by Nina Revoyr
Off the court, at home, I was happy to be with Raina, but also suspicious. Although things between us seemed to have stabilized, gotten good again, I knew better than to have too much faith in this—there were still reverberations of her team's defeat, and what had happened over Christmas was more than enough reminder of how quickly the bottom could drop out of our friendship. I felt frustration too, at not being able to do or even say anything about my hunger for her, and of course a terrible jealousy whenever I was reminded of the existence of Toni. Strangely, though, I also felt a cautious joy, like that of a scared kid peeking out from under the covers after a thunderstorm, at the simple fact that Raina lived with me. That I could see her and talk to her every day. Somehow these emotions seemed to exist in equal parts, and all of them grew proportionately. I didn't know how they fit; in the past, one of them would form in me and then expand and expand, and the others would subside until the first one had run its course. But now all of them were there, all the time, not only not competing for space but somehow working together, making everything seem more alive and more crucial, so that the sight of a sunset could bring a lump to my throat and set me marveling at the wonders of the universe. Throughout those weeks of intense awareness, I often tried to imagine a time when my senses wouldn't be as sharp as they were then. I knew such a time would come. No one could live her whole life in such a constant state of heightened emotion; it would be unbearable. As it was, I felt like one of those overloaded computers you see in old science fiction movies—pretty soon smoke would come out of my ears and I'd explode.
* * *
I think my father's life was in chaos too, although he didn't talk to me about it. Sometimes I'd catch him deep in thought, or walk into a room where he and Claudia were sitting and feel the presence, like another person, of the conversation they'd just been having. He made a lot of phone calls from his room, and received calls from several people whose voices were unfamiliar to me. I didn't ask him what was happening. I didn't talk to him much at all.
Then one night, as I headed out to meet Telisa and Q, I ran into a strange kid on the sidewalk.
"Hi," he said, gesturing toward the house. "Is this Coach Takahiro's place?"
"Yeah," I replied. "He's my dad."
The kid held his hand out and smiled at me. "I'm Eddie Nuñez," he said.
I took his hand and looked at him closely—this was the kid over whom battles were being fought and my father's career decided. He was two inches shorter than me, and almost exactly as broad; his skin was light brown, his eyes were bright, his hair was shaggy and black. He had jeans on, and unlaced sneakers, and a black Raiders jacket that was coming apart at the sleeves, but he stood with the grace and self-possession of a man who was wearing an expensive tailored suit. "I'm Nancy," I remembered to say.
He smiled again, in recognition, and pushed his long bangs out of his eyes. "Oh yeah," he said, nodding, "I know who you are. Your dad's real proud of you. Talks about you all the time." He seemed sincerely pleased to meet me, and I could see why people liked him—he was genuine, and open, unassuming.
"Oh really?" I said. Then, because I didn't want to talk about my father, I added, "I hear you a kick-ass quarterback."
Eddie laughed, and I couldn't tell if there was some bitterness in his voice. "Yeah, well, some people don't seem to think so."
I pointed him toward the door, and then drove off in my father's car, wondering why Eddie Nuñez had come to our house. Over at Q's, we watched the Lakers game on cable, and I stayed there awhile after the game was over to trade homework answers with Telisa. When I got home at ten thirty, Eddie was gone, and the parents were sitting at the kitchen table, looking like they were in the middle of a serious talk. I glanced in at them and started to walk away, but my father saw me and waved me over.
"No, wait," he said. "Come here. This involves you too, so you should hear it."
I walked over and stopped a few feet short of the table. "What?"
My father looked me straight in the eye, which he hadn't done since before my finals in January. "Larry Henderson and Dr. Shelton are being fired," he said.
My mouth dropped open. "What?"
"They're being fired," he said again, not taking his eyes off of my face. "I took the matter to the superintendent, George Bishop, who is not a football fan."
I just stood there, not knowing what to do. "What? What are you talking about? How'd you get him to believe you?"
My father smiled now, looking pleased with himself. "Well, you know, Bishop kind of likes me. Ever since I got District Teacher of the Year that time when you were in junior high, we've gone out for a beer now and then. So I just went to his office a couple of weeks ago and told him what had happened. And the day before yesterday, he came into the sports bar on Rosecrans where I've been going with Larry and Dr. Shelton, supposedly to watch the Lakers game. He came up and joined us, talking about how excited he was about next year's football season. Then he joked about how he'd heard that the two of them really had to twist my arm to get me to give Eric a passing grade. Larry and Shelton looked kind of scared for a second, but Bishop and I started to laugh, so pretty soon they started laughing too. And then they told Bishop—still laughing—about all the stuff they'd said and done, about coming over here and implying that I'd get fired. They were so proud of themselves I couldn't believe it. Oh, they thought it was a big old barrel of laughs. But George Bishop didn't think it was so funny."
I just looked at him; my mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.
My father grinned. "Well, aren't you going to say anything?"
"You mean you got Shelton and Larry to tell the superintendent themselves?"
"Yeah."
"In a sports bar."
"Yeah."
"With the Lakers game on."
His grin got wider. "Yeah."
I shook my head and asked, "Are you sure?"
My father and Claudia both laughed. "Yes, I'm sure," he said.
I turned all this new information over in my mind, and my mouth twitched a little, as if it couldn't decide whether or not to smile. The meaning of what he'd told me hadn't really sunk in. "That's great, Dad," I said cautiously. Then something occurred to me. "But how come you didn't go to the superintendent before the end of the semester?"
My father shook his head now, and looked down at the table. "I don't know," he said. "I think I was just hoping the whole situation would go away, and not get to the point that it did." He was silent for a moment, and then looked up again. "I couldn't believe it, you know? I couldn't believe that they would do this. I thought it was just a nightmare, and I kept expecting to wake up."
Claudia leaned forward, smiling at him in a way that she hadn't in what seemed like forever. "And when you realized you wouldn't . . ."
"I took action," he said.
Then I thought of something else. "So all those nights you were out with Larry . . ."
"I was laying the groundwork," my father said. He shook his head. "You can't imagine how awful it was to sit there and listen to that man spout bullshit. I'd go to the men's room every half an hour or so just to get away from the sound of his voice."
I laughed at the image of my father hiding in a bathroom stall; the news was gradually becoming more real. Then I remembered all the mean things I'd thought and said about him, and wished I could find a way to apologize. "Holy shit," I said, shaking my head. "Holy shit. So they're out, and you're in, and now you can do whatever you want with the team."
His face, which had been moving toward a smile, stopped now, as if it had caught on something. "Actually," he said, his voice a bit lower, "I'm going to be leaving too."
"What?"
"I'm leaving Hawthorne too, at the end of the school year. I turned in my resignation today."
I continued to look at him, confused. "What are you talkin about? Why?"
He held his beer bottle by the neck and picked at the label, his eyes still fixed on my face. "There'll be too much bad blo
od now, even with Dr. Shelton and Larry out of the picture. I don't want to profit from turning them in."
"But what about the kids?" I asked.
My father sighed. "That's the only regret I have about leaving. But I'm not sure at this point that my staying would be good for them; the tension there is getting so bad." He paused. "Besides, if the kids knew I ever gave in to those jerks, I wouldn't be able to look them in the eye. Most of the guys I like the best will be gone in another year, anyway. And if they need me, they know my door is always open."
"But what about Eddie? What's gonna happen to him? I saw him outside, by the way."
Now my father smiled, looking happy again. "Eddie will be fine," he said. "Just fine. The guy taking over is Marcus Shaw, the JV coach, and he's been a big fan of Eddie's since he coached him as a freshman . . . Eddie's the only kid who knows at this point that Larry and I are leaving. I told him about it tonight. And since Eric Henderson really did fail my class, I also told him he'd be the quarterback next year."
Although I was glad to hear about Eddie, I was at a loss for what to say. "Wait a minute," I finally managed. "What are you gonna do next year?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. Start looking for other teaching jobs, I guess. At first I thought about just giving up the coaching job and continuing to teach at Hawthorne, but then I realized that I really didn't want to have anything more to do with the place. I've outlasted my welcome there. It's time to go."
I looked at him, not sure, yet, how I felt about all of this. There was too much information to digest all at once. I didn't know what aspect of the situation to respond to first, so I settled on the simplest piece of news. "But you took care of Larry and Shelton," I said.
He smiled. "I took care of Larry and Shelton."
I smiled back, and our eyes met, and I suddenly felt better about my dad than I had in months. I went over and offered my hand, which he slapped like one of my teammates. We grinned at each other, palms stinging. "Congratulations," I said.
With that, I went upstairs, and got ready for bed, pondering all the things I'd just heard. It was still confusing; I didn't know what to think, especially about the fact that my father would be leaving his job. Now everything made sense, though—the phone calls, the secrecy, the appearance of Eddie Nuñez. And then, as I brushed my teeth, I realized I was glad that my father was quitting—even if he didn't know where he'd be the next fall, even if he floated around for a while. The school had treated him badly, and there was no reason for him to stay there—but he wouldn't be fleeing with his tail between his legs. He had made an act of resistance, which compensated, at least somewhat, for his initial giving in. I wasn't ashamed of him anymore, and I wanted to let him know that, if only by saying something nice to him before I went to bed. But when I got halfway down the stairs, I saw that he and Claudia were in the living room, sitting on the couch, his head resting on her lap and her fingers moving in his hair. I stopped where I was and watched them. Her palm was flat against the top of his head and her fingers rubbed up and down softly. It was such a soothing, loving gesture that I closed my eyes for a moment, as if Claudia were also doing it for me. And as I stood there looking at them—Claudia rocking a little and my father completely surrendered to her hands—I felt something I later recognized as envy. I'm sure that Claudia had been deeply disappointed in my father, as I had been, as he had been as well. But she had stayed with him, supported him, in his moment of failure, and it was only later, after I had failed a few times myself, that I understood how rare and wonderful that was.
CHAPTER 20
Normally, March was my favorite month of the year. The NCAA tournament was the biggest reason for this, and in the last few years, the networks had been showing the women's games as well as the men's. Also, March was the month the city heated up again—we went from the rains and cool temperatures of January and February to the hot, sunny days of March, straight to summer with no real spring to speak of. That year, I did my usual March activities—hoops outside, the beach on some late afternoons, hours in front of the TV set on weekends—but they weren't as enjoyable as they'd been in the past. Despite my half-choice regarding Washington, I was constantly tense—I wanted desperately to know what Raina was going to do.
As of mid-March, she hadn't picked a college yet. She was under a lot of pressure to make up her mind—each day, she sat down with her three piles of information from the corresponding schools, and each night, she received a call from at least one of the coaches. Claudia tried to get her to talk about the situation, but suddenly Raina was acting like me, keeping quiet and evading all our questions.
One evening, though, as we were shooting around in the driveway, Raina rebounded one of my misses, dribbled the ball for a second, and then looked at me. "So you made up your mind yet?" she asked.
"Nope," I said, and then waited for a moment, like I always did when I lied, to be struck by a bolt of lightning.
"I can't decide what to do," she said, shooting a layup. There was a small strip of sunlight reflected off the top of the backboard, and as I watched it, it grew thinner and then vanished. "At Virginia, I'd get less playing time, but they got a great team. Besides, it's near DC, so I could go hang out there sometimes on weekends. At Michigan I think I'd play more, but I ain't sure about those winters. Washington's cool—good team, nice place—but there's water right in the middle of the city, and that's weird, you know, it throws me; it's like it can't decide whether it's ocean or land. They're all good schools, though, so I don't know what to do. What do you think I should do?"
"I don't know," I said. I looked out into the street, where some junior high school kids were playing a loud game of stickball. It was warm, and still light out, although the sun was now beneath the horizon. The breeze was strong and pleasant; I spread my arms, closed my eyes, and leaned into it. Raina rebounded her own miss and passed me the ball when I turned back to face her. I faked left, shook my imaginary defender, took a dribble to the right, and sank the jumper.
"Well, what do you think of all those places?" she asked as she threw the ball back out to me. "And what're you gonna do?"
I heard excited shouts in the street as one of the kids connected with the ball for a good hit. I dribbled a couple of times, breathed deeply, didn't look at her. "Well, I'm definitely more into Washington and Virginia than UNLV and Arizona." It seemed safe to reveal at least a little. "They're both cool places. I think it's between those two now, for me."
I glanced up, found Raina looking at me with interest. "But you don't know which one you gonna go to?"
"No," I said. "Not yet."
"You'll tell me when you decide, right?"
"Yeah, of course."
"You better tell me. I'll kick your ass if you don't." She raised an eyebrow. "Although you ain't really got that much of an ass to kick."
I flicked her off, and then made a layup. She took the ball out past the free throw line and drilled a jumper. Her shot was beautiful to watch—high, arching, with the perfect touch of backspin; it found the net as cleanly as if it had been drawn there by a magnet. I threw the ball back to her, and she hit another. I kept passing to her, and she kept making them, from all up and down the driveway, hesitating when there was a gust of breeze so it wouldn't disrupt her shot. Then, after she'd hit about ten, we switched, and I did my little shooting circuit while she rebounded for me. We were both on that day, but neither of us suggested a game. I realized, suddenly, as I kept drilling jumpers, that we hadn't played any kind of game—not Horse, not Twenty-One, not Around-the-World—since our meeting two weeks earlier in the playoffs. This struck me as odd, but also, somehow, logical. It occurred to me that all of our little contests and struggles throughout the year, all of our games and challenges, had been, in essence, the posing of a single question. But by that evening in March, as we shot around in the fading light, the question, it appeared, had been settled. We had received an answer, and, in truth, it was not the answer that either of us had expected. B
ut perhaps that wasn't the problem at all. Perhaps we hadn't really wanted an answer.
* * *
In late March, two things happened that tipped the scale of my emotions toward joy. The first occurred on a smoggy afternoon when I came home from school. A great wave of loss had hit me, as predicted, once the playoffs were over. Feeling sad and certain that my best days were behind me, I popped in a tape of our game against Raina's team. It always made me nervous to watch tapes of old games, as if the outcome hadn't already been decided; as if something new might happen by virtue of my letting the game, as it were, be replayed. This game was particularly excruciating to watch, of course, for several reasons, and so it would be that much more exciting when we finally won. The whole game seemed to go by in about two minutes. As I sat on the floor yelling at the tiny figures of my teammates and me on the screen, Raina came home from school and plopped down on the couch behind me.
"What's this?" she asked.
"Our game against you guys." I thought that maybe she wouldn't want to see it, and felt bad that I hadn't finished watching the tape before she'd gotten home. She didn't move, though, so I let the tape roll, fast-forwarding over time-outs and breaks in the action. I watched with the eyes of a coach, and cursed us. No one picked up help-side when Keisha drove to the baseline, and so she had a clear path to the hoop once she beat her defender. I felt the urge to write this down so I could tell my teammates about it later, but then I remembered that it no longer mattered, and that they were no longer my teammates.
