Page 87 of Dropping the Ball

She winces. “I didn’t mean to trigger anything for you. Are you okay?”

“No, that’s not what I was—” I break off with a short laugh. “I was trying to say I’m okay with your big feelings, that’s all.”

She stares at me, her eyes big and soft.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“It’s giving ‘kiss me.’” I became an expert on that look on Halloween.

“I don’t want you to kiss me.” When my glance flicks to the goosebumps on her arms, she folds them.

I pat my lap. “Come here, friend.”

“You’re not listening, Micah.”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do. But you’re cold, you’ve got goosebumps, and I can warm you up and not stare at you. Win-win.” I make my legs into a vee. “Come sit here so I can listen without staring at your lips.”

She hesitates before she gives a small shiver and scoots closer. “Only because I’m cold.”

I situate her in front of me, then wrap her in my arms and wait for her to relax.

After a few seconds, the starch goes out of her spine, and she gives me her full weight and a small sniff. “You’re a good jacket.”

“Happy to help.” I answer with a gentle squeeze of my arms. “Speaking of which . . .”

The starch is back. “Is this going to be a lecture on why I need to ask my family?”

I run my thumbs up and down her bare upper arms, hoping it calms her. “No. It’s me telling you I understand why you won’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been lucky my whole life that people have always been willing to help me. Maybe they felt for me because of my mom.But the help was always there, and I always took it. I didn’t know what else to do. But not all help is equal.”

“Meaning . . .”

“My uncle and his family, they helped us so much financially. The house, my tuition. I’m grateful. But we don’t have a close relationship, and we never will. He holds it over us all the time. Him. My aunt. My cousins. They don’t want us to pay it back. They want the high they get every time they think about what good people they are for doing it. But they’re not my real family. Real family is different.”

She frowns. “What do you mean, your real family?”

“Chosen family.”

“Your neighborhood?”

“They gave when they had less to give, and stuff that means more than money. Time. Care.”

“That’s how Madison’s friends are. When she and I started working on our relationship, they scooped me up like I’d been there all along.” She nestles against me. “It really means something. To be chosen.”

“If your family is like my uncle, I get why you don’t say anything.” Does she realize she leaned into me when she talked about being chosen? I’m not dumb enough to point it out.

Quiet falls between us, and I listen to the distant noises from the elevator shaft, small ones, like when a house settles at night.

“My neighborhood is part of the reason I couldn’t ask you to prom,” I tell her. “I was broke. But I also babysat for my neighbor, Jeremy, every weekend. His wife left him, and he could earn more if he worked swing shifts, but he had a hard time finding childcare. So I watched his two kids. He paid me what he could afford, but he also taught me a lot of stuff. How to fix stuff in our house. I had to patch a lot of drywall.”

“Your mom?” Her voice is soft.

Her hair brushes my chin when I nod. “He taught me woodworking. Stripping and repainting. One time, I found a nightstand waiting for garbage pickup and refurbished it. Made twenty dollars. My first sale. I went over and gave him half. He shoved it back and said it was a babysitting bonus.”

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