by Ginger Scott
“Hey, about Friday.” He starts a conversation, maybe hoping I’ll take it over and navigate the rough waters. What he doesn’t get, though, is that this is a conversation I don’t want to have. He’s in the boat alone.
“Don’t.” My response is swift and clipped, forming instant ice. “It . . . It’s fine.” Not fine.
The awkward silence seeps back in, and my motivation to lift weights—to even be here—wanes. Butterflies are gone, replaced by lead and rocks that sit heavy in my gut.
“It’s just that Zack . . .”
I let my arms fall, heavy with the weights, and look up at Pete’s cobweb-covered ceiling tiles.
“Please, just don’t,” I grumble.
I roll my head to the side, eyes meeting his. He’s grimacing as if embarrassed of his cousin, but Zack isn’t his job. Cannon is responsible for Cannon.
“It’s usually a boys’ club out there . . .” He trails off, because there’s no great way to finish that statement.
“Except for the girls who sit around and stare at you guys with awe like you’re gods. Bare-chested gods.” That was smug. My chest is getting tight. This happens when I get frustrated and conflicted. I’m not a very pretty angry person.
“Come on, that’s not fair. So what that some of the girls like to hang out and watch us? So what if our shirts are off? And so what if, you know what? Some of us like the attention, and some of them like to give it to us. Fuck, Hollis. You need to seriously loosen up. Not everything is a protest for women’s equality. And you can take your shirt off too, ya know. No rules against that out there.” He rolls his eyes, a sneer to his lips as he turns away. He’s proud of himself, and that tightness in my chest is close to suffocating. The only relief will be letting it burst.
Cannon dumps his weights on the rack and I follow a step behind, dumping mine right next to his. He huffs and moves them to the right place, which is actually a nice thing to do but the way he does it ticks me off, so I groan, balling my fists at my sides.
“Why did you have to ruin this?” I lament.
“Ruin what, Hollis? I was just trying to talk to you, about Zack and what he did—”
“You were making an excuse for him,” I cut in, leveling him with the truth.
His mouth opens but promptly shuts. His eyes shift their focus from my right one to my left, his mind working behind them. I pat my closed fist against my hip, antsy and unsure whether I should wait for him to speak or get this weight off my chest.
“I swear, Hollis, I’m not making excuses for him. He was . . . not cool. Friday was not cool,” he says, and I instantly regret letting him go first.
I laugh out and look up again, my jaw slack and my spirit dashed. How can I be so attracted to a guy who I also want throttle until he understands what it’s like to be a girl in this world?
My head falls forward and I nod, a pathetic laugh drifting through my parted lips, the faint smile I’m wearing only there to mask that I’m nowhere near happy or really amused.
“You’re right, Cannon. Way to sum that all up. Zack was not cool. And perhaps Friday was not cool either. That’s what happened. Not cool,” I rattle off, laughing a little more with every word I breathe because this is so ridiculous. I should have stayed home and tried to paint my dad’s nails while he slept or put popcorn in his nostrils.
“You don’t make this easy,” he finally breaks in. His words stop me cold, my mouth closing while I stare, unblinking, at the space to the right of him, unable to bring my eyes to him fully.
“I don’t make this easy,” I rephrase. I just want him to hear it, in my tongue.
Crossing my line of sight with a heavy sigh, he grabs what must be his towel from a weight rack and slaps it against the metal with one hand. I’m no longer warm in this room. My bones are cold, my skin covered in bumps. Things got cold in here real fast.
“You just stood there, Cannon. Seems you decided to take it easy. I don’t make it anything,” I say.
He rolls his neck before balling the towel up and throwing it on top of his gym bag in the corner. I recognize his stuff from last time, bag unzipped with his clothes and phone inside. My eyes dart to the place where the towel now rests on top of his slides and sweat pants.
“Your cousin doesn’t like me, because . . .” I shrug, not having to say it; we both know. I’m a threat. Short and sweet, very simple. “And he chose to deal with his dislike by demeaning me in front of others, by sexualizing me to point out that I am different from the rest of you. That he has a power I could never have, and that makes me weak and him strong.”
“Hollis.” The way he says my name and lets his head tilt makes my stomach churn, and not because of the belittling tone underneath, but because for a little while there, I had fantasies of him tilting his head and saying my name for wholly different reasons.
My eyes flutter closed as he speaks the rest, the words I saw coming.
“You’re overreacting. It was hardly a statement. He just slapped your . . .”
The fact he can’t finish tells me he knows he’s wrong, that his line is bullshit. I open my eyes and point at him, wishing I could handle getting close enough to push into the center of his chest. My legs are lead, though. Most of me doesn’t want to be near him.
“And you stood there and let him get away with it.” I hold his gaze for several long, uncomfortable seconds, long enough for my legs to regain their feeling. I stay locked on his face while I move back toward the benches, to my abandoned long-sleeved tee that I want to crawl inside of and disappear into. Too mad to stick around to put it back on, I instead grab it, glaring at Cannon until I have to crane my neck to do so. I let my anger spill out onto Pete as I pass, knocking on his counter while I walk by and check the score as I utter, “Suck it, Green Bay.” That wasn’t fair, but I don’t like being prodded into uncomfortable conversations. I knew I wasn’t ready to talk about Friday, and especially not with Cannon.
His cousin may have felt threatened before, but he has no idea what’s gunning for him now. I’m not going to make this look close anymore, and I won’t offer advice. I’m going to humiliate him out there at workouts, and when tryouts come in two weeks, I’ll make it hard for my dad to justify keeping him on the roster at all. And if Cannon can’t throw what I need him to, then he’s next. It won’t be me calling in a favor from Daddy, either. It will be me showing everyone the difference between serious talent and a bunch of boys playing a game.
9
Cannon
She was right, righter than she even realizes.
It’s Monday morning and I have yet to call my cousin out on acting like a douchebag. Not only did I stand there and watch him belittle her, but I’m still standing by and doing nothing. I thought about it all night, and it’s still heavy on my mind now that I’m sitting across the table from him, watching him slurp up oatmeal like a kid still learning how to use utensils.
“Tryouts in two weeks. Who’s ready?” Uncle Joel lands his heavy palms on Zack’s shoulders and my cousin abruptly drops his spoon. The weight is both literal and psychological.
“We should have a pretty good team,” I say, not wanting to give away too many details. I’m not sure what Uncle Joel knows beyond Coach Taylor has a daughter playing. My uncle joined the board recently, probably to have leverage. I don’t think my cousin has been totally forthcoming about his insecurities, though, and I sure as shit ain’t going to expose them over breakfast.
“They got you throwing to Zack?” He squeezes my cousin’s shoulders when he asks that question, and his eyes grill mine from across the table.
“Got me throwing to everybody,” I say. It’s not a lie, and it’s enough to pull a chuckle from my uncle’s mouth while I leave the table with my bowl and empty glass to find solace at the sink with my back turned to them.
“Rumor is coach’s daughter isn’t awful. How ’bout that?” He’s baiting Zack. I can tell. He knows more than he’s admitting.
“She’s all right,” my cousin
says. His chair screeches along the floor behind me, so I move out of his way at the sink, anticipating him. Our eyes meet briefly at the dishwasher, and a silent agreement passes between us.
Mouths. Shut.
“You throw to her at all yet, Cannon?” Now he’s baiting me. I don’t like it. This isn’t how things work between my dad and me. We say what we mean and don’t equivocate. It’s a blunt and honest relationship that has never led to fights or distrust, and I’m sad that my cousin doesn’t get to have the same thing.
“Eh, a little,” I say with a shrug. I don’t make eye contact with him on purpose, and his enduring silence gives me the sense that he knows why I’m not looking at him.
My backpack is near the stairs, so I move over to it and unzip and rezip the top for no reason other than to bide time while Zack catches up to me.
“Well, maybe I’ll stop in and check out the lay of the land today. I’ve got a free afternoon,” my uncle says.
My cousin’s eyes close as he exhales next to me.
“Sounds good. We gotta go,” Zack responds, keeping the keys in his palm this time and jetting right toward the front door. I lag behind, and my pulse actually races with fear that my uncle will try to pull one more piece of intel out of me before I can get away. I breathe out in relief at the sound of the door falling closed behind me.
“Take it you wanna drive this morning?” I meet his eyes over the roof of the car.
He nods, getting in without pause and firing up the engine before I have a chance to shut my door. We don’t talk most of the way to school, but I can tell he’s stewing.
“I think I’m throwing to you today,” I finally speak.
“Uh huh.” Zack’s response is clipped.
It’s bullshit, and we both know it. I have no idea who I’m throwing to. I only know that I threw with Hollis on Thursday and Coach likes to rotate us.
“Workouts are pretty regimented anyhow. There’s not a lot to see, so your dad will probably get bored and leave in the first ten minutes.” I don’t know why I’m hell-bent on easing his anxiety, especially since I’m embarrassed for him after Friday’s basketball incident. And he clearly isn’t interested in anything I have to say this morning.
The car hits the dip into the school lot forcefully and I have to palm the dash to steady myself. Zack’s driving like an ass.
“Fuck, dude. Easy,” I finally grit out.
“Pfft,” he breathes.
I sink into my seat and focus out my window on anything that isn’t my cousin. When I see Hollis and her dad pull around to the back of the school in their van, I make a silent wish that Zack missed it. I’m not ready for him to launch into some snide remark about how nice it must be to live with Coach and get rides to school with him. I won’t be able to indulge his grudge if he tests me right now.
Luckily, he’s not in the mood to talk. We pull into our spot and he leaves the car before I unbuckle. I laugh quietly to myself as he stomps through the main doors and disappears, probably getting to class earlier than he ever has in his entire life. Turning my attention to the front, my gaze meets Tory’s and he nods, leaving our group of friends and walking toward my side of the car. I kick open the door just as he steps up.
“Hey, man. I see Zack is still on his one-man douchebag mission,” Tory says, pulling a short laugh from me as we slap hands. I shift in the seat while he folds his arms over the window frame on the door and glances around the lot.
“That was pretty fucked up, yo,” Tory says, and I know he’s talking about Friday.
“Yeah.” I sigh. I don’t have much to add because his synopsis captured Friday to a tee. Fucked. Up.
“This is about him, just so you know,” Tory says, and I turn to look him in the eyes. “Don’t get caught up in it and think you have to do whatever he does or defend him. I’ve learned a lot of things this last year, and key is knowing how to take care of your own shit. Don’t get yourself neck deep in his to the point you drown in your own.”
“Colorful,” I say, chuckling.
“Yeah, well.” He shrugs, opening my door fully while I grab my bag from the floor and step out of the car.
We hang close, Tory probably sensing that I’m not ready to talk about Zack’s shit with a full group. It would be impossible for people not to bring it up. I’m surprised his ass slap isn’t trending on social media. For Hollis’s sake, I’m glad it’s not.
Hollis.
I’ve been so caught up in my morning that for a brief bit I forgot I have to sit three feet from her in about ten minutes. I spent most of the night tossing and turning, playing out how this morning would go. I tried out jokes and flat-out apologies. Every scenario I imagined ended in her telling me to fuck off. Maybe I should just get that over with and say it before she has a chance to.
“See? That’s how it starts,” Tory says, pulling me out of my head.
“What?” I ask.
“You, taking on your cousin’s shit. You’re trying to work it out. I can read it all over your face.”
“Pshh, nah. That’s not it.” I push away from our car and wander closer to the main doors. Tory tags along, waving off his brother who’s hanging out with the girls.
“Spill,” Tory says when we’re far enough away from everyone for there to be no ears around to hear.
I wrinkle my face, a little in self-disgust but mostly because talking about things in my head with anyone but my dad isn’t something I do. And even with my dad, it’s mostly school, college, or baseball talk.
“My first hour is with Hollis. Think you can pretend to be my uncle and call me in sick?” I lift a brow at him, half serious about my request.
Tory’s shoulders lift with his laugh.
“That’s what happens when you kiss a total stranger. Things get messy.” He pulls the tab on his energy drink and sucks down half of it, peering at me over the can.
My eyes narrow.
“How’d you know about that?” I query.
He pulls the can away and belches while shrugging.
“Saw you through the window.” He holds his can out for me, and I take a shot of caffeine. I’m going to need a jolt of something to get through this.
“Yeah, well, that’s only half the reason this is all so complicated. I’m not sure I can avoid drowning in Zack’s shit because we have the same mess. Our issues bleed together, and then our dads are involved, and his is on the board for the booster club, and then . . .”
“I’m gonna stop you here,” Tory says, hand on my shoulder with a heavy pat. “All that you just said?” He circles his finger in the air between us. “None of that means anything to me, or makes sense. But I can almost guarantee that you and Zack are not in the same shoes. You’re making his problems yours, and that is only going to fuck with your head, my friend.”
He flicks my forehead with a snap, and it hurts.
“Ow! Dick,” I say, swiping at his hand but missing it. He laughs, then finishes the rest of his drink, tossing the can in the recycle bin by the office.
Our friends catch up to us, and June makes her way next to me. The bell is seconds from rescuing me, but it’s as if she has it under her control and won’t let it ring until she invades my head and space.
“How are you?” I’m immediately thrown by her sincere question and my brow puzzles. I was prepared for a lecture, part two of the things Hollis said to me at the gym last night.
“I’m . . . fine,” I say, turning my head further and looking at her sideways. She doesn’t budge, her eyes slanting more, and her stare unforgiving. She’s a high school senior with mom powers; I swear she’s looking right through me.
“I don’t know,” I finally give.
June loops her arm through mine and squeezes my bicep. She and I aren’t close, not really, but she’s always struck me as soft and kind. I can see why Lucas loves her. She’s . . . intuitive.
“Nobody blames you,” she finally says, the bell sounding behind her words.
My forehead dents as
we move through the corridor, but not because I don’t understand what she means. I understand perfectly. What hits me is the way she cut right to the heart of my stress. They don’t blame me, but there is one person who does. And she’s already sitting in her seat by the time I make it to my classroom door.
I’m a little shell shocked by the time I land in my seat, and I dump my bag by my feet and let my forehead fall into my palms. Rubbing my eyes, I ready myself for the hard part—the hardest, really.
My hair curly from my morning shower, I roll my head to the side in my hands and wait, staring on while Hollis busies herself with dozens of little tasks that I recognize as diversions, ways to keep herself from looking at me. Finally, the heat of my attention too much perhaps, she flattens her pen against her notebook and presses her palms on her desk, splaying her fingers out while she draws in a deep breath.
Her head turns and our eyes meet. Mine were waiting. Before she can open her mouth to keep this grudge going, I end it.
“I’m sorry.”
Her lips are parted, the path her words were on suddenly diverted with something so simple. An apology. One she deserves from more than only me for sure, but one I owe her. And the only one I have the power to give.
My lips tighten in a subtle smile as I lock in anything else that might slip out on accident. There aren’t any buts that need to be added. No excuses to make for people who aren’t me. As Tory said, I’m taking care of my own shit.
She blinks a few times, hesitantly staring back.
“That’s it. No excuses. I’m sorry, and you are right,” I expand. The class quiets around us, and Mr. V dims the lights, flicking on the screen up front. He’s giving instructions but I’m not listening. I’m determined not to look away from her until she gives me permission, even if it isn’t full absolution.
Hollis clears her throat as she shifts in her seat, bringing her hands together on top of her notebook and moving her gaze to her own hands. She taps her thumbs together a few times and flits her gaze to me a few times, as if coming to a decision. I feel a bit as if I’m on trial with a super biased jury.
