a time-out. Isn’t anyone going to help me up? I look around. My fellow teammates are all gathered over by the bench. I get up and hobble over to them. Coach stops talking and turns to me. “Are you all right?”

I look down at my legs. My left knee is red. But no blood. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Good to hear. But what were you thinking? Eleven out, thirty-two in.” Coach shakes her head.

So much for sympathy.

“Idiot cost us three points. No chance of winning the game now.” Thunder kicks the side of the bench, narrowly missing my leg. No one answers her, but no one springs to my defense either.

The ref blows the whistle and the players are back in position. Four minutes left in the game. Browns are up by seven.

“
Are you okay?” Liz taps me on the shoulder, but
before I get a chance to answer, she sprints to the court. She quickly scores a shot and everyone cheers. We’re only behind by five now. Miracles can happen.

I remember the potential Graham sighting. Now I really hope it’s not him. He’s leaning against the tree, with the big guy partially blocking him. Besides, the big guy really doesn’t look like someone Graham would hang with. He has his arms crossed and a sneer on his face. I hope that sneer’s not meant for me.

“Oh, damn,” I hear someone yell. The Browns have stolen the ball and Number 12 is dribbling furiously up their side of the court. Thirty seconds left on the clock. The Reds are not going to come out alive. But wait—Thunder steals the ball, passes off to Teri. Ten seconds left on the clock, and … Teri scores. The buzzer sounds and people are cheering, but it’s the Brown team that won, 35 to 32.