It could be that we’re born with a passion, but that the desire lays dormant until it’s awakened. Perhaps when you come in contact with your destined passion a few times, your body fuses the connection. But if that were the case then I’d have already known that basketball was my passion, because I’ve played enough pickup games over the years. Maybe my passion is something close to the word basketball, but my brain sent a misfire. Like basket weaving! I’m not sure how I feel about that. I do like crafts, but one can only have so many baskets.
Harry is sitting with Liz’s family. He’s cheering Liz on, even giving her a standing ovation every time she makes a good play. Graham hardly noticed my new hair color, and Harry notices every time Liz makes a decent pass. Heck, they even have a teddy bear named after their perfect union. Maybe I have my eyes on the wrong guy, but even so, there’s something that really draws me to Graham. He has the Prince Charming gene and he’s smart to boot.
I should stop by the gallery more often. If anything, I could use a little stare at his butt to cheer myself up. Dad’s come home late these past few nights. I know he’s been with the touchy-feely Helga lady because he strolls in the door whistling. I pretend to be asleep when he passes my bedroom. I don’t want to see the smile or the smudge of lipstick she left on his face.
The Reds win against the Greens, 49 to 22. Confidence tramples self-respect. The chili peppers out-spice the green beans. Green was the last of the five teams—now we start again and play each team one more time. We’ve won three out of the five games so far; not bad. If we win a few more we could move on to the finals. The finals take place over a couple of days, winner takes home the trophy.
“Hey, crip, we won without you today.” Thunder smiles at me, sweat dripping from her forehead. I never noticed her mustache before. Looks like it’s time for a shave.
I don’t say anything, but as she starts to walk away, I extend one of my crutches. She lets out a yelp but catches herself before she falls. “Bitch,” she growls.
I just smile. I’m learning that a little dig goes a along way. The trick is to stay calm, even if you’re fuming inside.
Liz’s family is nearby. I stand up and hobble across the court to find them. Coach Parker stops me midway. “How is everything?”
“Fine. Foot’s doing a lot better.”
Zoey walks past us and smiles, the sympathy kind, not the I’m-so-happy-to-see-you kind.
“Good. We’re hoping you’ll be able to return before season’s over.”
“You want a screw-up back?” I ask, half joking, half not.
Coach’s eyes widen and her face goes all serious. “Cassia, what made you ever think that?”
“It’s just that I messed up an important play, and now this.” I peer down at my ankle. “It’s almost like payback.”
“No, I don’t want you to ever think that. It’s all part of the game. Winning, losing, and unfortunately injuries do happen. What seems huge to you, others have already forgotten about.”
“I guess you’re right.” I look out at the team scattered around, talking and laughing. But Thunder is just standing there with her arms crossed. She’s probably not forgotten. “I do tend to overreact sometimes.” I stretch my ankle out but quickly wince from the pain.
“We all do, but don’t be so hard on yourself, okay?” Coach smiles.
“I’ll try.” I throw her a smile back.
“Let me know if you need anything, all right?” She pats me on the shoulder.
I hope I don’t look like a lost soul. A lone flower blowing in the wind.
I thank Coach, then get up and hobble past Thunder and her boyfriend. He has his arm firmly around her neck. I shudder. The mere size of him gives me the creeps. They make a good couple. They’re both scowling. They would not cut it in ceramics. No one in that class is vying for the title Bully of the Year. They leave you alone, and even if there’s something going on, like between Scott and Nia, it’s all fun.
Liz’s mom offers me a ride home. This time I take it. I ride in front, so I can stretch my leg out. Liz is sandwiched in the back of the Jeep Liberty with Harry and her little sister, Crystal.
“So how’s Graham?” Harry asks.
I turn to face him. “Fine, I guess. Haven’t seen him in a couple of days.”
“He seems like a cool dude.” Harry rolls the window down halfway even though the a/c is on full blast.
Liz leans forward, resting her elbow on the back of my seat. “Cass has a plan. She’s going to wow him with her beauty and intellect.”
Harry laughs.
“Thanks,” I mutter under my breath.
“Kidding.” Harry reaches over Crystal and taps my shoulder.
I think Crystal is light-years ahead of the rest of the fourth grade population because she immediately changes the subject and fills us in on every detail of her day at soccer camp. I’ve never been so happy to learn how to head-butt a ball. It would be a definite no-no in basketball, though. I really don’t need a brain injury.
“Cassia, what are you doing now that you can’t play basketball?” Mrs. Betancourt asks me.
“I’m taking a ceramics class at the Y.”
“You are?” Liz asks.
I turn around again. “I tried to tell you the other day, but you were kind of spacey.”
“When?” Liz furrows her brows. I know she’s insulted, but it’s the truth.
“You called me on the cell to tell me stuff.”
“Oh, yeah.” A little smirk spreads across her face. “Well, tell us about the class.”
“It’s pretty chill so far. Really laid back. And the funniest thing is, the teacher is Coach Parker’s husband.”
“No way!” Liz shrieks. “What’s he like? I totally thought she was gay.”
“Me too. He’s got hair the color of cinnamon toast, and a full beard. Nice guy, let’s us do whatever we want.”
“My kind of guy,” Harry chimes in. I don’t see Harry as someone who takes direction very well. I think he’d probably be on Coach’s shit list if he played ball.
“Does Coach know you’re taking a class with her man?” Liz asks.
I shrug. “She didn’t mention it and neither did I.”
Mrs. Betancourt pulls up to my building. “Thanks for the ride, Mrs. B,” I say, trying to wiggle my way out the door without putting too much pressure on my foot.
She gets out of the car and hands me my crutches from the back. “Do you need help getting up the stairs?”
“No, I’m cool, thanks. Bye, guys.” I wave to everyone.
I really wish Liz could come over. I know she has plans with Harry. If I’d asked, she would’ve said I could tag along. I’m so not into being the third wheel. It only makes you realize even more what you don’t have. It reminds me of the Mother’s Day breakfasts in elementary school. For the first couple of years after Mom died, Dad came instead. All the other mothers stared at us and shot my dad sympathy smiles. After a few years, he stopped coming and said I could stay home if I wanted to. I blocked it out and assumed the role of teacher’s helper. I made Mom a card every year and stuck it in a shoebox under my bed. I never put the lid on the box, just in case she wanted to take a peek at her cards. But I was glad when I went to middle school and the Mother’s Day festivities stopped.
I’m totally exhausted after I get inside my condo. For one thing, my armpits are killing me. I’m surprised they’re not bleeding. Nobody told me there was going to be arm pain involved with spraining your ankle. I’ll be so glad when I get rid of these crutches next week.
I let my crutches fall to the floor and I half hop, half lean against the wall and furniture to make my way to the couch. I grab a blanket and turn on the TV, my only dependable friend.
Besides getting up to go to the bathroom and grabbing a granola bar, I spend the afternoon on the couch. Being a couch potato has its perks. Although, if my hips start expanding and my chin starts multiplying, I won’t be a happy camper.
I make it to five
p.m., then shut off the TV. My eyes droop. It’s raining. Not regular summer rain, but tropical-storm-warning rain—the kind where the streets are dark and you have to drive your car at a snail’s pace with the lights on if you want to make it home in one piece. It’s lulling me to sleep, big time. I bury my head in the couch pillow, but I can still hear the water sloshing against the windows like the washing machine on heavy cycle. I close my eyes. All I see is black.
The man in the black sports car doesn’t care about the rain, about the other cars on the road, or even the passenger next to him. The music is pumping full blast. You can’t make out the words because the storm and the heavy bass drone out the lyrics. The car screeches to a halt and the passenger is immediately ejected, landing beside a huge oak tree. Her face is masked and in seconds she’s soaking from head to toe. Lightning strikes and the car speeds off. The woman has been zapped. Her face is charred black, but she will live.
I shake myself awake. I can’t get out of that dream fast enough. I feel like I’ve been held captive in my own nightmare, but thank God, the girl is not me. It’s Thunder. She’s invading my personal space now. Yet I can’t help but wonder if she’s okay. I scoot over to the living room window and see that the sun is shining bright now. It’s turned out to be the perfect evening for a walk on the beach, with only a few raindrops still clinging to the window and scattered puddles down below in the parking lot.
Maybe this dream was a wake-up call. My subconscious could be warning me that Thunder’s out for blood. But I figure she’ll lay off me while I’m recovering. Even in her twisted head, I don’t see how I can be a threat to her when I’m not playing ball. Either way, I need to be on guard for when I return to the court. I just need to be alert and stay one step ahead of her.
Ratting her out to Coach is out of the question because then everyone will think I’m such a wimp. Getting Liz to provoke her is also a no because that will just get Liz thrown off the team and I’d feel terrible about that. Telling Dad would probably backfire and before I know it, Thunder would be seated on my couch licking the wooden spoon from a Hoodsie cup.
Poisoning her water bottle would be a good idea, but let’s face it; I don’t have much evil in me, even when I try. Causing her to have explosive diarrhea or break out in hives during the game would be more like it. Sending her on a one-way trip to Alaska would work for me, too.
All this thinking is making me hungry. I flip open the cabinet door. Oreo cookies. Black and white. Evil vs. Good. I take out one and screw off the top. I lick off the white icing; the sugar tastes sweet against my tongue. Then I gobble both cookies whole.
ashen tiles
When I crutch through the door of La Reverie a few days later, the first thing I see is the empty spot where Lady in Red once sat. It glares at me like a ketchup stain on a white carpet. Can’t they fill it up already? At this point I don’t even want to know who bought it. I could always peek at Lucien’s records, but stalking a painting is a bit much, even for me. Of course, if the info happens to be lying around on his desk …
Looks like Monica is the only one manning the shop. “Do you know where my dad is?” I ask.
She glances at her watch. “It’s noon already? Wow! He said he’d be back around now. He gave a talk at the museum this morning about his flower exhibit.”
“Okay.” I inch my way back behind Lucien’s desk. “What about Lucien?”
“He’s on his way out. His niece and nephew are in town today. He’s meeting them for lunch.”
Speaking of lunch, I’m pretty hungry. I hope there are some Saltines waiting for me in the desk drawer.
“That’s cool,” I say. “So how’s your nephew?”
“Thomas is good, thanks. He’s in New York right now visiting some of his cousins.”
“Cool. He’s lucky.” This is pathetic. I’m jealous of someone I hardly know, and who knows if he’s even having fun in the Big Apple.
Monica adjusts Moon Bisque on the wall. “Everything okay, Cassia?”
Yes! A whole sleeve of crackers, unopened. “Yeah, I’m cool. Just trying to deal with being partially immobile.”
“I sprained my ankle once, too. Fell down a flight of stairs. Was a real bummer.”
“Bummer, you can say that again.” You and everyone else. What do you have to do to be special around here? Be in a full-body cast?
Lucien comes charging down the stairs from the studio. I have a whole cracker stuffed in my mouth. “Hi,” I mumble.
“Hey, kiddo.” He rushes over and gives me a huge hug. “Angie and Dave are in town today. Want to join us for a bite?”
He only gets to see them a couple of times a year but sees me practically every day. “No, thanks. I’ve got my lunch right here.” I pat the packet of Saltines.
“Waiting around for someone special?” Lucien raises an eyebrow.
“Monica said Dad should be back any minute.”
“That’s not who I meant.” Lucien punches me in the shoulder and lets out a laugh.
“Well, if Graham happens to stop by, that’d be fine with me.” I blush.
“Hang onto him, kiddo. He’s a great guy.”
“Trust me, if I can, I will.”
The door chimes and Monica scurries to the front.
“Speak of the devil,” Lucien says, a little too loudly, and escapes out the back door. The devil is really the only thing that gives red a bad rap. Graham is dressed in a purple shirt. What does that make him? Barney?
I wave to the guy in purple and he walks toward me. So much for me snooping in Lucien’s desk and learning the whereabouts of Lady in Red.
“How are you feeling?” Graham asks, portfolio in hand, of course.
“Fine, thanks.”
“Good. Is your dad here?”
Already done with me?
“No, he’ll be back soon, though.” I fold the top of the cracker packet and shove them back in the drawer. I don’t need a replay of our first meeting.
“Mind if I hang?” He leans against the desk.
Mind? Ha, if he only knew. “No, grab a chair.” I point to an empty seat against the wall.
Graham tugs on the back of his shirt and sits down. Why is he wearing the color usually reserved for eggplants? It’s not my favorite color for a guy, but if anyone can pull it off, he can. Purple is the color of energy. They should’ve made the Energizer Bunny purple. Maybe Graham’s here to re-energize me. I could plug myself in and bing, I’d feel better.
“Thanks.” He pulls up next to me and swipes a rubber band off the desk.
“I’d love to see your work. I never really got a chance when you brought your portfolio by before.” I was too busy staring at your butt.
“Sure.” He looks around the gallery. “Do you think you could make it up the stairs? I could display them on the easels.”
I stand up, putting all my weight on my good foot. This is not very comfortable. “Yeah, that sounds good,” I say. Why do I feel like one of those sleazy frat-party guys who eases the girl up to his bedroom, then draws the shades and jumps her bones? But as much as I would like to jump Graham’s bones, I don’t want to do it in my dad’s studio. Never mind that I’m a total chickenshit.
Graham carries my crutches up the stairs, along with his portfolio case, while I hobble up, holding on to the railing. I feel like a dork hopping up the stairs, my boobs jumping up and down and my ponytail flopping from side to side. Graham, is this the girl you want to date? I think not!
When we get into the studio Graham displays the pieces on a few empty easels. I turn the radio dial until I pick up some slow jams. I hate dead air. Graham sets up two folding chairs in front of the exhibit.
“The show is now up and running.” He motions me over.
I take a seat and eye the other empty one.
“You need to keep your foot elevated. Besides, the artist never sits,” Graham says, hands in his pockets just deep enough to cover most of the scar on his left arm. I wonder if he stuck his hands in the pock
ets before he bought the shorts, or if he could tell just by looking at them that they had deep enough pockets to hide his only imperfection.
“He doesn’t?” I’m not sure if he’s kidding about the artist not sitting or if this is something I should take note of.
“Shall we?” He points to the first piece.
“Mmm.” I nod at the abstract.
“Chameleon Exposed.”
It’s a wild swirl of colors wrapped around the trunk of a tree. It’s almost blinding. I look away but am immediately drawn back to it. There’s something so pure about this painting. He didn’t follow any rule of color, swirling neutrals, bolds, and lukewarms together, but somehow it works. That’s what I like about art. Even though there are rules, they’re meant to be broken and if you do it right, you’re hailed a genius. I guess kind of like my dad. It’s funny how you can be so good at one thing and crappy at everything else. Well, my dad’s not crappy at everything, but he lacks simple skills like paying bills on time, making pancakes that don’t burn, and showing up for appointments. It’s like all his brain power is sucked up by the need to create.
Graham has moved on to the next painting. “I call this one Determination.” It’s a painting of a super-skinny palm tree surrounded by other palm trees that have fallen to the ground. The interesting thing is, it’s only in two colors—pea green and mossy brown.
“Wow, that’s cool.” I scoot my chair a little closer. “Sad, too. Even the choice of colors.”
Graham bites his lip. “It’s the will to survive.”
“Do you think we’re all born with it?”
Graham pulls at a loose screw on the easel. “Yeah, I think we all have it, but not everyone finds it in time.”
I think of Mom the last few weeks before she died. She was always pretty thin, but I remember how her clothes hung shapelessly off her body. I don’t think she was eating much and her face was as pale as our ashen bedroom tiles. Of course, I didn’t know she was dying then, but even at five, I sensed something was wrong. Very wrong.
Pure Red Page 11
