by Ginger Scott
Of course, I’m not here on principal. I’m here because my feelings were hurt. Stupid feelings for a stupid boy with stupid, stupid features that I’ve been thinking about way too often. And while it’s his cousin I’m in a standoff with, it’s Cannon I want to convince. I’m just not sure of what.
7
Cannon
Hollis Taylor might be more like my cousin than I thought. This is a total Zack move, following people who pissed him off so they have to deal with looking him in the eyes.
I have to look her in the eyes, and I don’t really want to. Before my cousin showed up, we were . . . I’m not sure what we were, but we weren’t holding this invisible grudge that’s there now. I have to stop making this my problem, but it’s hard when my uncle and Zack will not stop talking about what a huge problem this is, and not only for them.
“Your senior year is going to be overshadowed by some novelty publicity stunt.”
That’s their talking point. They want to rile me up to make sure I’m invested in their battle, but really, there is some truth to it. Allensville Public is not a small school. It’s not one of the mega schools that gets TV coverage, but it’s a decent size in a town caught between factories to the south and the big city to the west. A girl behind the plate is the kind of human interest story the media eats up, which makes it hard to shine when you’re the one on the mound.
All of that shit shouldn’t matter. Deep down, I know it doesn’t. Coaches at D-ones aren’t looking at news stories, they’re looking at numbers. And I’ve got the stats.
“Alright, how ’bout this—you can have Tory but I get Hayden. I’ll take Cannon and you get Lucas.” I give my cousin side-eyes because I do not want to be a part of this showdown. Too late, though. He just shoved the ball into my chest.
Hollis tosses her ball to the side, and one of Lucas’s friends nudges it into the dead grass with his foot. Friday afternoon basketball at Hayden and Tory’s has become a habit for Zack and me. I usually look forward to it, mostly because the twins end up putting on a show and it comes down to the rest of us getting out of the way and passing them the ball to do epic shit. I have a feeling that’s not how this game is going to go.
“You know what? I’ll be nice. You take it up top first.” My cousin jerks the ball from my hands and bounces it to Hollis who accepts it with a firm slap of her palms. She’s locked in on this as much as Zack is.
My cousin points to me then Lucas, coaching me on whom to guard. It’s a little irritating but he’s so far gone in his head, I agree. Hayden and Tory eye each other, and when I get close enough to Lucas to strong-arm him while Hollis dribbles around the perimeter of the three-point line, he mutters, “What the fuck?”
I shake my head.
“My cousin is threatened by a girl. Coach Taylor’s her dad, and she catches, and it’s a whole shit show.” I glance up in frustration while Lucas snorts out a laugh.
“Right, well . . . this should good,” Lucas responds.
We both shuffle our feet, me guarding him while he jukes for an open position on the makeshift court in the D’Angelo driveway. Hollis dribbles back, crossing the ball behind her body a few times, then once through her legs.
“Oh, look at you. Fancy,” my cousin teases, swiping at the ball and easily knocking it away. He coughs out a boastful laugh while she rushes to regain control. She manages, but it’s clear by the way the whites of her eyes turn redder that Zack is getting under her skin.
Lucas rushes to the other side of the court, clapping his hands then opening his palms for a pass while Hollis works to shirk off my cousin’s handsy defense. She sends a hard chest pass in Lucas’s direction, but I’ve already read the play and intercept it, dribbling up top and passing the ball off to Zack to set up.
“Atta boy, Can. Yup yup!” My cousin is obnoxious in his celebration. I’ve joined these guys for dozens of Friday afternoon games, and while Zack is usually the loudest guy out here, he’s trash talking with a little extra venom today. It’s obvious, and also embarrassing for him.
Hollis hasn’t said a word, but I can tell she’s reaching a boiling point by the way she holds her lips closed tight, almost puckering as she zeroes in on nothing but the ball. She’s stuck to my cousin like glue, reaching in when he drives to the right. He toys with her for way longer than necessary, then spins, dashing around her on the left and driving the ball to the hoop for a layup. He holds out a fist for me to pound as he jogs by while Tory inbounds the ball back to Hollis.
The ball back in play, Tory gives me a quick glance, a silent commentary on Zack’s showboating, and I can tell he wants to put my cousin in his place. I’m not sure he realizes this game has nothing to do with the rest of us.
Sensing that Tory’s ready, Hollis passes the ball back to him in a rush, and we all step back as he puts up an instant three-pointer that sinks through the hoop without a sound.
“Oh, damn!” Tory boasts, moving in on Zack with his chest puffed out. My cousin laughs him off and pats his chest with his flat palm. Tory’s gone stoic, no longer playing a game for fun. I’m not sure this is the result my cousin wanted. Regardless, it’s the one he’s getting.
For a few minutes, the game shifts into its normal pattern—the Hayden and Tory show. Zack passes the ball to Hayden, and the faceoff ensues. Each of them drives in against one another in a boisterous round of one-on-one, forgetting that the rest of us are on the court. It’s then that I catch the smile on Hollis’s face. She came here to prove a point, but now, she’s just having fun. I’m having fun. Every time I manage to get a pass, I flip it over to Hayden and watch him do his thing. Hollis does the same with Tory, even picking up his signal to set him up for a dunk. The two of them slap hands after he finally lets go of the rim, and the tightness eases in my chest.
This game is back to being what it should be, a way to blow off steam and just be. A place away from baseball, away from my goals, away from plans and parents. Right here, for this little slice of afternoon, we get to be a bunch of punk-ass teenagers. The rules are unwritten, but they are always followed.
Until now.
I didn’t realize how long it had been since the ball met Zack’s hands, but the moment it finally does, the tone of everything changes. Hollis isn’t set on her feet yet. She’s still hailing Tory’s last shot, laughing with her new friends, not even looking as my cousin lowers his shoulder and drills right through her.
I hear the moment the breath leaves her chest, an audible pop from inside her ribs, her mouth an instant O shape, her cheeks pale and eyes frightened while a muffled moan crawls up her throat and out her mouth. She falls to her elbows, a good chunk of skin peeling away from the right one. She’s too busy gripping her chest and trying to refill her lungs to notice the blood trailing down her arm and dripping onto the D’Angelo driveway.
“What the fuck is your deal, Jennings?”
Tory pushes my cousin back a few steps with a hard shove, and Zack’s nostrils flare in response. Stepping into Tory’s personal space, my cousin moves close enough for their chests to nearly touch.
“Part of the game, isn’t it? I mean, we don’t change the rules because—”
“Because I’m a girl?” Hollis interjects, suddenly on her feet and urging Tory to back out of a fight meant for her. She joins the standoff and Tory gives her space, but only a little, his pulse amped up enough to make his jaw twitch.
“You’re the one who wanted to play.” Zack holds the ball against his hip as they stare each other down, both panting from a mix of anger and racing heart rates. The blood on Hollis’s arm is drying, but the thick beading left behind is a pretty good indication of the cut at the heart of the trail.
“Just learning your rules, Zack.”
I don’t know if my cousin expects her to cry or what, but she’s clearly not intimidated by a little pushing and shoving. Hell, I’ve bruised her up with enough wild pitches over the last week that I could have told him she had thick skin, both literally and figuratively
. Zack rolls the ball back and forth between his hands, eyes searing into Hollis, tongue held between his teeth, smile faint and ominous.
“Dude, just stop this,” I mutter at his side. He doesn’t bother to look at me, dismissing me with a flick of his hand.
“What? Hollis is good with it. Aren’t you? We don’t have a problem here.” He nods at her, prompting her to fold or call his bluff. Only, he isn’t bluffing. I’ve seen Zack get like this before. When we were little and playing against club kids from the rich teams, he stood his ground over fights he clearly picked. It always felt as if we were on the righteous side back then, but now he comes off like a dick.
“Yeah. We’re good,” Hollis says, nodding slowly. Her eyes lazily sweep from Zack to Tory, then to me. She’s summing up everyone present, and I’m not sure what label she’s assigning me.
“We’ll call that a foul, then. Your ball,” Zack says, letting it fall from his fingers into a lazy bounce in her direction.
“How very honest of you,” Hollis bites back.
She doesn’t pause for long, catching us all off guard by faking a shot then driving in around Zack for a left-handed layup. Her move draws praise, some of the guys waiting for the next game whistle, and both D’Angelo brothers bump fists with her. It was impressive, and it was actions instead of words. I expect it to only light more gas in Zack’s belly, but he seems equally impressed, nodding with big movements as he says, “Okay, I see you.”
For the next ten minutes of play, everything and everyone seems to find a rhythm. Zack holds a stiff forearm against Hollis while he dribbles in, but he never crosses the line into flagrant fouling. It’s a contact sport, and it stays contact—hands smacking against arms when shots are fired, inadvertent scratches, tripped-up feet, trash talking spilling equally from all our mouths. I block one of Hollis’s shots on a double-team and she nails me right back, punching the ball between my legs and right into Tory’s hands. We’ve battled so hard, nobody’s noticed the dark clouds creeping in and the sudden drop in temperature. The only thing that could shake our moods would be the clouds opening up and dumping icy rain on our game—or what my cousin does . . . right . . . now.
Hollis has the ball, working it around the imaginary three-point line, Zack stuck to her like second skin, hands reaching in but never quite fast enough to throw her off or find the steal. Our shoes are loud against the pavement, screeching when we stop hard, and sliding against loose gravel. Tory is nearly impossible to guard, but I’m doing my best, always somehow in contact with his body, be it an elbow matching the one he’s got in my ribs or our legs fighting for position. The game’s tied, and maybe that’s what pushes Zack over the edge. Maybe he was waiting for his moment.
Or maybe . . . maybe he’s desperate and angrier and more insecure than I realized.
After long seconds of faking grabs at the ball and getting nowhere, Zack swings his hand around Hollis’s side, his hand slapping against her ass with enough force that the sound of skin-on-skin bites through the heavy wind despite the padding of her joggers. He yaps in laughter, practically beating his chest when the ball juts out from the top of her foot, her world visibly thrown.
My arms suddenly go slack, no longer struggling to hold on for defense. Tory’s do the same, no longer itching for the ball. Only the people in our game actually see it—feel it—but the awfulness of it all actually chokes me.
The ball now in his possession, my cousin rushes the lane, no one engaged enough to stop him, and dunks the ball with enough force that the rim vibrates along with the slow rumble coming from the clouds above.
“I gotta get home. I think it’s going to rain,” Hollis says, her gaze at no one in particular and her announcement cursory, an excuse to let us all leave and pretend everything is normal. Maybe it is. Maybe that was something playful, like the way Tory slaps Hayden’s ass when he does a good job. Maybe I didn’t see what I think I saw, or feel what I should have.
The fact Hollis is already in her van and swinging around for a U-turn tells me my instincts are sickly attuned.
I glance to the right, everyone suddenly broken up, gone in different directions—away from my cousin who is still shooting and smiling, proud of his big win. Hollis’s ball still sits in the grass. I walk over and kick it up into my hands, rotating it until I see her name carved into the side in thick black pen marks. I trace it with my thumb, a sourness coating my stomach that I immediately try to convince myself is only in my head. I glance out to the road in time to make eye contact with Hollis as she drives by, and I know better.
This problem between her and my cousin? It’s only going to get worse. And I’m in the very middle.
8
Hollis
I’ve gotten better at pretending for my parents. For a while, I still had a lot of tells. They could sense that something was under my skin because of the way I picked at my dinner plate or only gave short answers. I’ve found that sticking with my natural knack of being a smart-ass can carry me through any interaction without questions.
I came home from basketball Friday and pulled into the driveway seconds before my father did. Mask in place, I rushed from the car and ran toward him, greeting him as he stepped out of his truck, and leaping at him like one of those flying monkeys at the Bronx zoo. He had exactly two seconds to prepare for my weight, but he still caught me effortlessly, despite how awkward it looks when we do this now.
I get my height from him, so when I was a kid, I outgrew my mom carrying me pretty quickly. Since my dad’s limbs are proportional with mine, he could always manage. Whenever I fell asleep downstairs or was sick or twisted an ankle, Dad was charged with hauling me around. We started doing this again last year when my mom bet he couldn’t lift me anymore. Now it’s our thing.
Sometimes, I need to be daddy’s girl. Other times, I think he needs me to be. Friday night, maybe we both needed it a little.
With most of the weekend over, I’ve been able to put what happened with Zack into the appropriate mental box, locking it up and tucking it in that part of my brain I don’t deal with until I want to. Until I have to.
We’re not a very formal family. No big Sunday dinners when we all sit around the table and share. Usually, Dad grabs a pizza and we all take slices as we come and go. Sometimes, there’s a game on in the living room, and we end up piled on the couch.
This is one of those Sundays when my mom is grading and my dad is nodding off on the couch, having drunk one too many beers while tinkering in the garage. My brother still goes to bed early, so I’m on my own. Having bargained that filling a dresser with clothes, one step closer to fully unpacking, was worth another week of van privileges, I have wheels at my disposal. The problem is I have no idea where to go.
After a good fifteen minutes of roaming aimlessly around neighborhoods, looking at leftover Christmas lights that are yet to be taken down, I pop out from a side street, suddenly on the main drag through town. The glowing orange A&P sign flickers in the mist lingering after the long weekend rains. The roads are slick with frozen mud. So far, winter storms here aren’t the picturesque kind. I wait for the few cars to pass before crawling the van out onto the road. I’m used to driving in New York weather, but I’ve been told over and over again by my dad that the roads and weather here mix differently.
I immediately recognize the lone car parked in front of the gym, and despite the uncertainty of which Jennings drove it here, I pull in and park right next to it. I’m not dressed for a workout, my dad’s old college sweatpants rolled up at my waist and my shirt the black Billie Eilish long-sleeved tee I got for my birthday at a concert last year. With one deep breath, I resolve to keep what happened Friday tucked away in my mental box, no matter who is inside, and push open the door, glad I at least have socks on with my bright pink knitted boots.
A bell jingles when I walk in, and the old man I met the first time I came here cranes his neck, peeling his eyes away from the Packers playoff game on the small TV mounted in the corner.
I nod toward the TV as he pulls himself up from the chair he was planted in and makes his way to the register.
“What’s the score?”
“Packers are up by a touchdown,” he says, his groggy words wrapping around the well-chewed toothpick dangling from his bottom lip. The clank of metal plates knocking together hits the nerve at the back of my neck but I manage the strength not to turn and look in the direction of the noise. I don’t want to know just yet who is to my left.
“Good.” I nod.
He squints in apparent skepticism, a hint of a smile creeping into his dry, cracked lips, evidence from his lunch or dinner caught in his overgrown mustache. A deep cough crackles in his chest twice as he tucks his chin. He coughs with the lungs of a lifelong smoker. I recognize the same distinct sound that came from my grandfather’s chest. Leaning on his elbow, he slouches at the counter and observes me with one eye, the other squinted shut.
“You a Packer fan?”
Oh, the temptation to lie, but I just can’t.
“Oh, no way. Giants all the way! I’d just rather we play you next week than the Seahawks.” I blink at him as he stares at me for a few seconds in dead silence, then huffs out a laugh, standing upright and slapping his palm on the countertop.
“Well, hot damn. I like you, sweetheart. I hate your Giants, but I do believe I like you.” He pops open his register and hands me a five-dollar bill, and I look at it strangely, take it tentatively.
“I’m . . . flattered?” I’m really just confused, and maybe a little offended.
I cock my head, missing the opportunity to correct him on the sweetheart bit because I’m so thrown by what came after. And then I hear the voice of the Jennings I hoped drove that car here tonight.
