Cry Baby Read online

  I run a paper towel under the sink and clean off the dust from the mess I made; my dad pulls a clean shirt from the top of the laundry basket.

  “You don’t have to fold all of this every time,” he says, lowering his eyes to make his point.

  My dad’s always been happy to live like a bachelor. My mom was the one who ran the house like an adult—laundry folded, bills paid on time, dishes done right after meals and beds made in the morning. I try to fill that void now that she’s gone, because I miss it. My dad hates those little reminders, though, almost as much as he hates her ever since she walked away from our family more than two years ago.

  “Last night go okay?” I grab the box of Chex from the cupboard and sit in the all-purpose chair I just dusted, pulling my knee up so I can slouch and twist myself in half circles.

  “It’s a job. Pretty much just like the last one,” he says, bending down for me to fix the collar of his shirt. He grabs a handful of Chex from the box in my lap when I do, and I tug down the crinkle in his front chest pocket so his name reads straight.

  MICHEAL ROJAS

  “How was school?” He mumbles through the dry cereal.

  I shrug.

  “I spent most of the day at the front office, then with the counselor. They wanted to bus me for some of the classes, but I can’t play sports if I bus. Wouldn’t be back in time.” My dad stares at me, expressionless. He won’t question me, even though I sense his silent lecture about putting grades before basketball. I distract him before he starts.

  “You get the dinner I packed in the fridge?” I ask.

  My dad’s eyes light up and his grin lifts his pencil-thin mustache. That’s maybe the only chore I picked up from my mom that he still likes—cooking. I experiment when I can’t sleep late at night. Nothing gourmet, and pretty much everything on a budget, but my meals are big and they always revolve around his favorite things. Last night I made meatballs.

  “Oh my god, Riles.” His words are mumbled because he took a cold bite. He waves his fork over the half-opened Tupperware lid and finishes chewing. “This is your best. You can just make this every day.”

  “You say that about every dinner I make.” I laugh, and he joins in as he closes the lid and tosses his fork in the sink. With a quick glance at the stovetop clock, he moves toward me and bends forward to kiss the top of my head.

  “I’ll try to be quiet when I come in,” he says, winking.

  I nod as he dashes out the door, but I hope he’s loud when he comes home. My dad works as both a night security guard for the school district main building and a part-time janitor for some apartments on the other side of town. We basically see each other in this little overlap when I get home from school and he wakes up from sleeping away the day. Sometimes, I get to catch him when he comes home in the mornings and on those rare unicorn moments when he has a day off. I don’t tell him this, but I set the alarm on my phone most nights just to make sure I don’t miss him.

  A lot of our things are still in boxes, including half of my clothes. Our old house was bigger than this place, and when the bank took it away from us, we tried to hang on to all of our stuff under the illusion that we’d get it back one day and put everything exactly where it was. It’s been two years and four apartments. We still have most of our things—minus some major pieces of furniture that we sold to get our belongings down to fitting in one small moving truck and the pickup.

  It takes me a few tries before I guess right and find the box where my basketball shorts live. I feel around for my favorite black pair, then slip out of my jeans and swap out my T-shirt. I test the spot where my dad glued the back heel down on my shoe, and after a dozen or so strides and some hard stops side-to-side, I’m satisfied. I stuff the house key back into the space on my phone case and grab my ball from the garage—where I still haven’t completely set up the weights. I hit the close button on my way out, ducking my head and stepping over the sensor.

  The sound of my dribble seems lonely at the end of my driveway. I stall there for a couple of minutes, looking to the other end of my street where Tristan came from. I’m hoping he’ll hear the pounding of the ball, and maybe it works like it did when I was younger and someone heard people outside playing. Kids just jumped in, and there was this instant friendship formed. Things haven’t worked like that since we were evicted, though. The boys I grew up with knew me. There wasn’t this weirdness to overcome. I’m not a kid anymore, and boys who don’t know me see something other than a baller. They don’t want me to be that girl that they hang out with, and they don’t like me on their court.

  I think Tristan saw who I am though. He was…nice. He gave me an invite, telling me where to play. I hope he’s there. It’s easier when knowing someone. I think it works that way if you’re a boy or a girl, but it’s just a little harder for us chicks to get accepted. I haven’t seen a lot of girls my age around the neighborhood. I haven’t seen a lot of anyone, really. Maybe they’re all at the courts.

  Drawing in a full breath, I pull out my phone and open my playlist, turning the volume up high so I can hear it from my pocket. I washed my earbuds on accident before the move, and they pretty much melted into tiny shards of plastic and metal. I kinda like being able to hear, anyhow. My dad lets me go anywhere I want; he trusts me to use my judgment. That means I probably need to hear trouble coming. This neighborhood is a little tougher than our last one. I can tell by the graffiti. There’s a difference in what people write on things. I can tell when it’s just some kid writing a bad word on a dare. These are initials and numbers. This is territory. I live here too, though—so fuck it.

  I make it to the first corner and squint to look down the street. Houses fade into storefronts, then chain-link. I walk a few driveways in to get a better look. It’s only an empty dirt lot, though, so I keep on moving down my street until I get to the next corner. The line of houses ends at about the same place here, but this time I can see patches of grass and one of the hoops inside a fenced area. My steps pick up instinctively, and the closer I get, the less alone the sound of my dribble is. The familiar trash talk hits my ears, and I smile when someone shouts back at his haters after draining what I’m pretty sure was a three. It’s not easy to see the lines yet, but he was pretty deep. The court gets clearer with every step I take until the only thing in my way are some passing cars and a two-way road.

  I pull my phone out and turn my music off, my steps slowing when Tristan’s eyes move my direction. I lift my hand to wave and start to smile but he turns away and slaps hands with some guy behind him before pulling his T-shirt up over his head.

  There’s a small opening in the fence where I step through and find a spot on the bleachers to set my phone and tuck my ball while I rest my right foot and tighten the laces on my shoe. My heart is pounding more than normal. It’s due to a mixture of reasons—I’m new here; Tristan didn’t acknowledge me; Tristan took his shirt off; it was kinda hot when he did that; and there’s a group of girls sitting a few feet away from me staring at me like I’m the new girl.

  Which I am.

  “Hey,” I say without even flinching as I look up and send my foot back to the ground. Their eyes, all three pairs of them, were waiting for me, as were the judgmental mashed lips, pulled tight at the corners to hold in the thoughts they share inside their heads.

  “Who the fuck is this chick?”

  That thought comes out a little too loud from the one on the end. It stings, but whatever.

  “Riley. I go to South. Just moved here,” I say, climbing up to sit on the second tier next to them. Their eyes all flare a touch. This is why I push myself out of my comfort zone, because people want to put others in a box no matter who they are, and when someone refuses their labels and expectations, it shocks the hell out of them. And that…it’s fun.

  I hold my hand out across the two closest to me, toward the girl on the end who probably wishes she didn’t utter that question out loud. She’s dressed like one of the girls who works retail at the
mall, and her caramel-colored hair twists in these perfect shiny spirals to her shoulders. Her eyes dip to my palm and she puffs out a laugh before biting the inside of her cheek and shaking her head.

  “Lauren,” she says, eyes squinty above bright red lips. She’s amused by me. I don’t fit in her box.

  “You go to South?” I focus on Lauren, but I can see the other two looking at one another in my periphery. They had their chance, but Lauren stepped up. Lauren gets to be my friend.

  “Sometimes,” Lauren says. Her lips stretch slowly into a broad smile that I match with one of my own.

  “Right. Well, nice to meet you, Lauren. Maybe one of the days you’re there, we can meet up. You can show me the shortcuts and give me the scoop on who not to piss off by being late to class.”

  She laughs a little louder, and my pulse starts to even out as I get more comfortable.

  “Girl, there are no shortcuts at South. It’s just one block of prison cells next to the other, with whiteboards and desks is all. And as for pissing people off, everyone at South is pissed; so you’re screwed. Teachers are pissed they got placed there; students are pissed they have to be there. Even the smart ones who give a shit about what comes after South hate that there’s nowhere better to go.” A short sigh escapes her when she’s done, and I’m pretty sure that means that last bit she told me is personal. Lauren’s one of the smart ones, and she’s pissed.

  I like her.

  I pull my ball up from the gap between the second bleacher row and the first, rolling it along the metal between my feet with my fingertips. My eyes follow the game, which isn’t very organized but the play is pretty decent. They’re playing four on five, so there’s room for me to step in. I just need to find the open.

  Tristan makes a few shots, and more than once, his eyes glance my direction. The first two or three times, I nod and smile, sometimes lifting my hand, but the more the game continues without his acknowledging I’m here, the less I react to his presence until it feels like I never met him at all. In fact, after about thirty minutes of sitting on my ass and watching him and his friends trade poor shots and insults, a part of me starts to hate him. Not the bare-chested, muscular part with low-hanging shorts and the band of his boxers peeking through. Or the part where his dark hair falls into his eyes just before he slicks it back with his fingers; it looks kinda soft and maybe a little wavy. Or the part of his mouth that leaves this C-shaped wrinkle on both cheeks when he laughs. But the rest of him—the part that refuses to say hello—I’m starting to hate that part.

  I begin to dribble the ball along the metal, and it shakes the bleachers enough that it drives Lauren and her two friends to their feet and out onto the court. It breaks the game up, which gives me my shot; I stand and move the ball between my stride a couple times before holding it against my hip. Tristan stays on the other end of the court, talking to some guy whose head is shaved and whose shoes actually look older and more worn than mine.

  While everyone grabs water bottles or waits at the fountain—lips close to the metal as they try to suck the water out—I dribble out toward the three-point spot where I saw Tristan make a shot a minute or two before. I pause there for a few long seconds, dribbling and waiting until Tristan glances my way again. I pretend not to notice, giving my attention over to the rim and the chains that dangle heavily underneath.

  My shot is always smooth. My dad taught me the right touch when I was strong enough to get the ball up ten feet in the air, and there is no panic or rush in my body as I take my time and feel the rhythm in my hands. I jump just enough to get the perfect angle and sink the ball effortlessly through the rim without the clanking echo from the boys’ game before.

  I want to smile, but I play it cool and jog toward my ball, expecting to see everyone paying attention. They all must be so impressed.

  Glancing up as I dribble back out, though, the only eyes on me are Lauren’s. Tristan has purposely positioned himself with his back toward me, which twists that place between my ribs where I feel…something. I think I’m mad. There’s a word on his neck, inked in some swirling font, but not a professional tattoo because the letters are uneven. It starts with an A, so I guess it’s ASSHOLE.

  I get to my spot a little quicker this time, and I don’t pause before shooting. The ball sinks through again, the chains rustling like a windchime. My shot is so pretty, yet none of these assholes care. They start to meet up again in the center of the court, so I move in with them—like I belong.

  “Hey, we’re switchin’ it up. Tristan…Paul, you got Mikey and DJ.” The guy talking is the tallest on the court, but I watched him take a dozen shots and miss every single one.

  “Man, Paul sucks!” someone says, waving his hand at the guy with the shaved head, the one who Tristan stood with in the corner during their break.

  “Fuck you, DJ,” Paul bites back, flipping the other guy off as he takes a few steps backward.

  Tristan’s back is still to me, but he’s close enough I could tap his shoulder. I start to, but then my intuition kicks in. That rotten feeling settles into my stomach. He’ll just pretend we never met—right to my face. It will be embarrassing.

  I pull my hand away and roll my ball in my palms, building my courage.

  “You’re one short. I’ll play,” I say.

  The guys continue to move around the court, making jokes and ripping on each other. The Paul guy pulls his shirt off, and when his back turns, I catch a glimpse of the letters scorched into his skin, just like Tristan’s tattoo. I’m pretty sure it says JOKER, but the lettering is so strange it’s hard to read.

  “Hey, I said I’ll play!” My voice raised, I ready myself for their reaction, but they move around me—and at one point, the tall guy rests his hand on my shoulder and nudges me off the court.

  “'Scuse me, sorry,” he says, as if he bumped into me on accident. I slap his hand away, and finally—for the first time in almost an hour—everyone’s eyes are on me.

  The sore spot in my chest shifts into fire.

  “I’ve been here for almost an hour, waiting. I get in the next game.” My teeth are knocking together with an angry shiver, and my fingertips have gone numb in an instant. Adrenaline is funny that way—it makes people brave.

  It makes people stupid.

  I look at most of their faces, at least the ones looking back at me, and their reaction isn’t much different from the ones on the girls’ faces when I first walked up. But I won Lauren over. She was first. These guys—they’re next.

  My chest rises with a full breath, and my skin feels hot from the rush of emotion as I let my eyes move from one blank stare to the next, ignoring the laughter from the tall guy who thought he could touch me.

  “Next game then. We’ve already started.” I blink and my head jerks with a tiny jolt of shock. I turn enough to meet Tristan’s eyes, and it’s like he’s wearing a mask. This is a different person than the one who helped me empty my truck three days ago.

  His eyes slant in a way that says “come on, stop it,” and his gaze falls from mine the minute someone else tosses him the ball. I don’t look away immediately, though, instead staring at him with an intensity that may catch fire. If he’s going to make a statement about whether or not I belong here, then I’m going to make one about him. I dribble a few times to my side, and I watch him work hard at ignoring me, something that seems to come a lot easier for his friends. I know he feels my eyes on him, because his jawline twitches involuntarily. He’s gritting his back teeth.

  I turn as he moves, and when he rushes toward the hoop, I hold my ball still and wait for what I know is coming. Testosterone makes boys stupid. He takes too many steps, and his approach is awkward, even though his hand gets well above the rim. Every bit of his motion is out of whack, and the ball careens off the rim in a failed dunk that he tries to laugh off as just him messing around.

  I know better.

  It’s time to make my statement. I wait for his body to shift as his feet stumble and he laughs. His
eyes catch mine again, and they roll slightly. He’s about to remind me they’ve already started, or some other demeaning or rude response to make me go away. I’m already leaving. Just one thing before I go.

  “Fucking rec player.”

  His cheeks sag, and the smile dissipates, quickly replaced by that stone-cold expression guys wear to save face in front of others. A few of them cackle at my dig, and one guy yells “Burn!” I roll my eyes just like Tristan did, and I pick up my dribble and grab my phone from the bleachers on my way back out the gate.

  I hear their game start again by the time I’m in the middle of the street. I don’t look, and I don’t expect Tristan to come running after me to apologize. He’s just a local punk asshole like every other guy in every other neighborhood we’ve lived in since home home. I guess my old friends were punk assholes too, they were just mine so I didn’t have to deal with their egos.

  I haven’t played real ball in so long, I’m starting to worry that I’ll forget how. When I started high school, I had this fantasy of playing in college one day. It drove me to practice every day, and those habits didn’t just change when my mom left. The urge is still there, but there’s just nowhere for me to take it. Our last two apartments didn’t have a court, and the one at the place before that wasn’t lit, so I had to bear the heat in the middle of the day or bully my way through a nearby crowded court packed with small kids at night.

  When I saw Tristan, I had hope that I was back, that I had found that place again. The place is there, it’s just the people I need to change.

  “Hey, wait up!” I turn at the sound of Lauren’s voice. She looks both ways and stands for a car to pass between us, then jogs across the street toward me.

  I wait for her to catch up to me then start to walk home again. Our steps get in sync, and I glance at her when she snaps her gum.

  “Want some?” She holds out a pack of mint gum and I take a strip.

  I pull the paper away and stuff it in my pocket, then fold the gum in half to chew. It’s brittle, and most of it breaks away and falls to the ground.