Pure Red

by Danielle Joseph

  I make sure I leave home with plenty of time to spare. I don’t want to be late for practice. As I reach 64th Avenue and Collins, I hit the surf shop. The window is filled with Ron Jon stuff. I wonder if Graham shops here. Does he even surf? I hope so. I don’t need a vivid imagination to picture his hot bod riding the waves. He totally has the surfer look going, with the bleached tips and spiky do and Hawaiian Tropic suntan.

  “You’re going to be late if you don’t stop drooling at the guy inside,” a creepy but familiar voice says.

  “Huh?” I turn around and see Thunder behind me, Zoey next to her.

  I look back at the store to see who she’s talking about. There’s some short guy in baggy jeans and a wife-beater checking out bathing suits. “Him? Oh, no, I was … ”

  “Sure,” she snickers, then keeps on walking.

  The Amazons are a few feet ahead of me and they’re giggling. I know they’re talking about me. That’s plain rude. “Hey, guys, wait up.” I pound the pavement to catch up.

  Why did I say that? I must be a sucker for punishment.

  They don’t answer, but they do slow down enough so that I’m next to Zoey. Except it’s hard to have three in a row on the sidewalk, so I’m immediately bumped back when we have to maneuver around a bike chained to a parking meter. I end up walking behind the duo for the next eight blocks. They don’t say much to me, which I guess is better than insulting me.

  When we get to the court, I sprint ahead of them and wave to Ms. Parker. As I’m opening the gate, I hear Thunder growl, “Show-off.”

  What’s it to her if I want to be on time? Liz isn’t here yet, so I stand next to Maria. Coach says we’re going to stretch for a few minutes, then run some laps around the baseball field. A few girls groan and Coach says if she hears that again, we’ll run laps the whole time. Sophia mutters under her breath, “But this is summer league.”

  Why don’t you tell that to Thunder?

  Liz shows up as we’re getting ready to run laps. “Betancourt, you’re late!” Coach yells at her.

  “Sorry, there was an accident on the MacArthur Causeway, and—” Liz is still trying to catch her breath.

  “An extra lap,” Coach says, then she blows her whistle and we’re off. Liz rolls her eyes, but luckily Coach doesn’t see.

  I’m not too good at this running-a-distance thing. The first week I didn’t pace myself and was out of breath pretty quickly. Slightly wiser this time, I try to keep an even tempo. I look out at the open sky, not a cloud in sight. It’s too hot to stare for long, so I focus my eyes on the leafy trees. Every time I pass one, I relish the second spent in the shade. It’s the feeling you get when you can never have enough of something. Chocolate. Cute Butt’s rear. A day at the beach with Dad collecting shells. More time with Mom.

  I keep to the edges of the field, even though it makes my laps slightly longer. Liz is ahead; she’s always been a fast runner. She was recruited for the track team freshman year.

  I’m a few feet behind Maria and Kate. I watch their ponytails swing back and forth. They look like witch brooms. Good witch. Bad witch. They both have thick brown hair, although Kate’s has a lot of auburn to it. I peer over at the baseball diamond, where a bunch of kids have just arrived for a game. They look snazzy in their little uniforms all tucked in. They’re probably first or second graders. This one short, chunky kid is standing there staring at us as we run by. He’s so cute.

  Coach blows her whistle, thank God. This is our third lap, the last. Everyone runs for their water bottles, except for Liz who’s already on her extra lap. After we chug some water and catch our breath, Coach tosses out the balls and we start with lay-ups. I always love watching the basketball players on TV doing lay-ups; they make it look so easy. I grab a ball and hold it in my hand. Coach is working on form today, so she’s spending time with each person, perfecting their shot. She instructed us to really get to know the ball.

  I look down at mine, full of air. The tiny bumps that make up the surface are smoothed over a bit. I move my hand over the top in a circular motion while I wait for my turn. My hands feel numb and sweaty from the rubber. Tracing the tiny bumps, I imagine what it might be like to read braille. I close my eyes and run my fingers over them until I hit a groove.

  “Wake up, Cashew,” Thunder barks from behind me.

  Oh, aren’t we original. I run up to the middle of the court and shoot. The ball bounces off the backboard and rolls to the side. Coach grabs it and tosses it back to me. “You have to feel the ball.”

  “But I was,” I say. I really was. I felt the bumps, the grooves, the smooth parts, the rough parts, and the part where the Spalding name is partially rubbed off.

  Coach grabs another ball from the side and cradles it in her left palm. Then she slides her right hand over the top. She instructs me to do the same with my ball. I rub my hand back and forth over the top like an old lady at the supermarket inspecting cantaloupes, feeling every inch of the fruit. Then Coach says, “Now let go, and feel what it’s like to release the ball.”

  I do. The ball hits the dull metal pole, nowhere near the basket.

  “That’s good.” She collects my rebound and tosses it back to me. “Now try it again.”

  Feeling movement is something new to me. I only think about feelings in relation to paintings, books, or movies. I shoot another basket but miss.

  “Take your time until you get the hang of it,” Coach says.

  I stare at the ball. At the faded orange. It’s not like the orange from Graham’s shirt. This orange is the kind Graham’s shirt will be after it’s gone through the wash a thousand times. I think of Graham and his perfect body. Perfect face. I aim the ball and shoot. The basket is mine.

  “That’s it.” Coach smiles and waves up the next person.

  “Make love to the ball,” Thunder cackles as I head back to the end of the line.

  I want to yell, That’s probably the most lovin’ you’ll ever get, but right now that goes for me, too, so I keep my mouth shut.

  For the rest of practice, I really try to feel the ball. To get to know it. Too bad we can’t use the same ball every time. I name mine Baldwin (on account of its apparent baldness and ability to help us win) and feel like we have a special bond now.

  At four, Coach blows her whistle and tells us to grab our water bottles and have a seat on the bench. That’s fine with me because my Secret clear roll-on for women is just about worn out, and Baldwin needs some air.

  “I like what I saw out there today. Good structure and form. If you have a net at home or live near one, try to practice over the weekend. Monday’s game is going to be close. Don’t underestimate the underdogs.” Coach says this like she spilled the winning secret.

  After she tells us we’re playing the Brown team, it all makes sense. Brown is definitely a camouflage color. They can sneak around us unnoticed if we’re not careful. However, too much brown bores the soul. And Ms. Cable made it abundantly clear that it’s not a good idea to ride under the radar. “Cassia, for every million nobodies applying to college each year, there are only a few thousand somebodies. Which do you want to be?” She didn’t give me a chance to answer because at that very moment she got a call from the principal’s secretary alerting her that there was drama in the second-floor girls’ bathroom. She cut our session short with a “Let’s talk again soon.”

  I did not tell Dad about that meeting. Nor did I tell him that he was raising a potential nobody.

  “Wanna get something to eat?” I ask Liz after we grab our stuff.

  “Yeah, I’m starved.” She reaches into her bag and whips out her cell. “Two voicemails. I bet Harry called. He leaves the sweetest messages.”

  I pull out my cell, just in case. I peer down at the screen. It says I have one message. “Hey, I got a call too!” Dad usually doesn’t leave messages, but it could be from Skyler or Anna wanting to update me on their summer adventures.

  I hit play. “Hi, Cassia, it’s Graham from the gallery. What’s up?
Call me back. My number’s 305-555-2345. Ciao! ”

  I play it again. His voice is so smooth and clear. He could be a Power 96 DJ. I’d love a personal shout-out during the Love Hour from DJ Graham.

  I can’t believe he actually called me. Wahoo! I flail my arms up in the air and do the monkey dance.

  Liz doesn’t even react. She’s on the phone with Harry now. I can tell by the way her voice has softened to a baby’s coo.

  I point to my phone and mouth the words, “He called and left a message.”

  “Really?” She immediately gets off the phone.

  We wait for the cars to slow and jet across the street. All the good restaurants are on the other side.

  “You didn’t have to hang up.” I cradle my cell like it has magical powers and orchestrated the phone call from Graham.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll call Harry later—it’s not like he’s doing anything.”

  “Wanna hear Graham’s sexy voice?” I ask.

  “Duh!” Liz holds out her hand.

  I bring up the message again and hand over the phone.

  “Hi, Cassia, it’s Graham,” Liz says in a deep, Darth Vader–like voice.

  “God, I’m glad he doesn’t sound like that.” I snatch back my phone. We both laugh.

  Liz throws her hands up in the air. “So what are you waiting for?”

  “Shouldn’t I wait, like, a day to call him back?” We’re standing in front of Paloma’s Diner. I peer in closer to see if I can catch a glimpse of the grill—my destiny. All I see is a bunch of old guys in suspenders chomping on burgers. This is not a good sign.

  “For what?” She shakes her head. “So some other girl can call him?”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I hate games. But what do I say?”

  “Start with hi.” Liz laughs.

  “Very funny.” I bump her with my hip and we keep on walking.

  “Ask him about his day. Let him know you’re free and he’ll take it from there.”

  The way she says it, it sounds easy. But she’s that way with everything. She told me our final history exam was easy after I’d already seen a couple girls from the class before me come out bawling.

  “I dunno.” I bite my lip.

  “Come on! If you don’t call him, I’ll start singing ‘I am Woman, Hear Me Roar.’ ” She cracks up.

  “You would, too.”

  We park ourselves on the bench at the Number 28 bus stop and I click on Graham’s number before Liz can fulfill her dream of singing in public. My heart beats in tandem with the ringing of the phone. Graham answers on the third ring with a hello and tons of bass music in the background.

  “Hi, Graham? It’s Cassia.”

  He lowers the volume. “Hey, how’s it going?”

  “I just had basketball practice.”

  “That’s cool. Who do you play for?”

  The bus pulls up and opens its doors. It coughs out a guy in a gray polyester security uniform and takes off.

  “Y summer league. What did you do today?”

  “Hung at the beach. We wanted to surf but the water was too calm.”

  We? Dare I ask? “Do you have a lot of surfer friends?”

  That was a dork question. It’s not like he asked if I had a lot of basketball friends.

  “Mostly Jamie and Matt.”

  Jamie girl? Jamie boy? Oh, this is getting bad.

  “What does he want?” Liz whispers.

  I shrug my shoulders. What would I do without my life coach?

  “Harry and I are going to grab something to eat. Want to join us?” Liz yells in my face, obviously loud enough for Graham to hear.

  “Um … ” I kick Liz in the shin and she winces. “My friends and I are going to get something to eat—want to come?”

  “Can’t. My grandparents are coming for dinner. What time will you be home?”

  “I dunno. Probably six.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “On Indian Creek Drive. Next to Bay Park.” Liz gives me the thumbs-up and pulls out her own phone. Guess I’m flying solo now.

  “Is that the building with the funny-colored roof?” Graham asks.

  “Yup. Purple power.” My claim to fame. I live in a building with a purple roof. You know what they say about purple—ambition, magical power, and strength.

  “If you want, I could meet you at your place. Say, eight. I’m not far.”

  “That works. Call me when you get to the concierge.”

  “Cool. See ya later.” Graham hangs up.

  Liz puts her hand over her phone. “Why aren’t you jumping for joy? He’s coming over, isn’t he?”

  I didn’t realize that a guy bopping to his iPod had joined us at the bus stop. Maybe he’s actually waiting for the bus.

  “Yeah, but he wants to hang with my dad, breathe in his painterly ways.”

  “Huh?” Liz stands up from the bench.

  I stand up too and walk with her. “That’s why he was at the gallery last night.”

  “Okay.” She stops for a minute like her brain’s working overtime. “Well, he called you, didn’t he? He could’ve just called your dad straight up.”

  True.

  Right?

  notice me yellow

  I hardly eat anything at dinner with Liz and Harry. My nerves have gotten the best of me. Graham is coming over in less than an hour!

  When I get home, I take a quick shower and spend the rest of the time in my closet. Nothing seems to work and anything I’d usually go for is lying limp at the bottom of my clothes hamper.

  It’s times like this that it would be great to have a mom to help me with my outfit. If I call Dad in he’ll probably tell me to throw on a pair of overalls and a bandana—perfect clothes for painting, not for trying to reel in the guy you’re crushing on. I settle on a pair of black short shorts (not short enough to be considered slutty) and a buttercup-yellow T-shirt. The perfect combination of mystery and confidence. It’s my notice me, not NOTICE ME, outfit.

  I walk out into the living room, all freshened up, only to see Dad watching Animal Planet in gym shorts and a cruddy old wine-festival T-shirt. I stand in front of him, blocking his view of the sea lions. “Graham, the guy we met at the gallery last night, is going to be here any minute.”

  “Oh, great. I picked up a couple of things at the market today. There’s ice cream in the freezer. I bought those little Hoodsie cups you like.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I was hoping maybe you could … ”

  “You want me to stay out of your way. I get it.” He winks at me.

  “No, I was hoping you might change. Graham wants to see some of your work.”

  He points to the TV. “Isn’t it amazing how those polar bears stay so white?”

  “Dad, I’m serious,” I say, arms spread out, now totally blocking his view of the wide screen. “And besides, their fur looks kind of yellowish to me.”

  He flips off the TV. “Okay, I get the hint. I’ll throw on a tux.”

  “You’re the best!” I let out a sigh of relief. “And no smoking, please.”

  He frowns.

  “It’s gross and stinks up the place.”

  “I gotcha,” he says, and leaves the room.

  I launch into super prep mode. First, I fluff the pillows on the couch, then use the Dustbuster on the coffee table. I light a mango candle in the room to make sure all smells good. Next stop, Dad’s studio, because it’s supposed to be the highlight of Graham’s visit. Just like his official studio, a big open space above La Reverie that he shares with Lucien and another guy named Tony, Dad’s mini-studio looks like a typical artist’s workshop—paints and brushes strewn everywhere and half-finished canvases stacked against the wall. I dump out the ashtray and open the window for some fresh air.

  The phone rings a few minutes after eight. It’s security from downstairs. “Cassia, I have Graham Hadley here to see you.”

  “Thanks, Mitch. Send him up.” I love saying that. It makes me feel like I’m sitting in a
huge leather chair with my Manolo Blahniks up on the mahogany desk.

  I check the foyer mirror. No unidentified objects on my face. No mysterious stains on my clothes. Cleavage. Check. I’m good to go.

  A minute later, there’s a tap tap on the door. I look through the peephole like I don’t know who it is. Graham is even cute in this distorted, magnified, all-about-the-nose view. He’s wearing a black T-shirt. So he’s game for a little mystery, too.

  I unlock the deadbolt. “Hey, Graham. Come in.”

  “Thanks.” He closes the door behind him and slides off his backpack.

  We’re both standing there in the middle of my foyer. Me with my hands on my hips and Graham with his hands in his pockets.

  “So.” He looks past me into the living room.

  “So.” I look into his eyes.

  We’re both standing here like duh and duh. Then I hear Dad’s bedroom door close and his leather sandals inching closer. I can feel him behind me. He rests his hands on my shoulders. “Welcome, Graham.” I’m surprised Dad remembered his name.

  “Thanks for having me over, sir.” Graham holds out his hand.

  “Call me Jacques,” Dad says, and he and Graham shake. “Let me give you a tour,” he adds, like we live in Elvis’s mansion instead of a three-bedroom, two-bath condo. We bypass our bedrooms and head straight to Dad’s studio.

  It’s the only room in the house painted white. Dad has a few framed pictures on the walls and a photo of me, him, and Mom from when I was about three. It’s a really cute snapshot of us at Disney World. I’m holding this huge blob of cotton candy and Mom and Dad are munching on candy apples. I instinctively park myself in front of the photo so Graham can’t see it. I’m not ready to share.

  I lean back and pick up a kneaded rubber eraser from Dad’s drawing table and stretch it back and forth in my hands. Dad told me I was always swiping them when I first learned to walk; he said it took a lot of convincing and some taste testing to assure me they weren’t edible. He always had a bunch in his pocket and whenever I got really bored, one would magically appear.