As soon as I make the decision to get up and go see her, I hear a voice. "Second time in one day I could have kicked you. You sleep a lot."
My arm drops. Kira is standing above me, the setting sun peeking out from behind her. "I didn't fall asleep in art," I say. "That has to count for something." She'd been in my art class this afternoon too. "And I'm not sleeping now. Just resting." I stand up.
"Yeah, you were in the zone out there."
"Practice starts tomorrow. Just getting ready." I look around to see if anyone else is watching that I didn't know about. We're both quiet for a few seconds. I'm not sure what to say to this girl I don't know, I lift my arm to scratch my head instead of talking.
"Is the team any good? At my old school they sucked pretty bad. It was embarrassing."
This is something I can talk about. "We're the best. Probably take the conference this year, at least. It won't be embarrassing to cheer us on."
She laughs, and I wonder what I said that's so funny. "I'm not the rah-rah kind of girl."
I take a step back, my eyes darting to the ground. Words lost to me. It takes me a minute, and then I wonder what I'm doing. Why am I letting myself clam up like I've never talked to a girl before? Raising my head, my eyes find hers. "That's because you've never had me to cheer for." I wink at her, playing the game.
"No!" she shakes her head, laughing. It's a real laugh. Not one of those fake I-want-your-attention laughs. "Don't do that. Bring back the guy who was so into the game. The one who obviously loves what he's doing and actually cares about something. Don't be a stereotypical, cocky teenage boy."
My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again, but nothing comes out. The urge to scratch my head again comes back, but I don't let myself do it. Who is this girl? I've talked to her for a total of like 2.2 seconds my whole life, and she talks to me like we're long lost buddies or something. Am I slipping? No. Just lost step a bit. "I'm allowed to be cocky because I'm good. I can back it up. You'll see once you watch me play."
For the millionth time my phone goes off. Mel, she's who I need to see right now. I'll get lost in her, make up for being a jerk earlier, and then get down to the folder in my backpack that I don't want to see. "That's my girlfriend. I better go. You need a ride anywhere?" The words just come out, but I regret them afterward. Mel will kick my ass if I let this girl in my car. Drama is the last thing I need.
Luckily for me, Kira shakes her head. "Nope. It's a gorgeous day for a walk. Plus, I don't take rides from strangers." She winks and walks away, leaving me behind to wonder what just happened.
***
"I'm sorry." The words jump out of my mouth the second Mel opens the door. "I was being a jerk earlier. I just...I had a really bad night, but I shouldn't have taken it out on you." This is something I don't like admitting, even to myself, but there's a piece of me screaming to break free that wants her to ask me what happened. To ask why I had a bad night so I can tell her. Actually speak the freaking words that are bottled up inside me like a shaken up coke can. Once the top is popped, I'm scared it will all burst out, spilling over and making my life sticky—more of a mess than it already is.
But that would mean needing her. Showing her I'm not the guy she thinks I am. Not an option for me. Probably not an option for her, either, so even if she does wonder, I know I can't tell her. Even if I could do it to myself, I couldn't do it to Mom.
She looks at her nails, studying them in mock-nonchalance. "You're right, you shouldn't have. Basketball starts soon. Cheerleading, too, and on top of it all, you work. We'll never see each other and when we do, I don't want to spend that time fighting with you."
I step forward. My voice drops a little. "I know, baby. I said I'm sorry. Forgive me?" I wrap my arms around her neck. When she nods against my chest, I let out a heavy breath. I need this...the dose of normal Mel gives me. Or, at least, to pretend or make myself forget Mom, forget the homework.
She lifts her face, giving me permission to kiss her. The second our lips touch it takes me away and makes me forget the sound of Mom's voice when she said she was sorry. The look on her face when I wrapped my arm around her to help her up the stairs. Behind the bloodshot eyes, I saw her—the real her that hates herself for what she does.
Forget that I can lose basketball. The only thing that means as much to me as Mom or Sara.
Trying to push those thoughts away, I deepen the kiss. Mel's hand weaves through my hair before she pulls away, kicking the door shut behind her and leading me to her living room couch.
An hour and a whole lot of making out later, I come up for air. "I should go," I tell her. "I have a ton of homework to do. Gotta keep my grades up for basketball." Keep them up, not pull them up, because Mel doesn't know how badly I'm flunking English.
"No." She kisses me again. "For one second, forget basketball." Another kiss. "Homework can wait. I'm more important. Let's go upstairs."
It's me who kisses her this time. I know I shouldn't, but I do exactly what she says.
***
I don't get home until 8:45. My backpack still taunts me, whispering that I should have come home earlier. There's so much work to do in English alone that I'll never get caught up if I don't start now.
Mom's blue Toyota sits in the driveway. She can't have been home for very long since the shop closes at eight. Still, nervous energy skitters through my veins. Adrenaline, but not the good kind that makes me feel like I can fly on the court. More like the one that overdoses me until I feel like puking. Or having a heart attack. Or both. No matter how much I know she's not an everyday drinker, or how much I know an episode like last night usually buys me some time before it happens again, I still think about it every day. Always wondering which version of Mom I'm coming home to.
"Mom?" I push the door closed and head toward the kitchen. Luckily, it doesn’t smell like alcohol, but Chinese food. My stomach growls. I could so go for some Chinese right now. She knows it's my favorite.
"Hey, you." Her voice is high-pitched and way over excited. "How was your day?"
That cracked-out feeling slips away with those two sentences. This is Mom. Guilty Mom, but still Mom. "Good. How about you?" I head over to where she's standing, Chinese food on the counter in front of her. "I'm starved." When I reach my hand for the carton, she playfully smacks it away.
"Sit down. I'll fix you a plate."
Now this isn't normal. Mom's an equal opportunity employer. I've been carrying my weight—hell, more than my weight—ever since I can remember.
Guilt. That's what this is. Does it make me a jerk that I'm going to sit my butt down, let her fix me a plate, and enjoy it?
Tossing my backpack to the floor by the table, I fall into one of the red and black checkered chairs. After putting a huge plate of pork fried rice, chow Mein, and sweet and sour pork in front of me, she sits down.
"My day was okay. We were pretty busy, which is always good."
Mom's store is kind of a mish-mash of any and everything. She sells books, those little knickknack things that people put all over their house for no reason, some arts and crafts stuff. She paints and sells some of her stuff there, too, though she hasn't been doing it much lately.