Pure Red (7 page)

I don’t want to face my team, so I walk over to the tree instead. I’m about five feet away when I get a really good glimpse of the two mystery guys. Definitely not Graham. But still I stand there, mouth gaping. I’m not sure what just happened.

Someone pushes me from behind. “Thanks for screwing up the game, Cashew.”

Ugh, it’s Thunder again. “It was only one shot.”

“Yeah, the shot that cost us the game. Stay home next time if you want to take a nap.” She pushes me again and runs off toward Beefy Dude.

“Bitch,” I say when she hits the outer edge of the court, out of earshot. I watch as she hugs the guy and high-fives Spiky Hair. Thank God, it’s not Graham. But I take one good look at his butt just to make sure.

I walk over to the side of the court to collect my bag and try not to make eye contact with anyone else. No need to tell me how much I sucked. I already know. I almost trip over Coach’s foot when I walk past the bench, which is pretty stupid considering the size of her boats.

She stops talking to Maria and turns to me. “You sure everything’s okay, Cassia?”

“Yeah, I’m really sorry. Everything’s fine,” I say to her Nikes.

She pats me on the back. “Go home and clear your mind. I want you back tomorrow for practice refreshed.”

I lower my head. “Coach, I promise I won’t space out again.” All I had to do was pass or shoot the stupid ball, but instead I totally zoned out.

“You did some good hustling out there today. Just need to keep your focus.”

I nod and take off to meet Liz over by the gate. She has her cell glued to her ear. For once I really wish she would get off the phone. I haven’t talked to her since my big screw-up exactly twelve minutes and twenty seconds ago.

“Let’s get out of here.” I tug her arm.

She gets the picture, makes a kissy sound into her phone, and hangs up. “Are you okay?” she says again.

“Yeah. Why does everyone keep asking me that?” I walk toward the crosswalk, but Liz pulls me back.

“My mom’s bringing the car around. You just seemed kind of out of it at the end.”

“So apparently I’m transparent. I know it’s stupid, but I thought I saw Graham.”

“My mom has pills for that stuff.” Liz laughs.

“This is no time for jokes. I thought the spiky-haired guy with Kate’s scary-looking boyfriend was Graham.”

Liz sticks her finger in her mouth and makes a gag noise. “You’re right. That’s no joke. And her boyfriend does kind of look like an ex-con. Don’t worry, Graham would never hang out with a toad like her.”

“How would you know?”

Her mom beeps her horn and waves. “Go to the gallery and see if he’s still there,” Liz says. “Wanna ride?”

Maybe I should walk. I need to clear my head, let off some steam. Plus, the last thing I need is one of Liz’s pep talks:
You can do it, Cass. Keep your head in the game
. I don’t need a second coach. One is enough.

“No, I’m fine. Thanks, though.”

Liz hops in the car and holds her fingers up like a phone and mouths, “I’ll call you.”

Yeah, but not before you call Harry back
, I think.

golden shower

Half a block from the gallery, I realize I’m still wearing my sweaty polyester basketball uniform. Red, no longer the color of victory; rather, the color of temper and anger. After all, red attracts raging bulls (Thunder). My psychology teacher, Ms. Kravitz, said it’s no coincidence that one of McDonald’s official colors is red. Studies have shown that red stimulates the mind and sucks people in. My theory about the game: the red shirts of our team lured the dull browns in and allowed them to soar to victory.

I’m standing in front of La Reverie now, too tired to turn around, go home, and shower. Actually, I’m hoping Graham is long gone and I can talk to Dad. Alone. I could really use a hug right now. When I was little and came home from school with a frown on my face, Dad would pull out two huge blankets. We’d cuddle up on the couch until he put a smile back on my face.

I finally step inside the gallery and stand at the entrance. The cold air is a welcome change from the extreme h
umidity of Miami summers. I check for
Lady in Red
; she’s still th
ere. A smile instantly spreads across my face, and if I squint my eyes, it feels like she’s smiling back at me. For all I know she could be asleep under those shades, but I like to think she’s looking beyond the canvas.

Then I head upstairs to Dad’s studio. I hear them before I see them. Dad and Graham. Talking. Laughing. Talking. Laughing. Aren’t they supposed to be working? What time is it, anyway—five thirty? Shouldn’t Graham be dust by now?

Dad sees me first. “Ay, Cassia,
ma cherie
, how are you?”

“You had a game?” Graham asks.

Yeah, don’t remind me.

I look at Dad, not Graham. “Yes. We lost.”

“Sorry,” both Graham and Dad gasp, like they’re Siamese twins sharing one brain.

“Yup,” I say, still frozen in the doorway. All the lights are turned on and the studio has an unfamiliar brightness to it. Everything here is communal, so you would never know that three people share this loftlike space. There are easels spread about, a table and chairs in the back, a large cabinet and boxes of paint and supplies in every corner. Lucien’s half-finished painting of a marina is perched on an easel by the door.

“Tell me about it,” Dad says.

I shake my head. “It was really crappy … ”

Dad holds up his pointer finger, signaling me to hold on, and turns to Graham. “Now I remember the name of the Russian artist. It’s Malevich. See if they have anything on him at the library.”

Graham just nods.

“Thanks for asking, Dad,” I grumble, and walk toward his desk in the back.

“Sorry,
cherie
, please continue.”

“Nevermind.” I position myself against the wall instead, away from them. “So how was it
here
? At the gallery?”

“Graham’s building an impressive portfolio.” Dad pats him on the back. “He’s got a great eye for detail.”

“That’s nice,” I say, and really mean it until I remember my not-so-great attention to detail. Apparently, I wouldn’t even know a basketball if I was holding one in my hand. No, I was too busy mistaking Thunder’s friend for Graham. That’s like mistaking prune juice for Coke, which, by the way, I only did once.

I think Graham senses I’m an emotional wreck; either that or my high rate of perspiration sends him running because he asks if we have any water. Dad directs him downstairs to the mini-fridge and I take a seat on the paint-splattered footstool.

With my elbows pressed against my thighs, I let out a huge sigh. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Dad pulls up another stool and sits facing me. “I’m sorry. I know how you feel.”

I lift my head. “You do?”

“Of course. I told you the other day I wanted to come. And I bet all the other parents were there, too.”

His face is peppered with tiny whiskers. He can’t go one day without shaving.

“Don’t worry about it. I sucked anyway. Messed up an important play.”

He leans in closer and squeezes my arm. “You don’t have to tell me. I’m really sorry. I’ll come to the next game. I promise.”

I hear footsteps on the staircase. Graham’s back with a bottled water. “Everything’s fine, Dad,” I say, and get up from my perch.

“Good to hear.” He stands up, too.

I feel like crying. I cost us the game, and I need to curl up on the couch under heavy blankets even though its eighty-five degrees outside. Sure it was only one shot, but why did it have to be THE shot?

I look over at Graham, sketchbook tucked under his arm and a permanent smile tattooed on his face. How can I throw a hissy fit when someone else is so genuinely happy? I can’t. That’s not me.

“I’ve got to run. I didn’t realize it was so late. But thanks so much, Mr. Bernard, ah, Jacques. I’ll be here at ten tomorrow,” Grah
am says.

“My pleasure.” Dad reaches out to shake his hand.

Then Graham turns to me. “I’ll see you later, Cassia.”

My body perks up. “Okay, great,” is all I can think to say. But then my shoulders quickly slink down into hunch
mode. Of course he’s going to see me later. That’s like stating a fact. The sky is blue. I look like crap today. I’ll see you later. Graham’s got what he wants now. Full access to my dad.

He leaves, and I wait for another half hour until Dad finishes up a small canvas he was commissioned to paint for a friend. It’s a painting of the guy’s Nemo fish. Fish don’t count as portraits, apparently. Plus, money talks. I don’t know too many people willing to shell out a grand for a picture of their fish. What’s next, a still life of the guy’s toaster?

I don’t even want to think about going to practice tomorrow and facing everyone. I’m such a moron. From now on I’m not going to look at anything but the ball. Maybe I should wear horse blinders.

I play the scene over in my head. Teri has the ball, can’t move due to overload of Browns. Cassia is open. Cassia waves her arms wildly to proclaim her freedom, and catches the ball. Cassia thinks of Dad (always him), turns for a split second to the oak tree, mystery man is standing there shouting “Pass, Eleven!” Cassia falls into a deep hallucination and thinks mystery man is Graham. With her mind elsewhere, Cassia gets slammed by a Brown and drops the ball, causing damage to her already compromised brain. Now if only I can convince my team that cerebral injury is the most likely explanation of the events that unfolded.

“Why so blue, kiddo?” Lucien pulls up Dad’s stool and sits beside me. He’s wearing a cream-colored lin
en shirt and suit pants. He looks funny sitting on a small, paint-splattered stool. There’s something on the corner of his shirt. Looks like a ketchup stain.

“Tough game today,” I pout. I watch as Dad walks over to the sink to dump the cup of cloudy paint water. “We lost.”

“Nobody likes to lose,” Lucien says.

Exactly. Maybe I should’ve said to Ms. Cable, “What’s better, a nobody or a loser? Is it better to be a blip on the radar or a blop?” Okay, so blop is not an actual word, but it sounds like one big mess. Like a blown-up blip.

“It’s even worse when it’s all your fault,” I grumble.

He puts his arm around me. “All
your
fault? Impossible. You can’t carry the weight for the entire team.”

“Yeah, but I lost the ball and blew a very important shot,” I say to his shirt. You really have to work hard to keep linen clean. It picks up everything. Even the hairs from Lucien’s cat, Café.

“Then you go out tomorrow and show them what Cassia’s really made of,” he says.

I pull back a little and look at his face to see if he’s serious.

“Do you think I’m going to let one tiny spot ruin my whole outfit?” He holds up the corner of his shirt. “I doubt your coach would, either.”

I laugh. “But you should see the way Ms. Parker dresses. She’s no jok
e.”

“And neither are you.” Lucien gives my shoulder a tap and helps me up.

Dad sprays his painting with matte finish, and the aerosol smell quickly fills the air. I cough.

He gathers his stuff. “Ready to go,
cheri
e
?”

“She’s ready.” Lucien smiles at me.

–––––

Dad and I pick up takeout for dinner from Pasta Genie and eat in front of the TV. We end up twirling our spaghetti and watching
Deal or No Deal
, which turns into a conversation about what we’d do with the prize money. European travel is on both of our lists, surfing lessons for me and a new studio for Dad. We both agree a maid would be nice, too.

After the show, an ad comes on for the Miami Heat.

“We should go to a game sometime,” Dad suggests.

“Sure. That’d be fun.” If it would ever really happen.

Dad gathers the dishes. “What got you interested in basketball, anyway?”

“Well, I felt like doing something physical this summer, so I asked my P.E. teacher if he knew of a place I could play and he suggested the Y. He said I’m a good ball player.” I fold up the extra napkins.

“That’s great. It’s a good game,” Dad says.

I can’t tell him I’m on a passion-seeking mission. He was practically born with a paintbrush in his hand. He’d never understand.

After dinner I call Liz, but her voicemail picks up. I’m sure she’s with Harry. I flip the channels on the TV in my room but nothing grabs me. There are only so
many matchmaking and self-help shows that one can take. Maybe a book will keep me occupied. I always find something good to read from the bookshelf in the living room. As I run my hands over the bindings, I see the book Mom made. Well, it’s not really a book, but a collection of pressed flowers bound into a scrapbook. I grab a copy of
Of Mice and Men
and the pressed flowers and head back to my room. I open Mom’s book first and run my fingers over the crinkly paper. Next to each flower she wrote the common name, scientific name, and its origin.

The first one is an
Amaryllis belladonna
or, as I like to refer to it, the Naked Lady. It’s from San Diego. The stem has no leaves and the pink petals are spread pretty wide apart. I wonder if my mom ever visited California. It’s a place I’ve never been, but I can imagine the naked ladies strutting their stuff; not much different than South Beach, really!

On the next page is a more subtle flower, the lemon bacopa o
r, scientific name,
Bacopa caroliniana
. It has four purplish-blue petals and a yellowish center. I flip past the bladderwort, African violet, and marigold and go right to my favorite,
Cassia fistula
, a native of South Florida. It’s hard to believe Dad named me after a plant in the pea family, but circumstance prevails. He first saw Mom when she was standing in front of the plant, waiting for a bus. He was eighteen, barely out of high school, and she was sixteen. I should be thankful they didn’t name me after the naked lady or the bladderwort. The common
name for this yellow plant, with small delicate petals, is golden shower.

Naturally, when I learned my name’s meaning, I tho
ught it meant a shower of pure gold. However, about five years later, a psycho kid in my fourth grade class, Allen Farnsworth, told me a golden shower is when you piss all over someone because you really like them. I thought he was a total liar until he asked if I wanted a demonstration. I didn’t stay past him unzipping his fly, but cried all the way home. I couldn’t pee for the rest of the night. My dad was sure I had a bladder infection. He bribed me with a trip to the toy store the next day if I went to the bathroom. It worked. Needless to say, I haven’t shared the secret meaning of my name with anyone. Not even Liz.

I stare at the yellow flower, trying to see what Dad saw when he first laid eyes on Mom. I bet the golden yellow flower was the perfect backdrop to her ink-black hair. She probably wore it loose, like she does in most of the pictures. I don’t think I live up to her. How could I? She was the love of his life.