Pure Red (2 page)

red for victory

I speedwalk the twelve blocks to the basketball court. Despite the heat, near ninety degrees, there are tons of people out today. Most are in bikini tops, sarongs, and flip-flops, head
ing to and from the beach. Only a few crazy people like me are actually exerting energy.

A group of girls drives past in a BMW convertible, “no you’re not dreaming, it’s really me gleaming” busting through the speakers. The girls are throwing their heads back to the music and laughing. I think they go to my school, but I can’t be sure. Dolphin High is a big place. With over three thousand kids roaming the campus everyday, I stick to my usual group of four—Liz, Skyler, Anna, and me, all friends from Sands Middle. This summer, it’s just me and Liz. Anna’s at her grandparents’ farm in Peru and Skyler got into a math-nerd program at Harvard.

I stop at the crosswalk and wait for the light. The court is easy to spot from here. It’s near the street, but thankfully separated from the traffic by a big chunk of sidewalk and a short walkway, or else we’d be in danger of pegging people with our three-pointers. Behind the court is a grassy area for soccer, and a baseball field. On the other side of the park building are the tennis courts and a little-kid playground, where I used to spend hours on the tire swing and monkey bars.

My teammates are already warming up. I look at my watch—two minutes left. I hit the light again. The walk sign finally comes on and I jog across the street. Maybe if I stretch my way up the sidewalk, Coach Parker will thin
k I was here all along.

I can’t wait to find out how Liz’s date went last night. I yank the metal gate open and shimmy around the edges of the court to get a place next to Number 3. That’s been Liz’s lucky number ever since she eyed the Miami Heat’s Dwayne Wade. She looks like a coconut sandwiched between two palm trees—Kate and Zoey. But what Liz lacks in height, she makes up for in speed.

Liz has her hands high in the air, stretching from side to side. I take the spot right behind her. Coach looks at her watch and frowns, but doesn’t say anything. I now realize when she says be here at three, she really means 2:55. Unlike my dad, who actually means 3:25 because he’s notoriously late.

As usual, everything about Coach is precise. Her coffee
-colored hair is cropped short and meets evenly on both sides. There’s not a wrinkle in her shorts or tee and her laces are tied with perfect symmetry. Dad would not last a minute on her court.

“How was it last night?” I whisper to Liz as we’re crouching close to the pavement.

“Amazing.” Her long chestnut ponytail swings to the side. That thing could be considered a weapon. “Harry sure knows how to kiss!”

“Sweet! He’s hot.” We exchange high-fives. Coach Parker barks another order. “Tell me more later,” I say. Harry’s been after Liz for a while. At first she dismissed him as a dork, but after watching him sweat it out during a lacrosse game, she finally broke down. I’m glad she said yes.

We warm up for another five minutes. Twelve red jerseys stretching back and forth. Red, the color of warmth, excitement, and cheer (and of course passion). The Miami Heat, blood, and cayenne pepper. Also the color I’ll end up after this game if I don’t slather on some sunblock. I quickly smooth the lotion over my face and shoulders.

“Did I get it all?” I point to my face.

Liz touches the center of her nose. “Just a little here.”

I wipe in the cream and follow Liz to the bench. I drop my bag and plop down next to Kate. Suddenly my size-ten feet and oversized hands don’t look so huge. I wonder if the men’s department is her hookup for shoes and gloves. She’s 6’1’’, the tallest girl on the team, even taller than Coach. I thought I was tall at 5’8’’ until I met her.

We’re all waiting for Coach Parker to finish talking
with one of the program directors. Kate glances over at me. I’m compelled to talk. “Hey, Kate. Should be a good game.”

“Yeah.” She looks me straight in the eye. “And don’t try and steal my thunder. Just because you did well in practice doesn’t mean you know how to play.”

Wait a minute; are we at the same place? I look around the faded court, up at the rusty pole and weathered backboard. I don’t see any sign placing us in the WNBA. No, this is summer league at the YMCA—all can play. Like a few other girls here, Kate also plays for our high school team during the school year. My team experience consists of me and my friends playing a mean game of horse at Skyler or Anna’s house.

“
Moi?
” I squeak.

“You heard me, Cassia. I’ve been playing for four years. I know what I’m doing.” Kate stretches her arms out to either side. Her elbow jabs me in the ribs. Is that supposed to intimidate me? Well, it does. How can she think I’m a threat? Like I’m going to go from one summer at the Y to varsity ball at school.

Kate gets up to refill her water bottle and I nudge Liz. “Did you hear what she said to me?”

“No, what?” Liz smacks her gum.

“How could you possibly miss that?”

“Sorry. Teri was showing me her new belly-button ring.”

I let out a huge sigh. “She told me not to steal her thunder.”

“Loco bitch.” Liz rolls her eyes. “I’ll get her later.”

“No, no, let it go. It’s nothing.” I don’t need Liz getting us kicked off the team.

Coach Parker motions for us to gather in a huddle. I stay clear of Thunder. Somehow I end up next to Coach. Her shoulders are broad and by the way she stands, it seems like she’s in position to block a tackle. Maybe she played college football. With a helmet on she could easily be mistaken for a guy. If necessary, she could squash Thunder.

“Heavy on the defense today. The Blue team has some aggressive players. Look out for Numbers 45 and 22.” How does she know this stuff? We’ve only had one scrimmage so far. Maybe they were on her team last year. Or maybe, in her free time, she’s a scout.

“We have them covered, Coach,” Maria yells, even though we’re smushed together like sardines, our heads pressed against each other. Zoey’s sweaty hair sticks to my face momentarily before we pull out of the huddle.
Nasty
.

Coach glances at her clipboard and calls out the names of the starting players.

Thunder snickers at me after her name is called and not mine. Gee, what did I do? This girl definitely seems psycho.

I take a seat on the bench next to Liz. Liz’s mom and little sister, Crystal, wave from beach chairs on the side of the court. There are a bunch of other parents hanging around, too. Some in chairs, a few in the tiny patch of shade under the big oak tree, and others sprinkled on the two metal benches. I wipe my forehead with the bottom of my shirt. Sweat’s dripping down my face and I haven’t even begun to play. I chug some water.

The whistle blows and the game starts. Reds and Blues hustle back and forth. Thunder makes the first basket. A couple of guys in baseball hats hoot. What if one of them is her boyfriend? Poor guy!

Maria zooms across the court. She’s good at guarding the ball, too. I guess Liz’s crash course paid off because I’m following everything that’s going on in the game.

Blue team fouls and the ref blows his whistle.

“Eleven, in,” I hear someone scream.

“That’s you, Cass.” Liz gives me a wake-up slap on the back. “Go get ’em!”

“Now?” I stand up.

Coach cups her hands and yells, “Move it!”

I dash onto the court and the whistle blows again. It’s Red’s ball. Number 45 is right in front of me trying to make a block. She’s flailing her arms around like a wild monkey. I do the same. I’m glad nobody I know is watching. Number 45 knocks the ball from Alex, but it bounces off her chest and I snatch it.

“Go eleven,” I hear a few people scream. Without even thinking, I dribble toward the hoop. Number 45 is glued to me like an acrylic nail. I look to my left. Maria’s only a few feet away. She has her hands up but she’s totally blocked by Number 10, a tall blond girl with a ribbon of sweat dripping down her forehead. I look to my right. Number 6. Short black hair and braces. There has to be someone to pass to, but nobody is open.

I peer up at the net. It seems so high, so far away. I aim and shoot. The ball bounces off the backboard and slides into the net.
Holy crap, a three-pointer!

Applause erupts from all sides of the court. I arch my back and smile.
What do you think of me now,
Ms. Cable?
I think of the mole on her face and her tightly knit eyebrows glaring down at me, about ready to jump off her face and shake me. “Get a hobby, a sport—anything looks better than blank space. Do it now, Cassia, before it’s too late.” You would think she was talking to a thirty-year-old, not a teenager.

“Nice shot.” Alex moves swiftly past me. I look to the side of the court, Coach is smiling. Liz’s mom and sister are wide-mouthed too. Sweat stings my eyes. With the back of my hand, I wipe my face and follow the motion to the other end of the court. The white numbers on the backs of our jerseys make us look like paint-by-numbers.

I glance over to the grassy area facing the street to see if maybe Dad decided to show. My stomach churns. What if he’s
really
going on a date tonight and that’s why he didn’t answer me when I asked him to come? If it wasn’t for this nameless woman, that’s where he’d stand, in the green spot with the perfect view of the game but away from the other parents. Green, the color of broccoli, basil, and St. Patrick’s Day cookies. My eyes immediately dart back across the court and focus on Thunder sitting on the bench. Her face is a pale green. Jealousy, greed, and envy.

Where’s your team spirit?
I want to call out. I shake off the image of her with gritted teeth and fire in her eyes. I shake off the image of my dad with his arm slung around his date and focus my energy on keeping the ball away from Number 45. My arms are spread wide and I guard the ball like a celebrity bodyguard working a rock concert. I manage to grab a few rebounds.

The whistle blows and Coach calls us over to the side for a team huddle. We’re up by three, 23 to 20. I made it all the way to the half. I splash water on my face and take a place next to Liz.

“Nice work, Cass.” She high-fives me.

“Thanks.” I smile. “Lucky shot, I guess.”

“You never know, this could be your thing.”

“Yeah, right, Liz.” I laugh. I guess I’m a rare breed. Most sixteen-year-olds have been playing the same sport for years, but not me. Besides dabbling in drawing and painting, I’ve never really participated in any extracurricular activities. And now I have to play major catch-up if I ever expect to find my true calling. I was on a soccer team for a few years in elementary school, but it’s too long ago to sneak it onto my college applications. I gave it up after Dad pulled me out of school for three months when he was commissioned to paint
Parisian Life
for the American-French Institute in Paris.

While he painted, I wore my box of sixty-four Crayola Crayons down to the nub. They were my third box since Mo
m had died. Dad gave me the first box the day after her funeral. Apricot reminded me of Mom because that was the color of her bathrobe. So that was the first crayon to go. Black (at the time I only associated it with death) was the last crayon left standing; well, that and dark yellow-orange, but that was just because it was an ugly color. I haven’t worked with crayons in quite a while. Now I mostly like the simpl
icity of an ebony sketching pencil. What you see is what you get.

–––––

Thirteen sweaty bodies, including Coach, cling together like Saran Wrap. “Good job out there, team. But don’t get comfortable. We’re only up by three. Hustle, hustle.” She t
aps seve
ral girls on the shoulders. “You, you, you, you, and you are up.” Then, as we break free, she looks over at me. “Good job, Cassia.”

“Thanks.” I smile all the way back to the bench.

I settle down, happy to rest my feet. I watch Liz shimmy up and down the court. She’s zips through people almost like they’re invisible. She scores a couple of baskets, but Thunder’s in the lead with two three-pointers. Hopefully that’ll keep her happy for a while.

It’s funny to be here at the Y. Dad doesn’t play any sports except for the occasional game of tennis, but I wonder about Mom. Did she play ball or run track in high school? She looks fit in all the photo albums. I bet she would’ve come to watch me play. I picture her s
itting under the oak, crossed legged, with the other mothers. She’d be fanning herself with a book, her long black hair tied loosely in a ponytail. Just like the picture Dad painted of her looking out at the ocean on their honeymoon in Mexico.

Thunder’s out, Zoey’s in. Liz’s out. Maggie’s in. I’m starting to get the hang of this. The rotation. Play until you look tired. Or until Coach is tired of seeing you run up and down the court without making an impact.

The Blues, calm and cool, are gaining. But an over-saturation of blue is depressing—an overturned sailboat lost in the depths of the sea, a body during the final stages of rigor mortis, Picasso suffering through his blue period.

I’m not going to let them bring me down. They’re behind by one point, 36 to 37. I bite my cuticles. Damn, they score another point. Only five minutes left in the game. Alex dribbles the ball to half-court. She’s blocked by Number 45. She passes off to Kate. Kate reaches for the ball but loses her footing and kisses the pavement.
Ouch, that must’ve hurt.
Coach calls a time-out and a couple of assistants help Kate to the bench to assess her condition. Her face has gone from green to translucent. She looks like she’s going to hurl.

Coach glances at Zoey, then me. “You, in.”

“Me? Okay.” I jump up.

I weave my way through the numbers and settle in my position. Center. I’m not used to being in the center. I usually hang out in the wings. I focus my eyes on the ball. So round. So perfect. I wonder how they’re made.

A girl from the Blue team bumps into me, nearly knocking me over. I didn’t see her coming. “Keep your head in the game, eleven!” Coach yells from the sidelines.