Pure Red

by Danielle Joseph

“Whatever gave you that idea? Look at me.” Coach tugs at the whistle around her neck. “I’m a drama teacher during the school year and I coach intramural basketball in the summer.”

  Thunder and I both nearly jump out of our seats. “You are?” I say.

  Coach raises her eyebrows.

  My mouth forms the perfect O. “And Mr. Parker coaches football during the year?”

  Coach lets out a guffaw. “Please, his idea of exercise is walking a block to Ben & Jerry’s.”

  Thunder and I both laugh. I try to stifle my laughter by covering my mouth with the crook of my elbow, but Thunder lets it all out.

  Coach smiles.

  Thunder’s face goes back to being lackluster. “This is B.S. I’m not creative like you guys. I can’t even draw a stick figure.”

  Coach gives her the eyeball.

  “Sorry,” Thunder mumbles.

  “Creativity comes in all forms,” Coach says. “If you want to be a good ball player, you have to be creative.”

  “Let’s face it. I’m not going to play professional ball when I get out of school.” Thunder leans back and crosses her arms.

  “And you don’t have to.” Coach reaches out to her. “You just have to allow yourself to try different avenues, to explore.”

  Thunder rubs her shoulder but doesn’t make eye contact with either of us. She immediately resumes the crossed-arm position.

  I feel compelled to rescue her. “Yeah, if I didn’t get a total scare from Ms. Cable that I’d be working at a diner like this for the rest of my life, I’d probably be at home watching TV all day. Then I wouldn’t have found out that I liked basketball, or ceramics either.”

  Coach claps her hands. “Exactly.”

  “Please, you’ve played before.” Thunder looks at me like I’m Pinocchio reincarnated.

  “No, really, it’s the truth. This is the first time I’ve been on a real basketball team.”

  Thunder twists the tab of her Coke can round and round. “But you’re a good player.”

  “Me?” I point to myself. This is the first time anyone’s ever said that about me. Strangely, it feels good. Watch out, there’s a new Killer Cassia in town! A chill goes up my spine. “But nothing like you. I thought you were intimidating, with all the baskets you make every game.”

  “You’re both great players. And you should find your self-esteem on the court and in other endeavors,” Coach chimes in.

  “What are you saying?” Thunder rolls her eyes.

  “That confidence does not come from relationships, but from within.”

  “This is corny,” Thunder says.

  I knew her little nice-girl act wouldn’t last.

  My eyes immediately dart over to Coach’s face. Go ahead, blast Thunder for being so rude. But Coach doesn’t bat an eye. “What makes you think that, Kate?”

  “I dunno.” Thunder shrugs. “I feel like people just give you that bull, I mean, speech, but they don’t really give a crap about you. Like one of those feel-good therapists on TV. Tell me how you really feel … ”

  “Well, you make it hard for people to like you,” I say. Wow, I can’t believe I had the balls to say that. Two points for me! I just stood up to the Big Thunder. I look at her, but she doesn’t respond. For once Thunder is speechless.

  I turn to Coach, but she’s twisting her wristband. This is the first time I’ve seen her hesitant. I hope she doesn’t think I’m acting like a wench. Maybe she’d like to call Ms. Cable for intervention backup. She looks straight at Thunder. “Kate, nobody likes to be treated badly, and I’m sure Cassia agrees.”

  Thunder rolls her eyes again. “What are you talking about?”

  Coach leans over and rubs Thunder’s shoulder.

  Thunder winces. “It was an accident.”

  I’ve got to say something. Even if Thunder is a bitch, she still shouldn’t let Bulldog beat her up like that. I don’t want to be interviewed after her death and say I knew something was going on, but I was too chicken to speak up.

  “Why do you let him treat you like that?” I slide my chair back in case she feels like pouncing on me.

  “Leave Ryan out of this,” Thunder snaps.

  “I’m here to listen,” Coach says, then adds, “or we could talk afterwards.”

  Thunder slams her fist on the table but quickly jerks her arm back. “I said, leave him out of this. Ryan’s a great guy. Best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  Talk about someone in denial. This is sad.

  “Then why did he do that to you?” I point to her shoulder.

  Thunder takes a deep breath. I watch her chest rise up and down. “He didn’t do this. Or anything.”

  “Really,” I say. Even I’ve seen all those episodes of Law and Order where the victim sides with her abuser, trying to protect him.

  “I don’t care if you guys don’t believe me. It’s the truth!” Thunder shouts.

  Coach reaches out and places her hands on top of Thunder’s. “It’s only because we care about you.”

  “Yeah, well, you shouldn’t.” Thunder lowers her head.

  I thought I had low self-esteem, but damn, hers is rock bottom.

  “You’re not that bad,” I mumble.

  Thunder looks up. Her eyes are cloudy. “I did it, okay.”

  Coach and I both look at her but don’t say anything. What is she talking about? She beat herself up?

  Thunder rubs her nose. “It was me. I punched Ryan and my shoulder snapped. It was such a stupid fight. But sometimes I can’t help myself. I get so angry.”

  Thunder punched the half-ton bulldog? That doesn’t make sense. What about his evil eyes? He had his arm around her so tight, that day I saw them walking to the court.

  “But he looks so scary,” I say.

  “Ryan’s a teddy bear. He cries at chick flicks.” Thunder’s face is red and splotchy.

  I can’t believe I felt sorry for this girl.

  “But everyone on the team thinks…”

  “I don’t care what they think,” she cuts me off.

  “It’s okay, Kate,” Coach says.

  “I’m a fucking bitch.” Thunder shakes her head. “I screwed up. It’s like something takes over and I can’t stop myself. Sometimes I get so mad, I feel like my head is going to pop off.” She digs her nails into the side of her arm.

  Wow, this is totally messed up.

  “It’s great that you’re finally opening up,” Coach says. She sounds like such a natural. How does she know what to say to Thunder? I’m still in shock that she beat up on such a huge guy, even if she is 6’1”.

  “That’s about the only thing. I’ve got all the charm of my old man. At least that’s what my mom says.” Thunder laughs. It’s a deep laugh, not the kind reserved for jokes.

  “Did he hurt you?” Coach asks.

  “Yeah, but he’s history. Ran out on us five years ago. Never seen him since. Wished him dead plenty of times.” Thunder releases her fingernail grip. The color slowly returns to her arm.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. My dad’s never even laid a hand on me. Not even when I’ve acted like a total brat.

  “The worst thing is … ” Thunder wipes the tears from her cheek with her palm. “I’ve done this before, taken my anger out on other people, on Ryan.”

  “I’m happy to get you help,” Coach says.

  “All right,” Thunder complies. She didn’t put up a fight. Maybe there is hope.

  “Anything you want to say to each other?” Coach looks at me, then Thunder.

  “You’re an okay player, Cashew,” Thunder blurts out.

  I look at her. At her hollow brown eyes set a little too far back into her head. I guess this is her way of apologizing. Even if she is the bully, my sympathy for her doesn’t change. She seems so lonely. She’s still a victim. “Thanks. You too, Thunder.”

  “Thunder?” She looks confused.

  Coach slams her hand on the table. “I’m counting on both of you for Thursday’s game.”


  “You still want me?” Thunder asks.

  “Absolutely.” Coach nods. “We have some more talking to do, though.”

  I drain the last of my soda from the can and stand up. “What about ceramics?”

  “Game doesn’t start until five, after ceramics ends. Don’t let that wheel wear you out, because you’re both starters.”

  Kate and I look at each other and nod.

  battle of orange and red

  In a moment of weakness, I agreed to join Dad and Helga for dinner. Actually, Dad asked me four days ago, but now, ninety minutes before we’re supposed to meet Helga at the restaurant, is when I start to panic. The plan is for me to meet Dad at La Reverie before we catch a cab to Athena’s, a Greek restaurant about a mile from the gallery.

  First off, I have no idea what to wear. I don’t want Helga to think I’m just some dumb kid. I mean, if there is any remote possibility that she wants to continue to date my dad, she has to know he’s my dad. I don’t want some bossy control-freak woman barging into our lives thinking she can take over. That being said, I need to wear something that means business.

  I’m leaning toward black pants and a solid shirt, like blue or green. I take out the silk aqua blouse that I save for Dad’s art shows. Aqua usually means you have high ideals. Or I could wear the button-down baby-blue shirt that would be sure to lull Helga to sleep. Maybe then she’d keep her paws off my dad. Even though I feel glam in either of these outfits, I want to wear something that makes an impact. I need to show that I’m in charge. Red is the way to go.

  I pull out a wine-colored tank top from my drawer, but it’s ribbed and way too casual. I step into my closet and wade through a couple potential reds. Then I see it, at the very back—my little red dress from the painting.

  It’s simple, with a small ruffle lining the bottom. I haven’t looked at it in a long time. Mom sewed it herself, on the same sewing machine that her mom had sewed her clothes on. She wanted us to match for the portrait. We had to stand completely still as Dad worked his magic. The wind on the balcony blew the backs of our dresses slightly, making the warm air bearable. Mom held my hand tight for what seemed like an eternity. Finally Dad said we could call it a day, that he would need us again when he got to the finer details. That day never came, because Mom died five days later. Not even all our love could plug up the pinpoint-sized hole in her heart.

  I take the red dress from the hanger and run to Dad’s bedroom closet, where he keeps an oversized box of Mom’s personal things. In all the years since her death, I’ve never seen him take it out. However, I’ve sifted through it on especially lonely days, on days that I long for her companionship. I’ve never gotten to the bottom of the box. I didn’t want the memories of her to come to an end.

  The box is pretty heavy but I manage to pull it out and slide it across the carpet. I sit up against Dad’s sturdy iron bed and inch it closer to me. I lift up the flaps and stare inside: jewelry, photos, journals, all things I’m dying to get my hands on. These are my mom’s treasures—my treasures now.

  My body is trembling—there’s so much of her in this box. I know it sounds stupid, but I can feel her presence, even smell the scent of lilies she left behind. I stick my head in and inhale. Among the musty smell, there’s still that flowery sweetness. I dig down deep until I feel something soft. I slowly pull it out. It’s not the dress, but a red piece of cloth. I haven’t seen this before, or if I have, I’ve ignored it. Is this the material Mom used to sew the dress? I slowly unfold it in front of me; it’s the size of a bathroom towel. I hold it up to my little red dress. The fabric is the same. It’s what an artist would call “pure red.” It’s what I imagine a designer would search for to make the wedding dress for the princess of China. I run the smooth fabric across my face and breathe deep. I remember this is what it felt like to be close to her, to feel her touch, her face as smooth as silk.

  I get to the bottom of the box, but no dress. Where else could it be? I quickly glance at Dad’s clock radio. Crap, I need to be at the gallery in less than thirty minutes and I still need to find something to wear. I take the fabric, an envelope of photos, and one of Mom’s journals back to my room with me. The photos and journal will be safe under my pillow until I get home, even though I would rather stay here and devour them now.

  I go with black pants and a black tank, then throw the red cloth over my shoulders. Still, my outfit is incomplete. Rummaging through my drawers, I come up with a tube of scarlet lipstick. I paint my lips and blot with a tissue. Maybe I should’ve worn this color to my dinner with Graham. Not that he would’ve noticed the difference from Pink Vixen, but I do.

  I stare into the mirror. With the black hair and scarlet lipstick, Vampire Chick comes to mind, but I also feel like an adult. Scary. My cell is ringing. It’s Dad. Figures he actually remembers we have to be somewhere when it comes to a date.

  “Ma cherie, are you on your way?” he asks.

  “I’m leaving in a sec.” I peel myself away from the mirror and slip on a pair of strappy sandals with a small heel.

  I’m at the gallery in less than fifteen minutes. Not bad for a girl recently off crutches.

  “How’s it going, kiddo? Don’t you look gorgeous! Your dad will be out in a minute.” Lucien pulls up a chair for me and we both sit down at his desk. He opens the drawer and offers me some Saltines. He knows me too well. Maybe they’ll help calm my Helga jitters.

  I pull a couple loose from the packet. “Thanks.”

  “I’m coming to your game on Thursday. Looking forward to seeing you back on the court.” Lucien crumbles up a piece of paper and tosses it into the trash can.

  “Lucky shot.” I fiddle with the top desk drawer, sliding it open and closed. “I’m glad you’re coming. In case Dad forgets.”

  “No, your father will definitely be there. I showed him how to program his cell to go off half an hour before he needs to be somewhere.”

  I lean back in my chair. “You did not!”

  “It was either that or tie a string on his finger.” Lucien laughs. “If it’s any consolation, he was always a bit flighty … just a little more so after Bianca passed. She really kept him in order.”

  “I’m not marrying a guy without a personal secretary.” I slam the drawer shut.

  “That’s going to be some event. Your wedding. But promise me you won’t get married for at least another twenty years.” Lucien pats me on the back.

  I scrunch up my eyes and tilt my head.

  “Okay, ten years.”

  “For now I’m focusing on non-date number two.”

  Lucien gives me a funny look. He’s so easy to talk to, I forget he doesn’t speak Girl. I hear the bathroom door swing open. “You’re a good catch, kiddo,” he says. “Your mother would be proud.” There’s nothing like having a pseudo uncle.

  I get up from the desk and meet Dad halfway across the gallery floor. His hair is fully gelled back and he’s doused with cologne for the over-forty crowd.

  “Cassia, you look so grown up.” He smiles, then takes my hand and twirls me around. He sings the words softly, about the lady in red.

  “You don’t look too bad yourself.” I smile back at him.

  “For an old guy, right?” He puts his hand on his hip and gestures for me to link arms. “Shall we?”

  –––––

  We arrive at the restaurant before Helga, quite possibly a first for Dad. He talks to the host and picks his own table near the back. The tablecloths are white with cerulean embroidered flowers. Multiple chandeliers hang from the ceiling and the hardwood floor shines like the top of Mr. Clean’s head.

  Dad orders me a Coke, but I can’t even take a sip. My stomach is queasy. Actually it’s more a mixture of butterflies and swords. Butterflies for the jitters and swords to keep Helga away. Maybe I should tell Dad I’m not ready yet, that I need a little more time to let the idea of her sink in.

  If there ever was a need for an escape door, this would be one of those times. A petite lady
with a glowing tan and cropped platinum-blond hair walks toward us with a cell phone glued to her ear. She’s wearing an orange linen dress with thin straps. She shoves her cell in her purse and waves in our direction. Even if I hadn’t seen her before, I would know it was her. She has Helga written all over her face.

  I think Dad senses my sudden urge to flee because he rubs my back, then stands up to greet the lady in orange. I wonder what color she would appear to Graham. Poop brown, maybe? Perhaps he has the gift of seeing the truth.

  Dad gives Helga a quick peck on the cheek and pulls a chair out for her. I don’t move from my seat, frozen like a Popsicle.

  Then she leans down and gives me a kiss on the cheek, too. “And you must be Cassia, even more lovely than your father described.”

  Hello? Didn’t she see me at the gallery the night I saw her, or was she too busy groping my dad? Without defrosting, I manage to eek out, “Nice to meet you.” I don’t say “Helga” because the very mention of that name might send me into giggle spasms. I can’t get the picture of Liz out of my mind breathlessly whispering “Hell-ga.”

  With her orange dress, Helga is supposed to bring the warmth of the sun to tame my ball of fire. She is supposed to be in control. Of course, maybe she’s really a gray lady, dull to the core, but forced herself to put the dress on. Okay, a little dramatic, I know, but I’ve got my eye on this woman. One wrong move and she’s out. I didn’t spend a year in the fifth grade doing karate for nothing.

  Let the battle of red and orange begin. May the best-dressed lady win.

  lady in red

  Helga and Dad share a bottle of red wine while I sip at my Coke.

  “So, I hear you’re quite the basketball player, Cassia.” Helga dips a piece of focaccia bread into the bowl of oil in the center of the table.

  “Kind of short-lived, since I sprained my ankle in the middle of the session.” I tap the tip of my knife against the table, making a small indentation on the tablecloth.

  “What about the game on Thursday?” Dad straightens out his collar.

  “Yeah, but that’s it, unless we make the finals. Then we could have three more games.” Tap. Tap.