by Maria Padian
Naturally, there was not a speck of frosting on him. He’d jumped in just the right direction.
“We gotta get outta here!” he exclaimed.
Which, of course, is easy enough when you aren’t wearing the evidence of your crime. My feet felt frozen. I wanted nothing more than to run away, but how could I step outside the pantry and into the fellowship hall covered in cake? My eyes filled as I watched Mark open the door a crack and peek out.
“C’mon!” He gestured to me with one hand, but I couldn’t move. He turned, his face a tortured mix of irritation, fear, and guilt, and insisted, “We gotta go!”
Which is when I wailed.
“I can’t!” came out in a choked sob as I pointed to my ruined dress. On the floor, I noticed the remains of a smashed hummingbird, half submerged in frosting. For some reason that broke me, and I burst into tears.
“Fine! Be a crybaby!” he hissed. “But I’m goin’!” Mark slipped out, leaving the door open a crack. And my cries audible to anyone on the other side.
To the first witnesses on the scene, it appeared straightforward enough: Charlie and Rita’s little girl had sneaked into the pantry and destroyed Grandma’s beautiful (and expensive) sixtieth birthday cake. The cake was to have been a surprise and also the highlight of the reunion lunch, because everyone had planned to sing “Happy Birthday” and make toasts and speeches to Grandma. That was no longer possible.
The grown-ups eyed me like a criminal; the cousins with a strange mixture of pity and curiosity. Like, they didn’t know I had it in me (I didn’t), and they sure were glad they weren’t me.
I tried, through my tears, to explain to my parents what had happened, but they were in a hurry to hustle me out of there. I remember Mami paper-toweling the awful dress as best she could, but there was no wiping the telltale yellow frosting and pink gel completely away. She led me to Grandma Crawford for a quick I’m-sorry-Happy-Birthday and goodbye, and I remember how her old eyes glittered wetly while her lips, cool and papery, brushed my cheek. I remember Daddy drove Mami and me back to Uncle DeWitt’s house so I could change, and by the time we got there, I had calmed enough to explain exactly what had gone down.
Mami told him to leave it alone, let things be, but Daddy was angry. He dropped us at the door and drove right back to the church. He was going to hunt down Mark and make him apologize.
Daddy returned with an expression I didn’t recognize. He was quiet, and his face seemed frozen. Hard. He told Mami we were leaving, that very minute, no need to wait for Carrie and DeWitt to come home. Mami seemed upset. Confused. She asked him what was wrong, but I never heard his answer. They went into a bedroom and closed the door, speaking in low tones. I heard something about a photographer, and all the grandchildren, and Daddy saying, “She wouldn’t wait. She wouldn’t wait five minutes.”
That was our last Reunion. Even though my father was stateside for two more, we never went back.
Roz returns from the bathroom.
“So’ve you had any luck?” she asks me.
“Not really,” I say. “There are a zillion Mark Crawfords, but none are him.”
Roz takes the Chromebook from my lap. I join her on the Scrouch, peering over her shoulder as she works her magic.
“Does his mother do Facebook? Father? Anyone close to him have an account? As long as they have crap privacy settings, we can check their friends and see if he’s there.”
It takes a while, but eventually she hits on a Crawford with crap privacy and a friend that goes by “MarkyMark.” The profile pic is blurry, but something about it looks familiar, and when Roz clicks on it . . . there’s my cousin.
“That’s him!” I tell Roz. “Devil Spawn!”
“Whoa. You didn’t tell me he was cute,” she says.
“Ew. Gross.”
“No, seriously, Izzy. Your evil cousin is hot.”
“Makes sense that Satan would be hot,” I counter.
She laughs.
Together we scroll through the photos and posts we can access without the benefit of “friendship,” but because he has decent privacy settings, we can’t see much. Here’s what I can see: Mark still lives in Queen’s Mountain. He seems to spend a lot of time joyriding around on ATVs. And while he doesn’t post all the cute animal memes and Bible quotes the old Crawfords love, he does post a few—how can I describe them?—“inspirational” sayings.
“Is he into yoga or something?” Roz asks. “This is pretty trippy stuff.”
“No clue,” I tell her. “I’d have predicted he’d end up behind bars. Not doing the Down Dog on some mat.”
“Well, mission accomplished. Now you can friend him.”
“Nah,” I say.
She looks surprised.
“I mean, what’s the point? We haven’t messaged in years. Besides, he unfriended me.”
Roz looks at me with an expression halfway between puzzled and amused. Like I’m some jackalope. One of those jackrabbits with antelope horns that no one can decide if it’s for real.
“What?” I ask.
“I don’t get you. Do you want to be in touch with these people or not?”
I pause. Legit question.
“Yes. And no,” I concede. “I guess part of me just wants to stalk them. And another part wants to tell them about the house.” I stop there. For some reason I’m embarrassed to admit that we could use some help, even to Roz. I’m not very good at asking for help. But that mountain of equity hours . . .
“You should tell them,” she says, making her why-the-hell-not? face. “Get a bunch of them to come pitch in. I’ll bet Devil Spawn can swing a hammer.” She gives the keyboard a few more quick clicks before closing the Chromebook and handing it back to me. “I should go before your mom gets back.”
Roz gathers our empty plates, deposits them in the kitchen sink, and grabs a couple of empanadas for the road. The aluminum front door closes with a sharp slap behind her.
We drove all the way home to Norfolk that last reunion night. The next day, while I watched Mami attempt to wash the frosting off the scratchy dress in our kitchen sink, I brought up the question that was bothering me.
“Mami, are we black?” She looked surprised. Then thoughtful. She turned the water off, dried her hands, and pulled up a chair.
“No, Isabella. We are not black. Why do you ask? Do you think you are black?”
“One of the cousins asked me. At lunch the other day.”
Mami tilted her head, puzzled. “Who?” she asked.
“One of the Littles. Jonnie,” I told her. “He said someone said you might as well be black.”
My mother’s face was close to mine, and while her expression didn’t change, her eyes did. Like the sky when the weather shifts and the clouds move fast.
She rose from her chair and went to the pot where there was always some coffee at the ready. She poured us both cups: mine mostly milk with sugar; hers straight up.
“How did you answer your cousin?” she asked, carefully arranging our hot cafés on place mats at the table, then sitting.
“I said you were Puerto Rican.”
One corner of her mouth curled up. “You didn’t say I was brown?”
“No. I didn’t. You’re not a crayon!”
A startled expression crossed my mother’s face. Like I’d just gotten the right answer on a test she hadn’t given yet. “No, I am not. No one is. That is very smart of you, Isabella. You understand that no one is just a color, like a crayon. But you know, some people? They see the skin and stop there. Like that’s all there is to know.”
“That’s dumb.”
She clicked her tongue disapprovingly at me. “It’s limited,” she corrected. “What’s important is: who do you think you are?” She stared at me, waiting.
“I’m brown,” Mami continued when I didn’t speak. “Short. Catholic
. Puerto Rican and opinionated.”
“Pretty,” I added.
She kissed the top of my head. “Your father is tall,” she continued. “Southern. White. Brave.”
“Funny. Happy,” I said. This was fun.
“Kind,” she said. Her eyes glistened as she thought of Daddy. “Very handsome. But mija, who are you? Who is Isabella Crawford?”
It’s strange: I don’t remember what I said. Probably easy stuff. Like, green eyes and black hair. Light brown skin. Dog lover. Pizza eater. Really, what does an eight-year-old know about herself?
But here’s the thing: I’m still trying to answer that question.
15
The bleachers shake as people stomp, each crash of feet threatening to collapse the whole thing and dump fans in a tangled heap. Coaches shouting instructions to their players on the court can’t be heard above the din of chants. Students have coated their faces in school colors. The dueling pep bands seem to be staging a competition of their own.
And that’s twenty minutes before tipoff. This semifinal matchup between the Clayton County and Covington High boys’ basketball teams is insane.
Aubrey asked me to meet her here, and eventually I spot her waving at me from some prime center seats. If she was woo-hooing I wouldn’t know: it’s way too loud.
“This is wild!” I say as she scooches over for me. From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Mr. and Mrs. Shackelton, two rows up. They are seated in a Parent Pack of middle-aged men and women dressed in County’s blue and gold. When they notice me take a seat with Aubrey, they wave so hard I half expect them to dislocate their wrists.
“My parents are just a little excited,” she says in my ear. “Sam left the house early. They were driving him crazy.”
“Is he nervous?” I ask.
She looks at me like I just asked if the pope was Catholic. “Sam doesn’t get nervous. He gets focused.”
“Oh. Right,” I reply. How could I forget? He’s perfect.
Speaking of: he’s warming up with the team only a few feet away from us. As Aubrey continues to talk into my ear (I can only catch half of what she’s saying), I watch the County boys execute this intricate weave of dribbling, passing, shooting, and rebounding. They seem robotic and hardly miss. Least of all Sam. I can’t help noticing how smooth, almost catlike, his move to the basket and easy layup appears.
I also can’t help noticing the muscles in his legs. His arms. Sam Shackelton has definitely logged serious gym hours.
As Aubrey says something to me about an after-party, win or lose, at their house tonight, a roundish mom-type with a worried expression approaches us. She’s trying to catch Aubrey’s attention.
“Uh, Aubrey? Do you know her?”
Aubrey looks where I point. “That’s Mrs. Keating, the choir director,” she says. “Weird.”
Mrs. Keating motions for Aubrey to join her on the floor, which is no small thing. Aubrey has to pick her way between packed bodies, apologizing to people as she steps on their coats and knees them in the back. When she finally reaches the floor, I can’t hear what’s said, but I see Aubrey’s lips compress in a tight line as she listens.
She shakes her head once, then retraces her steps back to me. Mrs. Keating looks frustrated. With a side order of panic. She walks over to the referee’s table and begins an earnest conversation with the guy in charge of the buzzer and scoreboard controls.
“What was that about?” I ask after Aubrey picks her way back through the (now annoyed) fans.
“She wanted me to sing the national anthem,” she says. “The girl who was supposed to just called in sick.”
I look at her with an expression I hope registers the proper level of are-you-kidding-me-right-now. “You said yes, right?”
“I said no. No way am I singing the anthem.”
“What? You don’t know the words?”
She half laughs. “I have no intention of singing by myself in front of all these people.”
“Aubrey Shackelton, that is the lamest thing I have ever heard! Climb right back down there and tell her you’ll do it!”
Aubrey looks as if she can’t decide whether I’m joking or not.
I’m not.
“You have an incredible voice. You will crush the anthem.” I nudge her. Hard. “Go. Before she recruits some out-of-tune loser who can’t hit the high notes.”
“Izzy, stop it. I can’t.” Her lip quivers. Like she’s going to cry.
This is what Sam was talking about. This way-talented girl who is afraid of her own shadow.
How do you convince someone to believe in herself?
“C’mon. Half these people are probably tone deaf! You could croak like a bullfrog and they’d still clap. And never forget, you’re a VC girl. Singing before all of us was way harder.”
Aubrey stares down at her knees and shakes her head.
I stand. “C’mon,” I repeat. At the ref’s table, I see Mrs. Keating looking around the gym. We’ve got about five seconds before she finds someone else. “I’ll come with, and be right in front of you. You pretend it’s your tryout again, and you’re singing for me, and Min and Jamila—and we love you. You can do this, Aubrey. You’re Veronic Convergence.”
I don’t know which part of my little speech pulls her to her feet, but next thing you know, we’re headed down four rows of bleachers again (people are seriously pissed at this point) and walking toward Mrs. Keating. Warm-ups are over and both teams huddle with their coaches, listening to final instructions. I can see the top of Sam’s head. He’s gotten a haircut since I saw him at Perry’s.
“I’ll do it,” I hear Aubrey say, “as long as my friend stays with me.”
“That should be fine,” Mrs. Keating says, clearly relieved. She looks like she wants to wrap me in a big grateful hug, but no thanks are necessary.
Because the mike is set up between the ref’s table and the County boys’ bench. Which is where they put me. At the head of the bench. Where the cocaptains sit.
Right next to Sam.
When the boys break from the huddle and take their seats, he looks very surprised.
“Izzy? What are you doing here?”
“Moral support,” I tell him as they ask everyone to rise for the anthem. “Your sister is singing.” Our conversation is cut off as Aubrey steps to the mike. But before I turn my attention to her, I check out Sam’s expression.
He looks like a little kid confronted by a mountain of presents on Christmas morning: amazed, pleased, and totally unprepared.
Which is how I’d describe the rest of the gym when Aubrey opens her mouth. At first, everyone faces the big American flag draped to the wall near the exit doors. But as Aubrey sings, a few heads turn. Then more than a few. Then I hear the undercurrent of whispers, the Who-is-shes? and the Wow-that’s-awesomes. By the time she’s done (she keeps her eyes glued to me, like I’m some life raft), people are whooping and hollering like they’re at a rock concert. They’ve probably never before heard anything like it from a high school girl in a high school gym.
I flash her a thumbs-up but she hardly notices. That’s because Sam has left the bench and strides over to her. The applause grows even more deafening as people watch the County High captain give his little sister an up-down high five followed by an enormous hug. Perfect. Both of them. I glance into the stands: the Shackeltons are radioactive at this point. This is what they mean by “glowing with pride.”
As Aubrey and I turn to climb back to our seats (the fans seem much less annoyed after hearing her sing), I brush past Sam. Who winks at me.
Oh help. Help.
It doesn’t matter that I know better. It doesn’t matter that he has a girlfriend, and I’m just his kid sister’s wingwoman from the dorky Catholic school she attends. It doesn’t matter that my best friend saw him first. None of that matters.
He’s beautiful and charming and boyish and athletic and . . . yeah. I’m in Crush Hell.
It also doesn’t matter—although it should—that just before I lower my butt onto the bleachers and the ref blows the whistle for the tipoff, I happen to notice two girls, a few rows back and to the left, glaring my way. Actually, only one glares. The other has her mouth close to the glaring girl’s ear, her lips moving fast, spitting out words. Fightin’ words, from the looks of it.
It’s Awful Melissa and Barista Girl #2. Who both saw that wink. Who both absolutely recognize me from Beer Night and Steamer (Non)Date respectively. Of course those two are friends.
This is exactly what I was telling Sam: luck sucks.
Except when it doesn’t.
With seventeen seconds left on the clock and the score tied, Sam intercepts a long pass between two Covington guards. It’s been nail-gnawing close the whole game, and we’ve all screamed ourselves hoarse. But when Sam steals that ball, a roar, like something from Roman Colosseum days and gladiators and blood and gore, shakes the gym. We are all on our feet, shrieking in excitement or anguish, as he hurls it to wide-open John Mayhew, who, instead of taking it in for the easy, open layup, parks himself just outside the three-point line and throws up a prayer. Fans on the Covington side gasp in hopeful disbelief at this stupidity, while on the County side, fans moan in horrified disbelief. Even someone like me, with a very low basketball IQ, knows this was a monumentally bad shot choice. If it misses, Covington gets the ball with enough time left to score and win. Sam’s great steal would have been for nothing, and County’s season would be finished.
But then . . . the ball swishes through the hoop. Nothing but net. Three points. Covington will have to hit one that good, with only eight seconds left, to tie it up. The moans become cheers; the gasps turn to silence. The clock runs out and it’s over.
