But maybe today I didn’t want to. Maybe today was my day to recuperate on the bench. Cornered behind a wall of arms, Callie hollered for someone to Take the Shot. Her eyes met mine, exasperated. How much longer was I planning on relaxing?
On the other side of the gym, the Saint Paul parents hardly paid attention, twisting round on the bleachers, murmuring to each other, maybe about Maseratis. Beachfront homes.
My whites.
I bet my whites didn’t have a player who lived in a one-bedroom apartment behind the Ambassador Hotel. Who drove to the game in a plumbing truck. Whose mother was an expert rollerblader on Venice Boardwalk. The truth was I was nothing but a girl with a big caboose who loved knocking people over. I only knew one way to play, not very pretty and not very nice. My way. Vibiana’s way.
I came to Coach and he said, “Execute the strategy we came to execute.” I reported my number to the scorer, hoping the soft lumps gurgling down my throat weren’t blood. Callie fired me the ball first thing, and little by little I bumped into the paint, to my sweet spot, shooting over the head of the tiny guard and her glitter laces, banking the ball off the glass for a bucket.
Just to set the tone.
On the next play Junie rebounded, passing the ball downcourt to Callie who had suddenly materialized beneath our basket. Left-handed layup. Two points.
We ran those girls breathless, and when at last Saint Paul’s signaled for a time out, Callie said, “See those glitter laces? Let’s get some.”
We never let up until the buzzer sounded and the victory was ours. We jumped up and down together, we swung ourselves around. The next day Mrs. Jenkins tracked down the glitter laces wholesale in the Toy District, buying enough for everybody, including my dad, who laced a pair into his workboots. He truly believed we were going all the way.
Our next opponent was Beatitudes, who hadn’t lost in two years. I felt optimistic, but Coach Jenkins said our only hope was to play a perfect game. “California Jenkins is about to find out,” he said, “that faster children live in the City of Los Angeles.”
At practice, we repeated a certain play, again and again, until our muscles could perform the sequence without thought, without hesitation. The play was me racing to the sidelines, Delmy inbounding, then me lowering my shoulder, taking one strong step and zipping the ball to Callie streaking untouched to the basket. Our plan was to kill Beatitudes with that play. At the end of practice, like always, Coach Jenkins made us sprint from one end of the playground to the other until my heart shuddered in my still-aching throat. Finally his whistle blew. I headed for the water fountain to let the cold water flow over my lips and tongue. Against Beatitudes, we couldn’t make even one mistake. We must play our game, our style. Not let them dictate. We would dictate.
Someone was calling my name. Callie, by the open school gate, the leafy street behind her bright with afternoon sunshine. She came closer, her eyes taking up half her face.
“Your dad is asleep in his truck,” she said. But she said it like a question and when I came out, Coach Jenkins was already there, pulling my father out of the truck and laying him on the street. My father’s face was dark purple, purple like a bruise.
That wasn’t him. It didn’t look like him. Although that was definitely our truck.
I heard sirens up on La Brea. My father lay absolutely still.
By then the other girls were crowding the sidewalk. Junie stared.
Coach Jenkins straightened my father’s neck.
The firemen when they came ordered us back into the playground but Scholastica knelt on the sidewalk, tugging me down. “Eternal rest give to him,” she said, “let perpetual light shine upon him.” Nobody had asked Scholastica to do that. Nobody. But still I sank down, her palm cool against my wrist.
Callie was frightened and Coach Jenkins held her, one hand smoothing her crazy hair. I should have been concentrating on Scholastica’s voice, on the prayer, but instead I thought, How come not you? That thought was evil, seeping up from an evil place, but still I let myself think it, even as Scholastica’s hand held my wrist.