Pure Red (10 page)

the anti-color

It’s eleven p.m. when Dad gets home. I’m sprawled out on the sofa reading
Of Mice and Men
and he’s laughing hysterically on his cell. The same cell he couldn’t answer when I tried to call earlier.

“Oh, Cassia’s here,” he says to the person on the phone. Not to me.

Was I not supposed to be here?

Dad tosses his keys onto the kitchen counter. “Lucien says good night.”

He’s talking to Lucien,
phew
. I breathe a sigh of relief. “Good night, Lucien,” I say loudly, hoping he can hear.

Dad gets off the phone and joins me on the couch. “What did you do tonight?”

Hmmm, I guess my hair isn’t enough of a clue. “I hung out with
Liz.”

“Did you have fun at the beach?”

“Yeah. Where were you tonight?”

“I didn’t tell you?” He cocks his head to the side.

“No, that’s why I’m asking.”

“I had dinner with Helga. She was at the gallery the other night. Sporty, short blond hair … ”

“Helga? Is that her real name?”

Dad throws his hands back. “Yes, why wouldn’t it be?”

“Because I didn’t think people were really named Helga.” I put my feet up on the coffee table. “Yeah, I rememb
er her.”
She had her hands all over you.
“Was it a date?”

“Oh, no.” Dad tugs his earlobe. “She’s an art history professor at University of Miami. Fascinating lady.”

“I bet.”

Dad grabs my chin. “Sorry,
ma cherie
. I thought I told you I was going out.” Still holding my chin, he turns my head to the side. “You look different.”

No shit.
And he, being an artist, is supposed to have a keen eye. “Yeah, I went to the hairdresser tonight.”

“Let me get a better look.” Dad turns on the table lamp. One of the few pieces left that Mom bought. It’s clear glass and she filled it with shells collected from the beach. I hope it lasts forever. “Black. It’s nice. Is that what all your friends are doing?”

“No.” I shake my head, thoroughly annoyed. “Just me.”

“No tattoos, okay?” Dad laughs.

“Whatever,” I mumble. He doesn’t even say anything about Mom. About how I look like her now.

“I’m off to bed,
cherie
. I’m going to try and get to the studio early tomorrow. I’ve got a couple of paintings to finish.”

He’s behind me now, so I give him the backwards wave. “’Night, Dad.”

–––––

I don’t feel like going with Dad to the gallery today. I’m not in the mood to see Graham after he made the comment about not getting between a girl and her dad. Maybe if he doesn’t associate me with my dad, I might stand a chance. Changing my last name and getting emancipated is not an option, however.

Anyway, we have a game in the afternoon and I need to put all my concentration into that. I can’t mess up today. After Monday’s disaster, I have to play really well in order to
regain my rep. Not that I had much of one before, but I don’t want to be known as the Screw-up Girl.

I get into complete basketball mode and put on my uniform at noon, a full three hours before we’re scheduled to be on the court. I scan the channels searching for a WNBA game but can’t find one.

What I need most is help focusing. Maybe if I do, I can be a decent player and have people cheer for me, instead of boo.

I hunt down the closest thing to a basketball and come up with an orange. It’s starting to mold, but it’ll do. I set up a garbag
e can next to the couch and place the orange on the coffee table. Then I stare at the two objects. Orange. Garbage can. Orange in the garbage can. I pick it up and throw it in the garbage. It lands with a thud. Score!

I keep on shooting baskets until I’m getting most of them in. The orange is flat after a few minutes, but I don’t stop until it starts spraying. I like the pace of home basketball and think I’ve got an air-tight strategy. Focus being the operative word.

At two thirty I leave my house and walk over to the court. I pass all the usual places. But on the corner of 62 and Collins I notice a small tattoo parlor, John’s Tats. I’m sure it’s been there for a while, but I’ve never really taken notice of it. I should go in and get a tattoo just to see how long it takes Dad to register it, but I think you need parent permission to ink yourself.

I hit the walk button and that’s when I see trouble walking toward me. If I ever needed the little man to light up, it’s now. Sprinting across the street is not an option because cars are whizzing over the bridge.

Thunder’s not with Zoey today; instead, she’s with the beefy guy from the game. I still can’t believe I thought his friend was Graham. This guy looks mean like a bulldog and seems a lot older than us. He’s definitely not the type to chit-chat about art. Art to him is probably the picture of Sponge Bob on a Campbell’s soup can.

Great, now I have two people to pelt me with verbal darts. This is not something I want to stick around for. The light changes and I motor across the street. My plan is to not look back and hope they ditch into a store or something. I’m walking so fast, all I can hear is the sound of me breathing. I see the delivery trucks and bike messengers coming and going, but I don’t hear them. Actually, come to think of it, I don’t hear Thunder either. I know she’s still behind me because I do hear him. His voice is kind of high for such a big guy. It’s like he got a double dose of soprano and was short-changed on the bass. He’s saying something about putting a new engine in his car so he can blast past those suckers. Whatever that means. I’m just grateful Thunder’s not on my case. It’s not like her to give up center court to somebody else. She must really like him, either that or he’s more of a stage hog than her.

I can’t help myself, and I turn around for a second. Thunder’s rubbing his shoulder. His gaze is locked on the pavement now. She catches my eye, drops her arm, and sneers through her smile. I quickly turn back around. I wonder how long they will last together. Adding beefy thunder babies to this world would be a scary thing.

I get to the court, unscathed but severely out of breath, and I see gray everywhere. How sad is that—we’re playing the anti-color. The color of sorrow, detachment, and loneliness (old sneakers, chewed gum, and wolves). They could at least call themselves the Silver team—Olympic medals, teapots, and jewelry.

We gather aroun
d Coach for some instruction. She apologizes for missing practice yesterday and says she hopes we had the initiative to practice on our own. Then she sends us to run a lap around the baseball field.
It wouldn’t be such a bad idea if it weren’t ninety degrees outside right now.

I head out with Liz. We’re moving along at a decent pace, despite having to wipe the dripping sweat from our faces every few seconds. Heat stroke is a definite possibility today. When we get back to the court everyone makes a mad dash for the water cooler.

After downing five cups, I go over to the ball bag to pick out a ball. If I can, I really want to reunite with Baldwin. He was good for practicing shots. I rummage through the bag b
ecause they really all look alike. I finally pull one out that I think might be him.

Thunder comes up to me and grins. “Happy Halloween.
”

“What?” I say, realizing I shouldn’t have said anything.

“Why didn’t you fly over here on your broom?” She cackles, exposing more teeth than necessary.

“Watch it or I’ll shove it up your ass.” I drop the bag of balls and run up the court.

“No, you didn’t just say that,” she calls after me. When I keep on going she yells, “You’ll pay for that.”

I can’t believe I opened my mouth. Little old me actually got a rise out of Thunder. And I don’t even feel bad, because she totally deserved it. I run my hand through my ponytail. I’d much rather be a witch than Thunder any day.

Maybe I don’t need Liz as my back-up bitch after all! I decide not to fill her in on my run-in with Thunder yet, because I must complete my mission of total game focus. I practice my shots with Baldwin or a very good stand-in for him. Thunder hisses at me a few times, but I try not to make eye contact with her. I’m not going to let her mess up the game for me.

Coach calls all the Reds over for the usual team huddle. “I want to see good defense out there today. All eyes on the ball.”

“Yes, Coach,” Maria says, nodding.

“I’m not finished,” Coach continues. “Don’t let outside forces distract you. You’re here to play a game. You can see your friends and family afterwards. For the next hour you are mine.” She holds her hands out in front of her and we pile ours on top.

“Go Reds,” we all yell, and then pull our hands high into the air.

The starting lineup congregates on the court and the rest of us settle on the bench. I don’t even bother looking at the grass or the bleachers. I know no one is waiting for me. Not my dad and not Graham. Liz’s mom had to take her sister to the dentist, so even they are not here today.

Today I’m playing for Mom. Wherever she is, I hope she can see me. I picture her sitting on a brightly colored beach towel on the grassy area with her long legs stretched out in front of her, crossed at the ankles. She’s wearing a pair of dark sunglasses and slides them down her nose every now and then to get a better glimpse of me. When we make eye contact, she sticks up her pinkie finger. Our secret signal that I’m doing a good job.

The whistle blows and the Reds are at it. The Grays look washed-out on the court.

Coach calls for a time-out and high-fives the starting players. We’ve got five minutes left in the first quarter and we’ve already scored six baskets.

She points at me. “Eleven in. Twenty-two out.”

I quickly jump up. Did I hear this right—we’re up and she wants moi on the floor? “Me?”

She nods, like
don’t disappoint
.

I’m so glad Thunder is not on the court too. It’s hard to keep your eye on the ball when you’re worried about someone on your own team growling and flinging insults at you.

It’s Gray’s ball so I hustle to the far end of the court. Zoey makes a steal and we’re back on our side. She’s gridlocked and pleads for help with her eyes. I free myself from Number 12 and wave my arms. This time there’s no monkey dance.

Zoey glances back and forth, then throws the ball to me. It’s mine and I’m ready. I quickly dribble closer to the basket but I can feel Number 12 on my tail. She’s quicker than I anticipated. She’s in front of me now. But nothing can stop me. I am in control. I can do this. So I dribble forward and then feel like I’m flying. I release the ball midair, but something cuts me off and I fall flat on my face.
Cassia, meet the pavement.

Everyone is cheering. How cruel. I look up and see that the ball has made it to the basket. The ref blows the
whistle and a bunch of girls rush up to me. Both Reds and Grays.

“Sorry, sorry,” Number 12 gasps.

A couple of Red girls try to help me up. But I can’t walk. Immense pain radiates from my ankle. Coach steps in, hoists me up, and slings my arm across her shoulder. Then she puts her arm around my waist. “Does it hurt?” she asks.

I just answer with my eyes. This is
so
not happening to me. Two games in a row I screw up. There are no third chances. I’m officially dead.

I hobble off the court, wincing with every step. My focus does not leave the ground. I can’t bear to look anyone in the eye.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper to nobody in particular.

Coach has her hand on my shoulder while my leg is stretched out on the bench. “Where do you feel the pain?” she asks.

“Here.” I look at my ankle but point to my heart as little droplets run down my face. What if I can’t play anymore? Basketball was my best hope yet at finding a passion.

I have to stop crying. This is so stupid, but I can’t help it. I wipe my face with the back of my hand. Fingers crossed that people m
istake my tears for drops of sweat. “I’m so sorry,” I whimper again.

Liz crouches down next to me, removing the hair from my face. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Yeah, sure,” I say between sniffles. “See, it wasn’t meant to be.”

“But your hair still looks good,” Liz whispers.

The coach from the other team rushes over with a bag of ice and places it on my ankle. The cold feels good.

Maria’s mother is standing next to me now, inspecting my ankle. “I’m a nurse. It looks really swollen. She should get it checked out.”

Coach Parker leans over me, her whistle swings close to my nose. “Can you reach your folks?”

Before I have a chance to answer, Liz says, “I’ll call my mom. She’ll take her.”

“No, I’m here.” I feel a strong hand on my shoulder. I look up. It’s Lucien. “It’s okay, kiddo,” he whispers into my ear.

black twizzlers

There’s nothing glamorous about sitting in the washed-out waiting room of Simmons Hospital. The last time I was here was when I was nine and had a really bad sore throat. I was up half the night coughing and Dad rushed me over without even calling my pediatrician. It turned out I had bronchitis.

It’s hard to think that if maybe Mom had made it to this gloomy place, she might have lived. She died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. It’s less than a five-minute ride from our condo.

I was in school that day and went home with my teacher, Mrs. Morgan. Dad didn’t pick me up until after dark. He looked very old and tired when he came to Mrs. Morgan’s front door. His eyes were red and puffy. When he kneeled down to pick me up, I kissed his cheek. It tasted salty like French f
ries.

That night when he tucked me in bed, he told me that Mom was with the angels and was watching over me. I stared at the ceiling long after he left my room, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. All I wanted was to see her wings flutter.

–––––

When Lucien and I are finally settled in the decaying red plastic chairs that are nailed to the ground, I ask him, “How come you were at my game?”

“Because I wanted to see you play.” He smiles.

“Thanks! But why is it that you can surprise me while Dad obviously can’t.”

“Actually, your father wanted to come, but he needed to finish the painting for the opening of the new wing at Clement House tonight. You can’t have a brand-new section added to a home for children without a painting of the place.”

“I guess not,” I sigh. If only I had decided to spend the summer watching Dad paint, like last summer, then I wouldn’t be here in pain. Oh yeah, I’d probably be in a different kind of pain, though, watching some chick drool all over him. Don’t know which is worse at this point.

“I know your dad isn’t always there when you need him, but he loves you very much. Trust me.” Lucien’s blue eyes sparkle and his smile is full. His hair shines under the florescent lights. It’s been silver ever since I can remember, and he’s never tried to hide it.

“I know, but sometimes I wish … ”

A nurse comes out into the waiting area and says, “Cassia Bernard.”

I lean against Lucien and hobble into a little room.

The nurse is putting pressure on different parts of my ankle. “Ouch,” is all I can mutter.

“You’re going to need an x-ray,” she says, “to make sure nothing’s broken.” I run my fingers over my chest again. Did somebody say the same thing to my mom when they found out she had a heart abnormality?

I would never admit this to Lucien, but I wish Dad loved me as much as he loved her.

–––––

After the x-ray, they put us in an even narrower room with a TV. I imagine this is what jail is like, minus the tube, of course. It’s a cell-free zone, so Lucien steps out to give my dad a
n update. I lie down on the bed. My whole body aches, down to the core. If I could disappear into the crisp white bed sheets, I would.

A doctor steps into the room. She’s really small, almost like a pixie. “Hello, I’m Dr. Roberts. Are you Cassia?”

I sit up straight. “Yup, that’s me.”

“Nothing is broken. Just a bad sprain.” I peek out into the hall and see what is probably my x-ray up on the light board. It’s amazing that a machine can see inside my body. I’m just glad it can’t peek inside my soul.

“Do I have to use crutches?” I ask. I’ve always wanted to try those things. They look cool.

“Yes, but hopefully only for a couple of weeks. Then give it another few days rest and you should be able to get back on the court.” She stares at my red jersey, a dead giveaway that I have a team to get back to.

That’s if they’ll take me back. It’ll be the end of the session and I’m sure everyone will have forgotten me by then.

Lucien pops back into the room and shakes hands with Dr. Roberts. “Are you Cassia’s father?” Dr. Roberts asks.

“Her uncle.” Lucien smiles.

She repeats the same info about my ankle and says a nurse will be in with my crutches while she prepares my discharge papers.

“Your dad was itching to come to the hospital, but I told him we’re almost done and I’d bring you over to the gallery.” Lucien takes a packet of Lifesavers out of his shirt pocket and offers me one.

I pull a red one from the pack. Then I look down at my ankle.

“Don’t worry. I’ll drop you up front,” he says.

–––––

These crutches are definitely going to take some getting used to. It’s less than ten feet from the car to the door and my armpits already ache.

“Hello, Cassia. Are you all right?” Monica runs up and gives me a big hug.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just sore.”

She pulls up a chair for me and a second one for my foot. “Stay here. I’ll get your father. He was really worried about you.”

I doubt it.

Dad comes running down the stairs. He’s wearing an old T-shirt and it’s covered with vermilion paint. Red, no longer the color of victory. Now the color of the wounded.

“
Ma cherie
, I feel terrible. How are you? I wanted to come, but Lucien told me to stay and finish … ”

“It’s okay, Dad. I’m fine. Only a sprain. But it looks like my career in basketball is over.” Followed by my life. Finding passion, take one: Total Fail.

“Oh, no, don’t say that.” He leans down next me. “A few weeks rest and you’ll be as good as new.”

“Maybe. But now I have to limp around on these things.” I point to the c
rutches.

Dad picks them up and hobbles across the room.

“Not bad, Dad.”

“Broke my foot once skiing. Was on these babies for a full month.”

“You used to ski?”

“I dabbled.” He laughs.

His cell rings and he leans on one crutch to answer it. “Hi, Helga. Can’t talk right now, but Cassia’s fine. Just a bad sprain. Call you later.” He quickly ends the call.

If my ankle was broken, would he have taken her call?

“So where were we?” Dad hands my crutches back.

“Nowhere.” I glare at him.

“Oh, I know what I wanted to tell you.” He taps my shoulder.

What, that Helga broke her ankle once too?

“Yeah?” I roll my eyes.

“So, you don’t want to know about Graham, then?” Dad stands in front of me with his hand on his hip like he’s dangling a carrot above my head.

“What about him?” I jump for the carrot.

“He called and I told him what happened. He’s coming by to see you. Should be here any minute.”

He wants to see me? I’m covered with freeze-dried sweat. That’s what I call the Florida effect. You sweat like a pig, go into the a/c, then your sweat is freeze-dried against your body. I look down at my fat ankle. Not the prettiest sight.

“You should really try to get to know Graham. He’s a nice kid.” Dad pulls a cigarette from behind his ear and heads out the back door.

Pshaw! If he only knew it’s been my secret plan all along. Actually, I want more than to get to know Graham. I want to recreate little Graham crackers with him.

I’m too tired to even bother inching to the bathroom to freshen up. The only thing I do is pull the elastic from my ponytail and brush my hair out. I scan the room and notice that something is wrong. Terribly wrong.

Lady in Red
is not in her usual spot. I look around to see if she was moved, perhaps to a more central location. But no. She’s not anywh
ere. How could Dad sell her without me knowing? I didn’t even get to say goodbye. I’ve told him many times how much I love that painting. How could he forget?

“Is this the patient?” Graham’s standing in front of me, holding an electric-pink sketchbook.

“Afraid so.”

He looks down at my swollen ankle wrapped in an ace bandage. “I know you’ll be back on the court soon, but I got this for you in case you get bored.” He hands me the sketchbook.

I open it up. The fresh white pages make a crinkly sound when I turn them. No guy has ever given me a present before. I take a quick whiff; it even smells like him. Vanilla Rain.

“Thanks, that was really nice of you.” I look down at my foot. “It even matches my ankle.”

Graham pulls up a chair and straddles it so he’s facing me. “Great. I always try to color coordinate.”

Then why’s he wearing a burnt-umber shirt and shorts? Unless he’s auditioning for a role as a UPS guy, it’s a definite no.

Graham has the arm with the scar on top of the chair, but quickly puts it down. I guess he’s self-conscious about something. Well, that makes two of us.

“So how’s it going with my dad?” I ask.

“Great. He knows so much. I’m learning tons about depth and texture.”

Still the superhero. “Yeah, he’s a good teacher.” I pull my hair all to one side.

Graham sits up straight and gives me the once-over. “You did something to your hair. It looks real shiny.”

What is it with these artists? It takes them forever to notice a big change. “Yeah, I dyed it last night. Just wanted to do something different. Liz calls me Licorice Chick.”

Okay, that ranks high on the dweeb-o-meter.

“Twizzlers?” Graham asks.

“Huh?” Is he serious? “Twizzlers are red.”

“But don’t they come in other colors too?” He smiles. “Anyway, they look good on you.”

He likes my hair? Oh my God, all is not lost. Graham Hadley likes
my
hair!