Page 8 of Off the Rim
In a last painful outburst, she dissolves into a fit of broken sobs, her voice hoarse from screaming. Aunt Susan makes Mom a cup of tea. While she sips it between sobs, I find the card crumpled amongst the debris on the floor.
Our deepest condolences.
There's no signature, but the card has the logo for AJames Enterprises stamped on the back.
They didn't even have the decency to write it themselves, or sign their names to it? What was the point in even sending it?
Mom is so wrecked that she can barely hold her own head up, so I carry her upstairs to bed and tuck her in. When I move to get up, she holds onto my arm, so I crawl in next to her and hold her while we both cry, soaking the pillow that still smells like dad. We both nod off. When I wake the next morning, the mess has been cleaned, and Susan is cooking. After breakfast, Sean and I walk down to the park I used to play at as a kid and sit on the swings. I stare at the sandbox, the shadow of a memory tickling the back of my mind.
My mother leading me away from the park after something upset me. Going to my dad's store, where he let me play in the back room that was for testing equipment. It's the first time I remember holding a basketball.I have a vivid memory of him picking me up and holding me over his shoulders so I could make a basket.
"It gets better," Sean says. "Some days it hurts more than others, but sometimes I have a day where I realize I haven't thought of him all day. Which is good, but also kind of terrible. There's no winning," he says with a self-deprecating laugh.
"I just don't know how tobewithout him." He’s always been there for me. No matter how much work there was or how busy he got, he always made time to go out on the driveway and shoot baskets with me. It’s when we had all our best talks.
“It’ll take time, but you’ll figure it out.”
As we walk home, I make a mental list of all the things my dad did around the house, and vow to make up for his absence so my mom doesn't have to feel like she's on her own.
Mom stays in bed for another three days. While she's down, I visit the grocery store where Dad worked and clean out hislocker. There isn't much in there, just his spoiled lunch, a sweater, and his car keys. I'm not old enough to drive on my own yet, but Iamold enough to work. With this thought in mind, I find the manager and talk him into giving me a part-time job. He won't let me take my dad's stocking position, but he gives me daytime hours as a bagger for the rest of the summer. Mom probably won't like it, but she's going to need help.
Susan and Sean stay for another week. Mom is quieter than usual, the light has been drained from her eyes, but she's up and moving. Slowly, but surely, we find a new routine. The hole my dad's death leaves makes me feel empty inside, and with a bitter taste in my mouth every time I look at the crumpled card I've taken to carrying around in my pocket.
The flowers were obnoxious, and the generic condolences were a slap in the face. But why would my mother blame the James family for my father’s death? Because AJames Enterprises pushed my father’s business to close? I know she was really upset when she said all those things, but I’m missing too much of the story.
Running my lips over the back of the card, I think back to less than two weeks ago, before everything changed. Would he have gone through with it? Would I have let him kiss me?
I know I would have. I wanted him to. I still want it, even though it seems our families are doomed to hate each other forever.
CHAPTER 7
ASHTON, AGE 17
If there's one thing Marcus Vell is good at outside of basketball, it's keeping a stone-faced expression. This is the third time we've met on the court since the summer we almost kissed, and it's the third time he's treated me like we're complete strangers. He's so convincing, I almost question if it happened at all.
He never came back to basketball camp, much to my dismay. When I heard about his father, I called my dad and asked if there was anything we could do for them. Unless I'm very mistaken, he sounded legitimately upset to hear about Roman Vell’s death. I think Mimi sent flowers, but I never heard whether they did anything else actually useful to help them.
Since there was nothing else I could do to reach him, I found a new obsession stalking Marcus’ social media pages. I tried sending him a private message through his Instagram page, but never received any indication that he'd received the message. Eventually I got brave—okay, desperate—enough to follow him, then waited on pins and needles for him to accept me and follow me back. He didn't. His privacy settings make it so only his profile name and picture of a basketball being spun on a middle finger can be seen. I have no idea if he even uses his profile. Andsince we go to different schools and run in completely different circles, I have no way of contacting him.
It's clear by the way he's ignored me any time we've run into each other on the court that he's not interested, and that's fine. But does he have to pretend I don't exist?
And , okay, the fact that he's grown upa lotsince the last time I saw him definitely has me feeling some kind of way. His hair is cropped short now, into a much more stylish cut that compliments his chiseled jawline. He looks hot as hell, but Ihateit. I never got to touch those messy curls, and I'm unreasonably upset about it. He's taller than he was, but not quite as tall as me since my last big growth spurt. He's filled out a lot more than I have. He probably has forty pounds of muscle on him compared to my lean frame. His size doesn't slow him down on the court, though. He's formidable.
My eyes catch on the rainbow sweatband around his wrist.Is he out?
Remembering the way he challenged me when we played one-on-one makes me squirm. It has me looking over my shoulder at the other team's sidelines to see if he ever catches my eye. Finally, I catch him glimpsing my way and can't help but grin.
"Yeah, I see you looking," I say with my eyes. All he does is glare, but for some reason, it gets my dick up. If I don't quit looking over there, I'm going to be dribbling the ball with it.
I seek him out on the court. Target him. Put myself directly in front of him so he has no choice but to notice me. Luckily, I'm one of the few guys on my team tall enough to challenge his position, so it seems strategic.
The more frustrated he gets, the more I push. So much so, he makes some aggressive plays and ends up fouling me. I fall to the ground,as one does, and wait for the ref to call the penalty. One of my teammates jogs over to pull me up, while several of his pat him on the back, telling him the call was bullshit. Just to fuck with him, I give him a wink and a kissy face as the ref tosses the ball to me and turns towards the goal. Marcus’ indignant glare distracts me, and I miss the first free throw.
My second shot is clean, and I give Marcus another smirk that he pretends not to notice. The moment the ball is back in play, I'm on him again. He has the ball, and I move around him, hard pressing him so he can't make a shot, accidentally-on-purpose brushing myself against his back. Truth be told, I'm more focused on bothering him than I am getting the ball, but my non-strategic approach to annoying him does the trick enough that I'm able to steal the ball. When it's his turn to guard me, he keeps his distance, waiting for an opening that I'm not going to give him easily. He's too focused on the ball for my liking. I advance forward, faking a crossover before spinning around and passing to an open teammate. I don't even watch them take it down court, I'm too busy eyeballing #29.
"This is fun," I say, just as I notice someone from the other team has gotten possession. I give Marcus another wink before making a fast break to tend to the goal. I'm able to intercept the shot and block an attempt to rebound before he catches up to me again.
We're able to pull off the win, just barely. My team is busy jumping up and down, celebrating our path to the regional championship. They're acting like we wiped the court with the Timberwolves, but they almost had us. They're a good team and we're on their home turf. I can't help but glance over to theirsidelines and notice the way they're shaking their heads at us. Marcus raises an eyebrow, and I can feel the judgement from here. Between the overblown celebration and the loud, stupid comments about the state of public high school facilities, it's no wonder everyone outside of Easton Academy thinks we're pretentious. It's made even worse by the mess the team makes of their guest locker room, continuing a chain of disrespect that I'm embarrassed about.
