Chapter 6: Since I don’t like the YMCA, maybe we should do brunch…?
My story keeps Amy occupied for the rest of the trip. It’s not that long of a story, but then again, it’s not that long of a trip. She sighs with relief when we finally touch-down, and I try not to laugh or bust her chops about it because, frankly, it was a really awful fucking flight.
She shakes my hand one last time when we finish taxiing to our gate. “Anika Singh, you’re even more charming in person than you are in Coach Woods’s book. Thank you for keeping me from focusing on what was going on up there.”
I grin. “Thank you for…” I start, but I don’t really know how to finish my statement. Saying “Thank you from distracting me from the fact that my mom has cancer, from the fact that I’m about to have to deal with my neurotic siblings for an indefinite period of time, and from the general horror show that is returning to Ohio” doesn’t seem particularly… well, you know. I try again. “Thank you for being an interesting seat mate.”
When the aisle opens up, I help her get her bag down from the overhead bin and wave goodbye. I wave to her again while I wait for my gym bag at the edge of the exit ramp with the handful of other passengers who had to check their carry-ons at the last minute.
I take my phone out of airplane mode while I wait. Nothing new from Gerry, so I text him.
Just landed.
No reply. I decide to try Dutch.
Gerry says he’s stuck at the restaurant.
Any chance you can pick me up?
And why is he at the restaurant?
Sorry, can’t, Dutch answers.
I’m with Nathan at karate, the babysitter’s home
with Sherry, and Matt’s working late.
At least I’ll get to see my nephew and niece this trip. I guess there’s that. Except… Seeing Nathan and Sherry means I’ll probably have to see my brother-in-law, too.
I grimace.
The light-hearted mood from chatting with Amy is already evaporating.
What about PJ? I ask Dutch.
Not here yet.
Still in Philadelphia.
I figured as much. PJ owns a string of high-end restaurants in Philly. Getting him to come home for anything, even a parent’s major surgery… I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.
Marty McFly appears at my elbow. “Makes sense,” he says, apparently referring to PJ. “He’s always responded to stress by working harder. At least you two have that in common.”
“I’m not a workaholic. Not like he is.”
McFly scoffs. “No? You don’t spend every minute you can in a weight room, on a track, or on a basketball court?”
“That’s different. Physical movement relieves stress,” I say. “It’s a scientific fucking fact.”
“Stress and basketball. Reminds me of high school.” He gazes up, looking pensive. “Reminds me of the time — ”
“Oh, no you don’t,” I say quickly. “No more trips to the past today.”
“It’ll be short,” he says. “I swear.”
#
Ready for another road trip in the time-traveling DeLorean? No? Well, too fucking bad.
Back to the future: Twenty-one years ago, junior year in high school. Marcine, Ohio.
I’m stressed out, so I’m out on the court, despite the fact that it’s only thirty-four fucking degrees outside. I shoot from the key, miss, chase the ball as it clangs off the rim and threatens to bounce away into the slushy mixture of melting snow and mud. I snatch it just before it can land, but then lose my balance when an unexpected “Hey” comes from behind me. My right foot lands hard in the mud, splashes some of it up into my face.
I wipe off the speckles of mud from my cheeks, take a breath, and turn around to face the owner of the “Hey.”
It’s what I thought. It’s her.
“Hey,” I say, nervously spinning the ball between my hands.
Jenny tilts her head up toward me, and the blonde hair that cascades out from under the stocking cap whispers against her parka. It’s a conspiratorial kind of noise, like her hair has a secret to tell.
“What are you doing out here?” she asks. “It’s so cold.” And as if to prove it, she wraps her arms around her midsection, hugging herself against the chill air.
“Practicing.”
“Aren’t you guys on break from basketball?”
“Yeah.”
“So shouldn’t you be… I don’t know, resting or something?” She pauses. “Or at least playing inside. I hear the YMCA is free with a student ID.”
Now is probably not a good time to mention to her that I practice out here in part because I know she walks by it every day on her way to school. And even though school’s on winter break, this neighborhood court is still the best place to be if I want to “accidentally” bump into her.
But she doesn’t need to know that I know that. Not after what happened last night.
“I like practicing out here,” I say. “It’s quiet. The fucking Y is fucking loud, filled with little fucking kids running around all over the place. They’re like fucking cockroaches or something — stomp on one, five more appear to take its place.”
“Anika,” she says. I love the sound of my name in her mouth, the way she says it like I’m about to get scolded for something. Still, a smile plays at the corners of her lips. “Do you really have to use the f-word multiple times in every single sentence?”
“Do you really have to say ‘f-word’ instead of fuck?” I shoot back. “What are you, ten? Just say it. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Jenny shakes her head. “I have a broader vocabulary than just curse words,” she informs me in an uppity tone, but the smile’s still there.
I palm the basketball I’m holding. Drop it to the pavement. Catch it when it bounces back up. She tracks the ball with her eyes.
“Listen,” she says, and all the uppity is gone from her voice, replaced with something more hesitant. “Do you want to go get brunch? I thought maybe… I thought maybe we could talk about what happened last night.”
“What’s there to talk about? You already told me. You had too much to drink; you got carried away; you didn’t mean to kiss me.” I shrug, all casual nonchalance as if it makes no difference to me. “I get it — people do crazy things on New Year’s Eve. No harm, no foul. End of story.”
The arms around her midsection tighten; her gaze drops to the pavement at my feet.
“That’s what I wanted to talk about. Maybe — maybe it wasn’t so crazy after all.” She lifts her eyes to meet mine. “What would you say if I told you that I don’t think kissing you had anything to do with how much I had to drink last night?” She pauses, waits for me to answer, but I’m so thunderstruck that I couldn’t speak even if I wanted to. So she drops another bomb on me: “What if I told you that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since?”
I dribble the ball a few times so that I have an excuse not to look at her. Looking directly at Jenny? It’s like staring straight into the fucking sun. You can only do it for a few seconds at a time.
Still feigning nonchalance, I ask, “Are we talking hypothetically what if you said that? Or are you actually saying that?”
“Do you really have to make this difficult?” She pauses. Maybe waiting for me to answer a question again. But it’s obviously rhetorical. “Yes. I’m actually saying that.”
“Then what I’d say is, ‘Where are we going for brunch?’”