by Maria Padian
Aubrey grimaces like someone about to get a tetanus shot. “They’re only nice to me because I’m your sister.”
“That’s not true—” he begins.
“My brother is so nice,” Aubrey interrupts, “he doesn’t realize how mean other people can be.”
I look full-on at Sam. Who just happens to look full-on at me. It’s the strangest moment. Like we’re both asking each other the same question. Although I can’t tell you what the hell that question is.
“I’ve never met anyone that nice,” I say.
“I’m not,” he insists, as if being nice is the last nail in his coffin of perfection.
“Let me see what I can do,” I tell Aubrey. Then, to Sam, “Thanks for the lift. That was . . . really nice.” I swing the door of the Cherokee shut before I can see his reaction, then turn on my heel and head straight through the revolving door of the medical center. Once inside, I peek to see if they’re still there, but the Shackeltons are gone.
Here’s what I know: you don’t let yourself catch feelings for the same guy your best friend likes. Even if she swears that he, and everyone who breathes the same oxygen as he does, is a superficial, fake asshole. Roz needs to say that. Even if deep down she doesn’t believe it.
You don’t allow yourself the fantasy that not only is that guy not an asshole . . . he might actually be a decent person. A good brother. You don’t let yourself become friends with that guy. You don’t step into his world. Not only because you don’t belong there but also, and most importantly, because it would pretty much be like sticking a dagger into your best friend’s back.
I am the World’s Best Secret Keeper. But even I don’t know how I’m going to keep this from Roz.
9
It’s Friday. Game Day. I’ve just gotten off the bus, and I’m trudging the last few hundred feet of road leading home when I spot someone’s car parked outside our front door. Mrs. Brenda sits in one of the plastic chairs Mami planted on our minuscule patch of sort-of grass. My sun-and-flower-loving mother pulled those chairs from lovely Meadowbrook Gardens Mobile Home Park’s communal storage shed the first warm day this month. She steals minutes, when she’s not working or cooking or wrangling us, to sit in one of them and point her face toward the light, eyes closed.
Sometimes I ask her what she’s doing out there, and without opening her eyes she’ll say, “Thinking.”
Which is code for: “Don’t bother me right now, Isabella.”
Which translates to: “I need some alone time.”
Which is muy annoying. I mean, I get that she needs alone time. We all do. But when it’s your mom, it doesn’t seem like alone time. It seems like she’s got secrets. Stuff she doesn’t tell.
I guess deep down I feel like only the child is allowed to have secrets. Not the parent.
At any rate, they make me sad, those cheap chairs. Especially now, seeing Mrs. Brenda spilling out the sides of the one she’s squeezed herself into.
“Isabella!” Her smile plumps her cheeks into two round red apples. “How are you, sweetheart?”
“Fine,” I auto-reply. Which is code for: “You don’t want to know.” I flop alongside her in the other awful chair.
Basically, the long list of what I have not dealt with has grown to an intolerable length. For starters:
1.I still have Roz’s shirt and necklace. That’s because I haven’t seen or heard from her in a week. Not since she texted me that she was crashing at Marliese’s for the foreseeable future.
2.I still haven’t figured out how—or whether—to tell her about Aubrey. Or Sam. Or tonight’s game. Speaking of which . . .
3.I still haven’t figured out how I’m getting there. Or even solidly decided that I’m going. Even though Aubrey is counting on it. Actually, all the VCs are counting on it. Which is a whole other story.
4.I still don’t know whether to tell Roz about Habitat. I mean, why tell her I’m moving if I’m not? Hell, for all I know this Marliese thing is permanent and she’s moved!
5.I don’t know how to handle Aubrey. Since the Day of the Lift Home, I have become her new BFF. Or girl crush. Hard to tell which. In either case, she follows me through the halls like a rescue pup that recently escaped euthanasia. Only to find itself placed with a new owner who prefers cats.
I mean, I don’t. Prefer cats, that is. But geez, she’s driving me crazy. And just the way a dog always sniffs out the cat lover in a room and cozies right up to her, convinced that a few loving glances and big wet licks will win her over? Aubrey is convinced that total slobbering will win me over. A couple of the other VC girls even noticed. We were finishing our lunch the other day when Jamila nudged me.
“You’ve got a fan,” she said, pointing over my shoulder. I turned, and there was Aubrey, filing in with the freshmen for the next lunch period, trying to get our attention. Not quite at the Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm-Flailing Tube Man level. But close.
“I know, right?” I murmured, smiling between clenched teeth and aiming one quick royal wrist pivot at Aubrey before we ducked out.
Jamila laughed. “She’s just excited. It’ll wear off. But honestly? Feel free to call in reinforcements if you need help.”
Which gave me an idea.
“Hey. Do you want to go to a basketball game?” I asked.
Jamila shook her head like someone who has turned on the radio to hear the same bad song played for the thousandth time. “Just because I’m black doesn’t mean I’m intoasketball.”
“And just because I’m Puerto Rican doesn’t mean I like flan,” I shot right back. Which I could tell surprised her. The VCs aren’t used to edge from me. Or any mention of my being Puerto Rican.
But Jamila got the point. “Fair enough,” she said. “What’s flan?”
“It’s this slimy egg custard. Think vanilla snot.”
She burst out laughing. And eyed me with fresh respect.
“Jamila. You just said I should ask for help. Well, Aubrey is bugging me to go with her to watch her brother’s basketball team. They’re in some playoffs and it’s important to her. So, why don’t we get a group and go together?”
She wrinkled her nose. “You want me to spend a weekend night watching white boys play a sport I don’t care about? You gotta do better than that.”
“Who says they’re all white? I know for a fact one of the captains is black.” I crossed my fingers behind my back, praying she wouldn’t ask me how I know that.
“You ever actually been to East Clayton?” she asked, her voice rising.
I decided not to tell her about my multiple trips through McMansion Land, so I shook my head.
“Everyone there goes to the county school. Clayton County High. The people who live in Clayton city? And look like me? They go to plain old Clayton High.”
“Please. Black people live outside Clayton city, Jamila.”
“Not many. Listen, I don’t have a problem with Aubrey. She’s a good kid. I’m just saying . . . East Clayton? Really?”
“Just because they’re white doesn’t mean they aren’t hot,” I countered.
Which got her attention. “And you know all this how?”
“Trust me,” I said.
“I’ll think about it,” she replied.
She did more than think about it. She jumped on the VC group text and proposed we all go. “Let’s support our newest member’s big brother!” was how she put it. Which fooled absolutely no one. Because if there’s one thing lacking in a Catholic girls’ high school, it’s . . . boys. “Support” was code for a whole lot of things missing from our education.
Here was the problem: everybody wanted to carpool.
Which meant I needed to convince Mami to give me the car. No small feat since she’d already planned to have me stay in and babysit Jack while she went to her single parents’ support group at church. When I made my case th
at I hardly ever went out with the girls from school and this was a one-time thing whereas she went to her group every Friday, she relented . . . but said she’d take Jack to group. So one of the girls could pick me up for the game and drop me off afterward.
A fairly epic battle followed, with me insisting that wouldn’t work, I needed the car, and Mami telling me I was being completely unreasonable and wondering aloud if I was about to get my period. Because how else to explain such insanity?
I hate the way Mami attributes our disagreements to my menstrual cycle. As if she’s always right and I’m quarterly crazy one week out of four.
So now it’s five o’clock, two hours before tip-off, and my phone has been buzzing nonstop as the VC girls confirm who’s driving as well as who’s getting picked up and where. I’ve been radio silent, hoping against hope that I’ll be able to change Mami’s mind.
Because I really want to go to this game. Of course, at this point, that’d probably take a miracle. Where’s a guardian angel when you need one? I look at Mrs. Brenda seated in the horrible chair. She’s a religious woman. Maybe she knows one?
“You don’t seem fine,” she comments after watching me for a long moment. Not unkindly. “Long week?”
“No longer than usual,” I tell her. “I’ve just got some plans I’m trying to work out. How are you?”
Mrs. Brenda sits up as if she’s been waiting all her life for someone to ask her this question. “I’m very well, Isabella,” she says. “As a matter of fact, today has been one of the best days I can remember in a long time.” She aims a meaningful smile at me that feels like a laser pointer boring into my skull.
“You know, everyone calls me Izzy,” I tell her. “Except Mami. When she’s mad.”
Mrs. Brenda laughs. “I can’t imagine your mother ever getting mad at you,” she says.
Think again, I don’t say. It occurs to me this might be rude, keeping her out here on the weedy patch.
“Want to come inside?” I ask. “Mami and Jack should be home any minute.”
Mrs. Brenda shakes her head, beaming. “I’m enjoying this early spring sunshine,” she informs me.
I nod, resigned to my chair. From my pocket, the phone vibrates like it’s radioactive. I need Mami to get home so I can convince her to give me the car, so I can text everyone I’m coming, so I can go watch Sam’s game . . .
“Yes, this is one of the best days I can remember!” Mrs. Brenda repeats.
Dios mío. Please, help. Save me from this very nice, very annoying woman. Because I’m teetering on the brink of headed-to-hell rudeness I know I’ll later regret.
For some reason, the Lord has a free moment, and my prayer is answered that instant: Mami’s car appears, winding along the narrow road. Mrs. Brenda pulls herself out of the plastic chair and stands as the tires grind to a haltefore us.
Judging from the mixture of surprise and concern on my mother’s face as she emerges from the car, she wasn’t expecting company.
“Did we have a meeting? I’m so sorry—” Mami begins.
But Mrs. Brenda cuts her off. She stretches out her arms and wraps Mami in a tight hug. She whispers something in her ear. Mami startles, steps back, like the words are electric. Her hand flies to her mouth. She begins to cry.
“Izzy. What’s wrong?” Jack’s small voice beside me. I hadn’t even noticed him get out of the car.
But Mrs. Brenda hears him and turns. “Nothing’s wrong, sweetheart,” she tells him, her eyes brimming as well. “I was just telling your mother that Habitat has accepted your family’s application. You’re getting a house.”
For some reason, at this very huge, very important, fairly incredible moment, all I can focus on are these two dumb plastic chairs. Mami tsk-tsking weeks ago when she hauled them from storage and discovered black mold and fresh scratches on their legs. Scrubbing them with bleach and rinsing them with pots of water because we don’t have a hose. Placing them on the one spot outside that wasn’t gravel or bare dirt or asphalt. Sitting in them like she’s some tourist at the beach or reclining, poolside, at a resort.
I hate them. I despise them. Because my mother works so hard. She almost never stops. And it hurts my heart to see that at the end of the day, a few minutes alone, in crap chairs, is all she gets.
But all that is about to change. Everything is about to change.
I don’t even realize I’m crying until I feel Mrs. Brenda’s arms around me and realize her tears are mixing with mine.
“Yay!” Jack exclaims. “Can we go to Applebee’s?”
He leads with his stomach, that boy. And right now, Applebee’s is his favorite big-treat-eat-out place.
The four of us head inside, with Mrs. Brenda filling Mami in with all the details—how excited the Habitat people are, what happens next—and Jack freeing Paco from his crate so the poor little guy can pee. In the midst of all the rejoicing, I feel my phone vibrate.
I retreat to my room to check it and sure enough: everyone’s weighed in and accounted for except me. The long chain of text messages ends with simple questions from Aubrey:
Aubrey: Do you need a ride? Or will we meet you there?
It’s now or never, I think as I head back down the hall to the kitchen, where my mother is trying to make tea for Mrs. Brenda, who keeps insisting, “No, thank you.”
“Mami?” Everyone turns. “Sorry to interrupt right now, but . . . I still don’t have a ride to the game tonight. Are you sure I can’t have the car?”
The eyebrows arch, but before she can say anything, Jack dives in.
“I want to go to Applebee’s!”
I don’t actually believe in guardian angels, although Mami swears by them. But here’s the thing: if they exist, I’m guessing Mrs. Brenda might be ours.
And this is when she decides to unfurl her wings.
“I have an idea,” she says. “How about we go to Applebee’s right now? My treat. We’ll both drive there, and after dinner I’ll drop you and Jack at church, Margarita. I know a few people there who will give you a ride home, so Izzy can have the car. To go wherever it is she wants. Would that be a good plan?”
And that’s how I end up wandering into the Clayton County High School gymnasium only minutes before the starting whistle, my tummy full of Fiesta Lime Chicken, my hair straightened and makeup fresh, wearing the cute white top I still haven’t returned to Roz. The bleachers are packed and the air practically pulses, strobe-like, with energy. I scan the crowd for my crew, focusing on the side crammed with people wearing the Clayton County blue and gold, when through the bedlam I hear the familiar “Woo-hoo!”
Aubrey stands in the middle of the mob, waving and jumping up and down like an insane rabbit. All the other VCs are seated around her, waving at me as well. I beeline it to their side and scooch into the space they make for me.
“Yay! You made it!” Aubrey, stating the obvious, in my ear. She’s seated behind me and slightly to my right. On the floor, just a few rows below us, the County coach has huddled his five starters close and is giving them final instructions. Sam is bent over, hands on knees, but I can only make out the top of his head because someone’s very tall dad, sitting in front of me, blocks my view. My gaze wanders to the visitors’ side of the gym. It’s packed with equally enthusiastic fans in different school colors. I don’t know a soul. Except . . .
At the top, all the way to the right, sit two girls. They’re on the far edge, so you wouldn’t necessarily notice them. Except they stand out. In all the noise and motion, they are silent and still. Amidst a riot of color, they are muted. In black. From head to toe. Like two crows in a flock of parrots.
Something about them is familiar.
I take out my phone, open the camera app, and aim it at the girls. I zoom in, splay my fingers wide on the screen, and reveal: Marliese. Sitting next to Roz.
Who isn’t watching the game, ei
ther. Between my finger and thumb, from the dead center of the two-by-three-inch touchscreen, she stares straight at me.
10
I’m pretty much in the Jamila camp, and not much of aasketball fan, but I could watch Sam Shackelton race up and down the court all night.
The only thing more fascinating is watching him guzzle Gatorade. Comb his fingers through his slightly long hair to keep it off his sweaty forehead . . .
Okay. Fine. I’d be willing to sit on these hard bleachers surrounded by screaming fans all night for a chance to watch Sam breathe.
And I’m not alone.
“Which one is Aubrey’s brother?” asks Lindsey, who sits next to me.
“Seven,” I tell her. I watch her face as she scans the players’ numbers. Her expression morphs from curious to surprised to awestruck like in a time-lapse video. A whole lot changes in a matter of seconds.
“Wow.”
It’s pretty much all she can say.
It doesn’t help that he’s also the best player out there. Time and again the opposing side tries to shut him down, first double-teaming then triple-teaming him on defense. But Sam is a great passer, so when they swarm him, he simply dishes the ball to an open teammate, who swishes an easy basket. County drives the score way up by doing that over and over, so when the buzzer sounds at halftime they lead 33–8.
Everyone gets up to stretch legs or buy snacks. I get stuck on the endless Lady Line at the restroom, and have to rush to make it back in time for the second half. I’m pumping quarters into a vending machine when I hear “Nice shirt,” behind me. Not quite the tinkle bells of Aubrey’s shirt compliment. More like a growl. A familiar growl. I wheel around to face the music. No point faking surprise. Roz knows me too well.
“I thought I saw you! How’s it goin’? I haven’t heard from you all week.”
“Ran out of minutes,” she says. Like me, Roz has a Tracfone. We live card to card. “What are you doing here?” Roz says “here” as if the hallways of Clayton County High are the deepest pit in Dante’s circles of hell.
