by Randy Ribay
“No. I don’t.”
Again, I try to plead the Fifth. But she keeps her eyes fixed on me. Like she’s actually trying to make my head explode with her mind. It seems as though it might work, so after a couple of minutes, I give in again and plow ahead. It’s kind of like when you’re down by twenty points in the last quarter, so you start chucking bad shots hoping something will find the bottom of the net. “It’s just . . . I don’t know. He told me he had a thing for you a while ago. So I always respected that, since he’s my boy. But then he stopped talking to me, and me and you started hanging . . . You’re not supposed to get with your boy’s girl is all.”
She rests her chin on her fist and knots her brow like she’s deep in thought. “So let me get this straight: I belong to Nasir because he called dibs?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s not like that.”
She moves over to the floor and starts scooping all her books and papers back into her bag. “Do you even know how offensive that is?” She lets out a short, angry laugh. “Of course not. You’re a boy.” She zips up her bag extra hard, then stands up and glares at me, her hoop earrings still swaying from her sudden movements. “Just because someone likes me doesn’t mean I have to like them back. I choose who I want to be with, and I chose you. And nobody, nobody gets to claim me like I’m some piece of meat.”
When she puts it like that, I can’t disagree. I’m not even mad. That’s the thing about Keyona: she’ll lay the truth down whether you want to hear it or not. And after you do, it’s like you just put on some new glasses that you never even knew you needed.
Realizing this makes me want to stop right now and forget that I even started this conversation. Go back to the way things were, because it’s not about this anyway. It’s much simpler: I miss my friend. I want us to be cool again, and it seemed like this might help us get there. But for some reason, I don’t say this out loud.
Keyona starts for the door. “Good luck at your game tonight. And make sure you finish your homework.”
“I’m sorry, Key.”
“For what?”
“That we’re ending like his.”
She laughs, and it’s genuine again. “Do you actually want to break up with me?”
I scratch the back of my head. “Of course not. But—”
“Okay. Then we’re not breaking up.”
I turn this over in my mind. “You sure?”
She steps forward and gives me a long kiss before disappearing, still wearing my hoodie, still blessing it with her scent.
16
Nasir
After dinner Sunday night, I’m up in my room on my laptop doing research for this history essay that’s due next week. But I keep checking the state high school basketball website and clicking Refresh. The game should be over by now, but the results still aren’t posted. Not that I really care if St. Sebastian’s wins or not—I’m just curious.
Maybe the dude from the newspaper whose job it is to type in those scores forgot to do it tonight. So on my phone, I do a round through Bunny’s social media pages to see if maybe he posted something about the game. I’m not surprised to find he hasn’t. He’s one of the few kids I know who can go weeks without posting anything, even though he has, like, a billion followers now.
I turn my attention back to the New Jersey state basketball website. While I wait for the score to appear, I study the brackets. If St. Sebastian’s wins tonight, they’ll play for the group championship on Wednesday. If they win that, then they’ll play for the state private school title next Sunday. And if they win there, they’ll have to play against the public school regional champs in the Tournament of Champions. So not counting tonight, St. Sebastian’s needs to win five more games over the next two weeks to take the overall state title.
Easy enough.
Ha. Yeah, right.
But there’s enough scouts with eyes on Bunny already that if he can lead his team through the best in the state as a sophomore, without a doubt he’ll have his pick of D-I schools come senior year.
We’d always planned on going to the same college someday and rooming together. But I don’t have a clue what school he’s got his sights on anymore. Things change, I guess.
I click Refresh one more time, and the score finally appears.
St. Cyprian 38, St. Sebastian 70.
Even though I’m somewhat relieved that Bunny got the W, most of me wanted St. Sebastian’s to lose. Maybe they’d learn you can’t siphon the city of its best talent to make your team any better. If you’re butt, you’re butt.
I click to see the stats, and as soon as they come up, I say, “Damn,” aloud to myself. Bunny’s line is ridiculous. Twenty-eight points and fifteen rebounds. Another double-double—that makes sixteen games in a row, I think. I shut my laptop, done for the night.
A moment later, my phone buzzes with a text. It’s Wallace.
U c the score, it says, no question mark.
Yeah, I reply. They crushed St. C.
My phone’s quiet for a couple of minutes, and then I get another text from Wallace. We should hack b’s facebook.
Why? I ask.
Catharsis, he replies. He’s really proud of himself for knowing that word. A moment later, my phone buzzes with another message from him. We should post some stupid shit like we’re him. U kno his pw?
LOL, I write back, along with a few laughing-so-hard-I’m-crying emojis. Whatever Wallace would write would be completely immature, but that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be funny. Like the time a teacher called him stupid in front of the class so he hacked the dude’s Facebook profile and wrote a post pretending to be the teacher confessing that he was one of those people really into feet in a sexual way. Before the teacher deleted the post and wrote a new one explaining his account had been hacked, it had accumulated its fair share of comments. In the end, nobody was hurt, Wallace didn’t get caught, and I hear kids still hide their feet in that teacher’s class.
But we already egged Bunny’s house, so I’m not sure we need to do anything else. Even though I do know his password—assuming he hasn’t changed it in the last few months—I text back, No clue.
Cool ill just hack urs then.
I laugh.
But in case he’s serious, I change my password.
17
Bunny
After practice on Tuesday, I end up on Nasir’s stoop. Don’t know why. Maybe ’cause I’m sick of things being weird between us, or maybe ’cause the world feels different since the sun’s still up. Warmer. It’s that time of year when spring feels like it’s on the tip of your tongue.
I’m about to lose courage and duck back into my own house across the street when I hear someone call my name. I turn around to find Mr. Blake walking up, smiling. He’s got his work bag slung over his shoulder and the knot of his tie loosened. Long day with the kindergartners, I guess.
“Bunny Thompson? How’s it going, son?” he asks, and shakes my hand.
“Good, good, Mr. Blake.”
He backs up a step, holds me at arm’s length, and looks me up and down like my own dad did when I dropped by the store a few days ago. “You shrink a foot or two these last few months? You look tiny.”
“Maybe,” I say, returning his smile. It catches me off-guard how good it feels to see him again, to be joking around as if nothing’s happened. But if I think about it, it shouldn’t surprise me. Even though he was in the military, Nasir’s dad has always been overwhelmingly nice in that way people who work with small children seem to be.
“Good work getting that W the other night,” he says. “You got the championship tomorrow, right?”
I nod. “For the private schools.”
“Immaculate Heart, right?”
“Yeah,” I say, kind of surprised he’s been following the tournament. “Should be a pretty tough game.”
“All right, all right. Maybe I’ll swing by. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you play.”
“How are your stu
dents?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
He laughs. “Little monsters. But I love every one of them.” He falls quiet for a couple beats, then asks, “You looking for Nasir?”
I hesitate, nod. Shift my weight to my other foot.
“He’s out right now.” He looks down the street as if he expects to see him walking up any moment. “With Wallace. But he should be back soon.”
Starting down the stoop, I say, “All right. I’ll come back—”
“You eat yet?” He interrupts me.
“Not yet,” I say, stopping on the last step.
“Stay for dinner, then,” he says as he unlocks the door. “It’s my night to cook, and I’m making chicken adobo. Is that still your favorite?”
I want to say yes and yes. Mr. Blake cooks Filipino food almost as well as Nasir’s mom. But I’m not sure Nasir even wants to see me in the first place, so I say, “Wish I could, but Jess is expecting me. And you know how she is about having all of us siblings sit down and eat together even if our parents are out working. But I can hang out until Nasir comes home.”
“I respect that. Don’t want to mess with family.” He pushes open the door and holds it open for me. I step inside.
Nasir’s place doesn’t look like anything’s changed. Same art on the walls. Same couches and flat-screen TV in the living room. Same bookshelves crammed with paperbacks from Word Up. Same table off the kitchen. And all of it perfectly neat and orderly like always, like they clean every day. My house isn’t exactly dirty, but it feels more lived in. We’ve always got toys or mail or books lying around all over the place, except for the first Saturday of the month, when our parents make us clean from top to bottom. But that clean never lasts more than a couple days.
“Mind helping me start dinner?” Mr. Blake asks, hanging his coat.
“Sure,” I say, because what else am I going to say?
We walk over to the kitchen, and as he digs through the freezer, I stand at the counter that separates the kitchen from the dining room. After popping a couple frozen chicken breasts into the microwave to defrost, he grabs some garlic and tosses it to me. I catch it, and he smiles.
“Two cloves. Minced.”
I pull one of the cutting boards out from the cabinet where they keep them and slide a knife from their little knife holder thing. I set to mincing the garlic like Mr. Blake taught me when I was younger as he gets the rice pot.
“So how’s your mom doing?” Mr. Blake asks over the sound of the grains of rice clinking into the metal.
“She’s all right,” I say.
“Still on the graveyard shift?” he asks.
“Unfortunately.”
Mr. Blake runs the water and rinses the raw rice. “Must be rough.”
I shrug. “Pays better. And she gets to be home with my dad all day.”
He chuckles. “Bet they like that.”
I don’t say anything.
He clears his throat. “Anyway, how are the twins?”
I finish with the garlic and wipe the blade. “Good. Justine’s still quiet, and Ashley’s still loud.”
“And Jessica? Doing all right with those college classes?”
“Yeah. Always stressing about some test or paper, though.”
“That’s how it’s supposed to be,” he says. “It’ll be worth it in the end.”
We settle into a comfortable silence as Mr. Blake starts pulling out some spices, and this feels like it’s supposed to. Like it used to. The hum of the microwave. The rice quietly simmering on the stovetop. Only thing missing is Nasir.
“Teenage boys aren’t so good at talking about how they feel,” Mr. Blake says, making it pretty clear we’re thinking about the same thing. “I know. I was one a long time ago. Boys tend to keep everything inside and let it out in other ways.”
I don’t say anything.
“That’s why I try to get them talking and processing when they’re young. In my class, we start and end every day sitting in a circle on the rug. The Sharing Circle, we call it. We go around, and the kids share how they’re feeling.”
“That’s nice,” I say.
“You want to try it right now?”
“Try what?”
“Sharing how you’re feeling?” Mr. Blake asks.
But before I can answer, the front door bursts open. Nasir tumbles inside the house, letting in a rush of cold air. His eyes land on me, and he stops short. “Bunny.”
I can’t tell if it’s a question, a statement, or a greeting. And I can’t read if he’s happy to see me or not, just like I don’t know how I would have answered Mr. Blake’s question. “Hey, Nas.”
His eyes dart to his dad. “You invite him for dinner?” he asks, like I’m not even there.
The microwave stops whirring and beeps a few times.
“Nah,” I answer for myself, and start washing my hands. “Just wanted to say what’s up.”
“Oh,” he says. I hear the door shut, his bag thud onto the floor, and his coat rustle as he slips it off.
Mr. Blake pulls the chicken from the microwave. The edges are cooked through, but the rest is still pink. Probably still frozen on the inside. “Thanks for your help, Bunny, but I got it from here. Why don’t you all go on and hang out in the living room?”
Nasir kicks off his shoes and picks up his bag from where he dropped it a second ago. He runs a hand over the top of his head and looks away. “Sorry, Bunny, but I’ve got a history paper to write. You understand, right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s cool. Another time.”
“For sure.” And then Nasir dips. I listen to the sound of his feet stomping up the stairs until it fades away.
Mr. Blake sighs. “He’ll come around.”
I shrug.
“Sure you don’t want to stay to eat? You’re a teenager—you’d probably still have room for Jess’s meal, too.”
“Yeah,” I say, “I’m sure. Thanks, though.”
“Good luck tomorrow. As if you’ll need it.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Always do.”
18
Nasir
When I reach the top of the steps, my mom’s waiting in the open doorway of her studio, arms folded over her chest. Her smock’s smeared with paint streaks, and her hair’s up in a bun with a thin brush stuck into it. She doesn’t look happy, but she doesn’t say anything. Only glares.
“What?” I say.
“You know what,” she says.
A moment later, I hear the front door open and shut.
I slip into my room, and she shifts from her studio doorway to mine, death gaze following after me like a dark cloud.
“I think you should go to his game tomorrow,” she says.
I drop my bag to the floor next to my desk and start searching through it even though anything I need for my history essay would be on the laptop that sits on my desk. “No, thanks.”
She sighs. “Why not?”
“We’re not tight like that anymore, Mom.”
“Why not?” she asks again.
“Because.” I’m still rummaging through the folders in my bag, but it’s getting obvious I’m stalling.
“Because why?”
“Because I don’t want to.” I zip up my bag and move over to my desk chair. I start slowly spinning around, rotating away from her.
“I think it would mean a lot to Bunny,” she says.
I shrug, the world still turning. Everyone’s so worried about helping Bunny. Why’s nobody but me sweating Wallace’s situation? Bunny’s fine. Everyone’s handing him the future on a silver platter.
“When I first came to this country with your father, it was very difficult. My English wasn’t very good. I didn’t know how to drive yet, so I couldn’t get anywhere by myself. And nobody wanted to hire me to be anything except a maid, even though I had a degree in civil engineering. But do you know what was the most difficult thing?”
I’m starting to feel a little dizzy and nauseated, but I keep pushing my feet of
f the floor to spin myself. “What, Mom?”
“No longer having a good friend close by.”
“Bunny changed schools, Mom. He didn’t move to a different country.”
She thinks for a moment. “I think in a way he did. But I was talking about you.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, okay.”
“You know that your father and I try to allow you to make your own mistakes,” she says, “but we know the pain this is causing you to not have a friend anymore.”
Great. My parents think I don’t have any friends. I stop spinning. The room continues, though. “I’m all right, Mom. For real. I can’t speak for Bunny, but whatever he’s feeling is his own fault. He chose this. As for me, I’ve got other friends.”
“Like Wallace?”
“Like Wallace,” I say, looking down at my feet.
She starts to say something else but stops herself. An awkward silence settles between us as I wait for her to speak or leave, and in that space I start thinking about whether or not I can really call Wallace a friend. But I don’t want to think about that. Because for some reason, soon as I do, sadness rises around me like I’m stepping in water. I spin my chair a bit more so I’m facing away from my mom and looking out the window.
“Will you please go to Bunny’s game tomorrow?” she asks after a few moments. “If not for him, then for me.”
I spin around once in the opposite direction I had been going in, hoping to undo the lingering dizziness. I sigh. “Opo,” I say, which basically means “yes, ma’am.” It’s one of the few Tagalog words I know.
My mom walks over, wraps her arms around my shoulders from over the back of my chair, and kisses me on the cheek. She smells of acrylic paint and citrus. “Salamat,” she says. “Thank you.” And then she finally leaves.
I sit there for some time afterward, staring out the window at the electrical wires tangled in the bare branches of the tree that stands between my house and Bunny’s.
19
