THE COURTSHIP OF WINDS

Soidenet Gue 

​

Boredom Syndrome

 

I.

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Dear Dad,

     It’s been a while, hasn’t it? The last time I reached out to you, I mentioned that I didn’t understand half of what Mom was doing. Well, she wasn’t planning for a marathon, after all. There’s hardly any running anymore. She’s found something far more exciting. She’s in great shape, though. I confess, I might even be jealous of her. To be frank, I don’t know of any sane teenage daughter who wouldn’t envy her fine hair and good looks.

     As for that other issue just hanging in the air: I know it’s worse now because Mom and Kyle don’t even bicker anymore. So I don’t just sense it, Dad. I can feel it’s coming. Mom can, too, I guess. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t make the slightest effort to work things out between her and her husband. Like I said, there’s nothing I’d love more than for Kyle to stay. But what can I do if he’s already decided to leave?

Talk soon,

Sylvie

​

     The living room lights came on as I was outside, disposing of the trash. Finding the windows covered in a cloudy, white film that misty morning, I rubbed a laminated glass panel to peer inside the dining room. Vivian screwed up her oval-shaped face, rocked, and massaged her toned shoulders under her white tank top. When I returned inside, she nodded with a smile, as I imagined she would, after I asked about the previous day’s basketball game.

     “Well, Sylvie,” she said, “if you must know, I scored twenty-six points—one of my best games so far. There’s no question about it. Dished about eleven assists, and we’re talking about nine or ten rebounds here, plus three blocks.” 

     “Tired?” I asked her, my fuzzy black hair brushing past her elbow.

     Vivian stood at attention with an air of purpose, her hands on her muscular hips, like she was no longer tired.

     Who was she fooling? How could I miss the sleep and fatigue in her eyes? Her muscles must be sorer than ever after playing for six straight days with the Coolio Boys—the high schoolers who went to the same school as me and who had braided hair sticking up like Coolio. This new hobby—well, more like a renewed hobby since she’d played high school and college basketball—excited her despite the tiredness eating at her bones.

     Vivian needed me to drive her later that morning to Winn-Dixie, near the border of Delray Beach and Boca Raton. Her license had been suspended for six months, and she wouldn’t be able to drive until August, right before I was set to return to school. Did I enjoy driving her around from time to time? Of course, I did, although she might have gotten the wrong impression because I seldom smiled or talked when we were in the car. These little errands helped my driving skills more than I could have imagined.

     The license suspension had little, if anything at all, to do with her will and determination to drive me and her husband crazy.

 

II.

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     For how long had the spark between Vivian and Kyle Messing been gone? Some might argue for the past two years, as they had stopped smiling and laughing at each other’s jokes. As for me, I couldn’t quite say.

 

III.

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     With my mouth full of toothpaste foam, standing before the pedestal sink that never got old, I ignored Vivian shouting that she was ready. Instead, I lifted my T-shirt and clamped the skin around my torso between my thumb and forefinger. Finding enough tissue to grip, I gripped again and again before my thumb moved to stroke my navel piercing. To keep or not to keep the damn thing, it ricocheted in my head like I was a recovering addict on the verge of relapse. What’s it gonna be, Missy? Well, it’s your money, stupid. Who wears this ugly thing with a protruding belly button anyway, right? I rinsed my mouth, my thumb still stroking the ring like I was picking a guitar string.

     By the time we got into Vivian’s black sedan, the fog had already drifted away, as though it had never existed. Before I started high school, something about these quiet, natural mornings fascinated me—the way the wet morning dew on the cocoplum leaves dripped in a long, drawn-out motion while the sun sifted through the hedge. On my way to catch the school bus, I used to linger in the yard for several minutes. It was different now, but at least Vivian and Kyle were happy or used to pretend they were inseparable (he’d come home with lilies and roses, and she’d kiss him by the front door). I twisted my body to glance back at the fence until my neck hurt.

     For a brief moment, my stomach felt naked as the seatbelt brushed past my belly. As we hit the road, I dropped the sunvisor and pulled my baseball cap forward. It had been tilted toward the back of my head. Vivian searched her purse for sunglasses. Of all things, she remembered to wear her ivory-white headband but forgot her sunglasses. The headband turned baby-yellow against the sun’s reflection across the windshield, which blinded us.

     At first, Vivian hummed the NBA national theme song nonstop. Maybe it was just her way of doing it, but it annoyed the living hell out of me. What also went on and on, which didn’t help either, was her constant tapping of a red marker against the Dick’s Sporting Goods magazine she was browsing. With the San Antonio Spurs recently winning their third title against the Detroit Pistons, I suspected she had plenty on her mind. But she also knew not to bore me with too much basketball talk. So she sat there, hushed, at times circling something with the marker.

     She gasped when a little snapshot of Tony fell from the magazine’s pages. Tony was her softshell turtle, who had been fatally wounded by raccoons earlier in the spring after she left the garage open one night.

     I remained hushed because we were forbidden to talk about Tony since she got him. She didn’t want any of us to talk about him for fear of outsiders discovering the true story behind Tony. She feared she’d be ridiculed. A neighbor, like Ms. Brown, was sure to break the news over tea and coffee, and before we knew it, the whole neighborhood would have known about it.

     It all started as a funny joke—the acquisition of Tony a month before Christmas. By then, Vivian had been laid off from the jewelry store for a month and a half, and though she claimed the task wasn’t any more fun, I never believed she’d stay home without looking for employment. “Heck, if I know,” she’d told Kyle when he asked her about her plans. “The point is that what’s done is done. And I’m not one bit worried about it. Who in their right mind spends nine goddamn years working as a secretary to some small-time jeweler wannabe?” How relieved she must have been to not have to say, “I’m in the jewelry business” anymore, as she used to at get-togethers when someone asked what she did for a living.

     We were in the middle of dinner when Vivian said she could use a pet around the house. She claimed she felt too lonely. Kyle would be treating people’s feet at work while I was at school. Any pet would do, explained Vivian; she could find ways to have fun with it as long as it were a living soul. A little pet to keep you company? Don’t worry, darling, I have a marvelous idea! Kyle must have concluded, laughing his ass off.

     For Vivian, Kyle’s coming home with Tony resulted in a total shock. “This fella here is about five pounds, thirteen inches,” said Kyle. I could still picture her on that cold Christmas afternoon, making fists while staggering against the wall, when she first saw the dark brown-shelled creature. How she had whined like a child: “What’s thaaat?”—as she squinted at the creature’s long, snorkel-like snout. It took her almost a month to get used to our new guest and name it. Even though Kyle’s choice of pet stunned me, I believed Tony was one of the greatest miracles to ever walk the earth.

     “I’d wait here,” I told Vivian after we pulled into a damp parking lot at Winn-Dixie.

     “Oh, what is she doing here this early?” Vivian asked, spotting Ms. Brown, who lived two houses from ours and whose son was one of the Coolio Boys.

     Ms. Brown, who must have been in her late forties, got out of her SUV and said, “Vivian? Ms. Messing! Excuse me! Hey, Ms. Messing, can I have a word with you, please?”

     What amazed me was how Vivian made a beeline for the entrance, so determined not to pay a bit of attention to Ms. Brown. It was as though she needed to use the restroom with a bladder ready to burst. I failed at suppressing my laughter while watching her go, her sleek, high-braided pigtails bobbing against her back in the sun.

     Ms. Brown gestured to me to roll down my window. “Did you know your mother and those boys messed up my garden yesterday?”

     “That doesn’t surprise me.”

     “That’s the second time this week!”

     “Sorry to hear that.”

     “Are you?”

     “I swear, I’ll have a chat with her. Right before we get home.”

     Noticing the unintended sarcasm in my voice, she leaned on the window’s ledge. There, she noticed basketball accessories displayed in the Dick’s Sporting Goods magazine. “Great! That’s just great!” she said, twisting her cute little eyebrows. “I’ll be forced to take legal action against her if it happens again. You better tell your mother this, okay?” She climbed back into her car and took off.

     Unlike Vivian, I never had any particular interest in playing sports. The only thing that crossed my mind was taking piano lessons after getting my driving permit; I could drive instead of taking the bus to the instructor’s house. It’d be cool to tell people I played an instrument as a hobby. After forgetting to attend the first two piano sessions, the instructor called and said, “Sylvie, why don’t you try something else? You obviously have your mind elsewhere.”

     When Vivian returned to the car with several cases of Powerade in her shopping cart, I mentioned neither Ms. Brown nor her warning. “Go to page eight,” I told Vivian. Seeing what I was referring to, she brought the magazine to her face as if to make it impossible for me to read her facial expressions. “I don’t think I need a basketball hoop,” she said.

     Jesus, Vivian, what makes more sense? You—messing in your own yard or someone else’s?  Did she actually think I enjoyed having this conversation?

     The problem was that I didn’t want Kyle to get any more unsettled than he already was. I feared this was bound to happen with Ms. Brown now protesting in public. The way I saw it, our parking lot was nothing short of a mini basketball court anyway, unlike our neighbors’ newer homes with smaller yard spaces.

     “You can afford it,” I said.

     “Don’t you think I know that?”

     “They’re probably still on sale.”

     “Money is not the issue.”

     “Well?”

     “What happens when summer school is over? Who am I going to play with?”

 

IV.

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     Vivian was napping when the fifty-four-inch basketball hoop arrived. It was around noon the following week. She hadn’t mentioned a single word to me about the purchase. Had she considered it for a while before I even suggested it? Regardless, I suspected she acted not to please me or Kyle, who’d complained about her spending too much time in the neighbors’ yards “entertaining a bunch of delinquents.” As usual, Kyle was at work when it arrived, so I received the order and instructed the guy to put it inside the garage.

     “Is that for your brother?” the burly guy asked as he wheeled the box from the parking lot.

     “My mother.”

     “That’s a good one,” he said, chuckling. “You guys have a nice layout around here. It’d be a shame to ruin that beautiful centipede grass, though, no?”

     “Centipede what?”

     “Oh, I mean, the grass. It’s nice.”

     “Well, there should be enough space”—I glimpsed the delivery truck and stooped down to touch the box—“for this big-ass thing. I hope.”

     Though I was eager to see if Vivian had anything to say about the purchase the next day, I had to go to the mall in the morning before she woke up. Then, I stopped at the library to return and check out some cooking books.

     Several tools and packaging components were lined up at the garage entrance when I arrived home. I watched through the sun-splashed windshield. Not only was the basketball hoop installation complete, but the system was already erected in place. The red rim onto which Vivian was threading the net glinted in the sun. Had she forgotten to add it before erecting the hoop? Or was climbing on that three-step ladder part of the plan to show off her skills? The hammers and so many wrenches indicated that she must have completed the bulk of the work inside the garage. Yet, as much as she’d avoided the sun in her sports bra, her face and forearms glistened with sweat.

     “You know what?” I said as I exited the car. “It would probably take me a day and a half to do all that.” 

     “There’s not much to it if you know what you’re doing.”

     “You don’t say.”

     “You just missed them, by the way.”

     “Oh, did I?”

     “Just saying I had some help if that’s what you’re getting at.” She wiped the sweat from her face with her thumb, undoing the natural black curls plastered across her forehead and high cheekbones.

     “Do you want something to drink? Powerade?”

     “No. Please put the car in the garage, will you?”

     “Now?”

     She didn’t answer, as if to avoid seeing the obstructions in my way. “Later” almost escaped my lips before I realized the least I could do was help with the clean-up. After all, had it not been nice of her to let me drive her car?

     It all started at the beginning of the summer—Vivian playing basketball in the afternoons with the Coolio Boys. The term “Coolio Boys” struck a chord because they mostly came from the same neighborhood and were the only ones at school with particular hairstyles. They were mostly sophomores and juniors, as was I. How did Vivian first get involved with them? I imagined her stopping to watch them play and offering them some pointers while she was on one of her early evening runs.

     THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

     The first basketball game took place at our house the day after the Fourth of July. Early that Tuesday evening, I stopped reading my culinary magazine and went to the primary bedroom to see Kyle’s reaction. Except he wasn’t there. To watch them play through the window, I pulled up the black Venetian blinds that I always thought did a great disservice to the jungle green walls. They played three against three in the warm, breezy air. Two of them, one on each team, wore basketball jerseys, while Vivian wore high-waisted yoga shorts and a scoop-neck sports bra. In total, I counted seven teenagers; the other two watched and skateboarded across the sidewalk while consuming the Powerade they took from a small cooler at the edge of the pavement.

     Derick, the boy I’d gone out with for about five months, wasn’t among them. Was he out with a new girlfriend or at home playing Nintendo?

     I watched, trying to determine which team was leading and, sometimes, smothering my laughter. Using my fist as an imaginary microphone, I found myself making fun of them: “Vivian for three. Wow! She got it. Two shots in a row. Why don’t you make the pass already? Yeah, you with the wonky eyes. Ah, come on, both you and I know she can’t wait to get her hands on that ball. Okay. Wonky eyes with a deflection. Vivian with a pull-up and a-a-a-a-a . . . yup, and a bucket!” Yeah, well, I hoped that was what it was—a pull-up. With the ball in her hands, she’d jabbed to the right, and dribbling it once toward the defender, she’d made two steps forward. She jumped in her flamingo-pink Jordan shoes and made the two-point basket.

     A part of me wanted to enjoy the spectacle, but I could never get past the sounds. The short, sharp cries. Screeches and squeaks of the rubber-soled shoes. And not to mention the constant thumping of the ball. It was no wonder Ms. Brown got fed up. Who could put up with all that noise in their yard every day?

     But then, I’d almost forgotten to ask the most crucial question: What was Vivian trying to prove here at thirty-nine? She played with twice as much attention as the boys. It wasn’t just her impressive spin moves to make a basket or her skills to execute a block, leading to a high-five from her teammates. Perhaps only Vivian herself could understand what she aimed to prove. I doubted it had anything to do with the boys.

     As for the high schoolers, there appeared to be a sense of mutual understanding, respect, and even harmony among them, playing with a woman who could have passed as a professional athlete or their gym teacher. Had I failed to notice the constant locker-room talk and flirtatious behavior that such young men often liked to express in the company of a much older, attractive woman? Dripping in sweat, they didn’t even glance at Vivian’s ass and cleavage when they paused to catch their breaths and quench their thirsts.

     Would I be this irritated and out of touch with her if I understood why and what this whole basketball obsession was about? I bet Brenda was as confused as I was. Brenda—one of Vivian’s long-time friends and a former coworker—had phoned before the Fourth of July to speak to Vivian. After I told her Vivian was in the middle of a game at a neighbor’s house, she said, “Are you telling me she’s still hanging out with those boys, Sylvie?” She let out a snorting laugh before saying she’d call back some other time. The relief in her voice that I happened to be the one who answered the phone was unmistakable.

     Spotting Vivian’s car keys on the combo dresser beside one of Kyle’s two framed plaques (for excellence in podiatry), I began to fantasize about Derick in no time. What if he was home? What if I went to his house unannounced? It’d take less than three minutes to get there. Maybe it’d be nice to surprise him and see what he was up to. I must have picked up and dropped the keys three times before deciding not to go anywhere. For a moment, I tried on Kyle’s sunglasses and stood in the mirror. I grimaced in “apparent ennui” (as Kyle once said to one of his colleagues in reference to Vivian right before she took up basketball) and pushed out my chest in the cardinal red camisole I had on.

     Had Kyle ever done or said anything to cause me to resent him? The answer would be no, of course—not even in my dreams. He was much more rounded through the torso and a bit plump on the face when he married Vivian seven years ago. Fast forward a few years after he started going to the gym, and he had become almost perfect to look at with his clean-shaven face and relatively tall height, despite traces of receding hairline.

     Kyle must have been somewhere in the kitchen or had entered the house without banging the door. The second I returned to the window, he came into the room in the same white shirt he wore to work in the morning. As always, his voice sounded deep and smooth. 

     “Are you not going to join them?”

     “Me?”

     “Just kidding, Sylvie. I know you’re not going to join them.”

     “Were you watching me right outside the door?” I asked.

     “Watching you do what?”

     “Nothing.”

     “What are you doing here?”

     “What does it look like I’m doing?”

     Of course, I knew he could see outside through the window from where he stood. But because he didn’t respond and I heard no movement, I came to have a strange feeling, like his eyes were trained on my ass and bare legs.

     I know—silly me.

     “Shouldn’t you be at the gym now?” I asked, even though I knew he only went on weekends—his days off.

     Still, no answer.

     “Isn’t it funny? When I was a kid, I believed I’d be that tall,” I said, looking at Vivian. She was beating even the tallest high schooler by a good six inches, and he must have been at least six feet tall.

     “Last time I checked, you were still a kid and growing,” he finally said. “Don’t you think you’re tall enough for a sixteen-year-old girl?”

     Whatever.

     “Can you explain any of it? I mean, why?” I asked, shaking my head in disbelief at the crazy spectacle outside.

     His hands landed next to mine on the windowsill, and within seconds, the cologne he’d sprayed on him that morning stung my nostrils. His head turned where the basketball went before saying, “Two words: boredom syndrome.”

     “Yeah, well, not anymore.” A sudden belly laugh overcame me. “God, you’re cracking me up.”

     “Let’s not joke about this.”

     “I mean, come on, it’s true. Does she look bored to you these days?”

     Kyle straightened himself and, pushing out his lower lip, turned his head to the three books sitting on the bedside table (Tracks by Robyn Davidson, West with the Night by Beryl Markham, and Moby-Dick). A great deal of sadness had crept into his eyes by the time he turned back, and I looked him straight in the face. It took him several seconds to find the right words: “I think she will pick up another adventure as soon as this one’s over. That’s how serious this is.”

​

V.

     I laid three plates on the large dining table, and with excessive pride in my voice, I said, “Dinner is ready.” The ceiling light made Vivian’s features perky and glowing, even before she reached the table. With playing footsie on my mind, I waited for Kyle, and, smiling, I sat beside him. Before I knew it, Vivian moved her plate one seat away to face me instead of Kyle. This was a clever move—as she had done before when she didn’t take her plate into the living room to watch NBA TV. I figured she could always claim that she was only surveying the old Michael Jordan poster on the wall if I told her to stop staring at me.
     In addition to making breakfasts, Vivian used to cook dinner at least twice a week before she took up basketball. At first, I assumed her disinterest was directed at me—encouragement to develop my cooking skills. It took me a while to realize that she no longer found cooking interesting. In the beginning, I experimented with spaghetti and hot dogs, and now I was making apple pies, macaroni and cheese, coleslaw, and chocolate chip cookies. Oh, and not to mention pot roast, the dish we were having for dinner that night, served with potatoes, carrots, and onions.
     “Well done, Sylvie. See, there’s nothing you can’t do if—”
     “Yes, Mommy, if I put my mind to it. I know.”
     Kyle chewed in slow motion, letting the beef’s flavor run its course in his mouth, and nodded. “It’s fantastic.”
     “Why, thank you, Kyle! Have I outdone myself, sir?”
     There was no reply. He only glanced at Vivian, who was eating slower than usual. She was cautious enough not to wet her mouth too much when she picked up her glass of water. After a few swallows, she passed just the tip of her tongue between those bow-shaped lips of hers. It was as if she were wearing some fancy lipstick that she couldn’t, under any circumstances, afford to smear.
     None of us said anything for several minutes. Kyle ate all the carrots first before touching the potatoes, like a child might do, for the very purpose of some inexplicable gratification. He and Vivian avoided each other’s expressionless glances, like they were two ordinary strangers. When he decided to address Vivian—“How was your game, honey?”—she talked so much about her success and the potential of her new friends that I almost told her to apply for a high school basketball coaching position.
     “I only meant to ask if you had a good game, honey,” Kyle said. “You know, playing your first game at home and everything.”
     I suppressed my laughter.
     She scowled at me.
     Before I put my head over my arms on the table—suffocating with the silent laughter—I noticed that her face was even prettier and her eyes sharper when making that scowling gesture. An unknown force from within held me back from bursting into tears.
     “Did something happen between you and Derick?” Vivian asked, forcing me to lift my head to find both of them studying my face with unwinking eyes.
     “Oh, something like that,” I said.
     “Aren’t you going out with him anymore?” she asked.
     I shook my head instead of complaining about the ultimatum I’d given Derick—that he had to choose between me and playing basketball with Vivian. Looking back, I felt a little stupid breaking up with him because he was spending too much time playing with Vivian rather than me.
     “Well, he was asking about you this evening,” Vivian said. “He stopped by but didn’t stay for long.”
     I tried to play footsie with Kyle the instant he sighed in obvious boredom. No matter how hard I tried, he failed to respond at every turn. All I got from him was a slight cocking of his head to either side. He peeled his upper lip into a crooked smile like he had an itch somewhere but couldn’t scratch it.
     Well, forget it, Kyle. What was I thinking?
     After dinner, I called Derick to tell him how much I missed him.

VI.

     A rare ice cream craving led me out of my room a few nights later. Kyle—lying on the sofa in the dimness with a bed pillow beneath his head—almost jumped to his feet when he spotted me in my dusty-rose nightwear behind the couch. “Jesus. It’s okay,” I said with a swift palm-up movement for him to relax, saying that I had no funny business in mind at this hour. The last thing I needed was to misbehave, like with the footsie action, which was a one-time thing and a grave mistake.
     Did he have a fight with Vivian, or was he trying to avoid one?
     “What’s going on?” I asked him, keeping my voice low so Vivian wouldn’t hear anything.
     Kyle only moved from his elbow and sat up in his pajamas.
     “What happened?”
     “Nothing,” he said.
     “Then what are you doing here?”
     He jerked his face away before I could fully register what had to be pain in his eyes. 
     “I saw you last night. You’ve been sleeping out here.” I stopped short, audibly releasing air from my lungs, although I sensed he could detect the worry, if not outright sadness, in my voice. With all the anger I could muster, I said, “You know what? I’ll not miss you one bit when you’re gone. Just watch.”
     By the time I got back to my room, tears had overflowed my eyes. Only after I shut off the lights and turned to lie sideways in the dark did I realize I’d forgotten the ice cream cone. A sudden headache thumped my head. The air conditioning decided to work better than all the previous nights. My body curled up; I shivered under the covers with my fists pressed against my chest. The immediate sleep I was hoping for didn’t come, even after two hours.

VII.

Dear Dad,
     Things have taken a turn for the worse since we’ve gotten in touch. I wouldn’t be surprised if I came home one of these days and found that Kyle was gone. It’s no longer a question of if but when, Dad. Maybe I’ve been naïve enough to believe that something would have changed because he likes my cooking. Or because Mom is now in the best shape a woman her age could be. Get this: I even expected him to shoot some hoops with her after work. Well, guess what? It never happened. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s allergic to basketball. That’s how serious whatever cannot be worked out between them is.
     PS: Hope Kyle is wrong about this, but according to him, Mom’s adventures have just begun. Apparently, this whole conundrum has boredom written all over it.
Love,
Sylvie

     In mid-July, Derick came to take me to the movies. He was twenty minutes early, and I had yet to shower. From a good distance across the garage, where he came to a standstill, the little mustache and beard he’d been growing were visible, and for a moment, it seemed as though he’d gotten a few inches taller and wiser. What I saw and couldn’t believe made his angular face seem at least two years younger: a clean haircut. “Pops forced me to get rid of the braids,” he said. A shy smile overcame him, but his voice sounded normal enough to assume that he hadn’t gotten into a fight with his father over this.
     His soft lips landing on my cheeks brought a rather rare smile to my face. The sweet pineapple scent from his breath made me want to grab him and suck on his lips right there for the whole world to see.
     “You know, we still haven’t decided on what we’re going to see, right?” I said to Derick, who was already losing concentration, thanks to Vivian’s presence.
     She was shooting hoops, warming up in the soft breeze, while waiting for the Coolio Boys to arrive.
     “What about Charlie and the Chocolate Factory? Or do you prefer Wedding Crashers?” I said while trying to keep my voice normal to contain my sudden discontent.
     “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Derick said. “I mean, I’ll watch whatever you pick. Come on, now, girl, go get ready. I’ll be out here.” His dark brown eyes, which were always sharp, turned ecstatic. They narrowed in on Vivian and followed the woman’s every movement.
     “Hi, Vivian,” he said with the biggest smile I’d ever seen on his face.
     “Hello, Derick! Love the haircut, sweetie!” Vivian said without turning her head toward us.
     Oh, so it’s Vivian now, eh?
     Who was he more excited to see? Me or her? I had yet to get inside the house when Derick started retrieving the ball for her, watching as she executed the tricks she’d learned from her new friends and watching the NBA.
     You better get a hold of yourself, Derick, before I make your sorry ass sorry. All I have to do is pretend I’ve met someone else who’s a lot more interesting than you. Or, better yet, fake a headache and call the whole evening off.
     Derick grew quiet on our way to Wendy’s in his father’s sports car. After he glanced twice at my button-down blouse—which I’d forgotten since my navel piercing—I stopped clutching at my new braids. Why not a sexier or fancier top? Whatever he assumed, I believed the indigo blue went well with my baseball cap and white, patched-together denim. No one could tell me the frayed edges around the jeans didn’t look nice. As for the braids, I’d not rush to condemn him if he thought they should be in another girl’s hair. My solution to frizzy hair hadn’t been so kind. So I had to wear them sometimes.
     Not long after, Derick turned on the radio to Tyrese’s “How You Gonna Act Like That.” I told him to turn it off or switch it to another station. Something about the song felt so right, yet the last thing I wanted was to sit there feeling sad and sorry to the point where I had to apologize for the breakup.
     “Something wrong?” he asked.
     “Just—”
     He turned off the music. “How’s your driving coming?”
     “Not as bad as your driving.”
     “Got a ticket yet?”
     “For what?”
     “For doing things like this.” He ran a stop sign and couldn’t stop laughing about it.
     When I failed to laugh or yell at him, and because he must have been expecting a reaction, he said with so much thrill in his voice, “Your mom is a lot more fun than you’ll ever be.”
     “Why don’t you ask her out?”
     “Maybe I will. Wait till she gets that job and becomes, like, I don’t know, a local celebrity or something.”
     “What?”
     “Oh, didn’t she tell you guys? She applied for this job about a month ago. Yeah.”
     “What job is that?”
     “High school basketball. You know, coaching girls.” Derick giggled at the puzzled look on my face. “My bad. I thought you knew. Honest to God, I didn’t know she’d take it that seriously. I kinda told her it was something she could do if she was interested. Was just thinking she could do that, you know; have some fun while at it.” A few seconds later, he hit the side of the wheel in utter displeasure. “Ah, shit. I’m not sure I was supposed to tell you this.” His eyes were pleading, and his voice became less excited. “It’s supposed to be a surprise to you guys. Look, don’t tell her anything, please.”
     “Okay.”
     “I don’t think you understand. I mean, it’s important. Okay?”
     “Fine! I got it, man!”
     He sneered, disliking the way I responded and my insolent tone.
     “Can we go straight to the movies instead?”

VIII.

     When Derick dropped me off at the house at sunset, Kyle was scooping up pieces of glass with a broom and dustpan in the parking lot. Even though he wore his gym clothes, I could tell he had yet to go to the gym. It was around this time that he often left the house. His forehead crumpled to such a degree that the space between his peaked eyebrows was reduced to a quarter of an inch. His lower lip twitched again and again before his mouth pursed into a grimace. But all he did was shake his head at the last two Coolio Boys exiting the house, drinking Powerade. They sniggered at my clumsiness as my foot skidded over a Powerade bottle cap, causing me to drop my handbag.
     “I’m sick of her letting these kids inside the house,” I said after they swaggered away. I spotted several empty bottles of Powerade scattered across the grass and noticed one area near the fence where crushing footprints had ruined the landscaping.
     “This was bound to happen,” Kyle said. His face hardened even more, but the real anger was growing in his voice. “I warned her, didn’t I? I told her I didn’t want them around here anymore. I meant it. Ah, what’s the use?”
     A couple of giant strides propelled me into the garage, where I found that his Lexus driver-side window was no more. “Jesus, how did this happen?” I asked aloud, glaring at the two basketballs on the rack below the tools.
     Kyle’s unresponsiveness led me into the house. Vivian, who was taking a shower, came out of the bathroom in a bathrobe, drying her hair with a towel. “Did you have a good time, honey?” she asked, tired of me glowering at her from the middle of her bedroom. Was she clueless as to why I stood there, my arms folded across my chest? Almost a minute passed before she said, “Okay. It was an accident, Sylvie. Lil’ Duncan threw the ball at him, and he missed it. All Kyle had to do was catch it.”
     “Didn’t he tell you not to invite those kids around here anymore?”
     “Oh, honey, that’s just talk.” Her voice trailed a bit to add a dramatic effect that never existed. “For all I know, it could have been me who threw the goddamn ball. I told you it was an accident.”
     “Maybe you should have listened to him. No more games.”
     “Come again?”
     “You heard me. Why do you have to make it so difficult for everyone else?”
     “I say what can and cannot be done around here. Not you, not him. It’s my house. Understand?”
     Doses of rage seeping through my veins rushed me out of the room. Hot breath whistled through my teeth. I stomped back into the garage, grabbed a flathead screwdriver, and stabbed the basketballs.

​

IX.

     When I came home from Blockbuster the next day, I wondered whether Vivian had already discovered the damaged basketballs. The last thing I needed was to get into a fight with her. Slumped on the leather couch, three Coolio Boys watched NBA TV instead of warming up for their game. Their come-hither greetings—“What’s up, Sylvie?” and “What’s happenin’, girl?”—went nowhere. I aimed straight for the kitchen without saying a word. “Yo, you think Derick been hitting that ass?” one of them asked in a whisper the moment I turned my back to them. I turned around and flashed them the middle finger.
     There was nothing to eat, and I didn’t feel like cooking that evening, so I lay in bed while waiting for Kyle to come home. Maybe I’d accompany him if he wanted to eat out.
     THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
     Less than ten minutes later, the annoying thumping sound came from outside. This I wanted to see for myself, assuming that one of the Coolio Boys had shown up with the basketball. But then I froze outside the door when I saw Vivian. She stood in the hallway in the warm white light. Her jaws clenched tight, and she stomped toward my room in her athletic attire, spinning a used basketball on her finger.
     “Do you have a problem with me, young lady?” the woman asked, placing the ball under her arm.
     I shrugged.
     Her pretty face contorted in sheer indignation.
     I loved it.
     If I possessed or believed in real magical powers, I’d cast a spell on her, so her screwed-up face would stay that way forever.
     Alas, I succumbed to her glares as I bit my thumb and looked down.
     “Just don’t do it again,” the woman said. “If you have a problem with me, you come out and say it. Don’t be a pest.” She turned her back before I could say anything. “Who knows? Maybe something good will come out of it.”
     All my muscles tensed. Blood rushed through my face as I bolted back to my room and slammed the door. I pounded the dresser until my knuckles bled, and I couldn’t stand the pain any longer as tears came to my eyes.

X.

Dear Dad,
     Mom and the Coolio Boys play outside as I write this. They’re so loud that I can make out some of their jokes from my room. Not only do the games go on for hours, but they’ve become more frequent, too, following the broken car window incident three weeks ago.
     Guess I start out this way ’cause I don’t have any good news, Dad. Kyle left early this afternoon. I think he waited for me to go to the library to make his move. Who knows? Maybe he didn’t dare say goodbye in person for fear of it being too painful for both of us. I found the little note, along with two hundred and fifty dollars in cash, inside an envelope on the old antique dresser. You know, how much he’ll miss me . . . his leaving has nothing to do with me. That kind of thing.
Hugs,
Sylvie

     The first morning without Kyle in the house brought paralysis and a sense of hopelessness. I stayed in bed in my usual dusty-rose nightwear and didn’t even think about the money he left me or the school shopping I could do with it the following week. It was as if I had an upset stomach or was coming down with a fever. I tried hard not to be transported to the past by any old memories that could only worsen my feelings. To achieve this, I opened the window blinds to let in the soft reflection of the sun, went back to bed, and tried to read Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. Facing the window helped me avoid looking at any pictures on the walls for the next two hours.
     What was on my agenda for the day? Should I even do anything?
     The car came to mind, and so did the expenses often associated with owning a vehicle. Yes, I supposed Vivian had enough money saved to cover insurance, car repairs, and utility bills. But how would she pay for everything else without a job?
     Speak of the devil!
     Her sudden knock on the door reinforced my thoughts instead of distracting me from them. I sat cross-legged on the bed. My unresponsiveness compelled her to invade my privacy. Yet, I must admit that I only pretended not to care when an image caught my eye: the delicate burgundy mascara she’d applied that complemented her plum-colored lipstick. Dressed in the latest fashion—a red V-neck top and tight blue jeans—she assumed a foxy pose by the door, three steps from the dresser. She scanned everything I owned. Her fragrance permeated the room while I surveyed her with one eye, the open book blocking the other side of my face. I’d switched the book to my left hand so I could better hide from her the dark bruises on my right knuckles.
     Her eyes showed not the slightest sign of the despair, bitterness, or confusion that one would expect on a morning like this. Before she could find anything to say, her eyes turned suspicious. Her gaze traveled from the dresser (culinary magazines that no longer interested me now that Kyle was gone) to the ceramic floor, scattered with dirty undies that had failed to make it to the white plastic laundry basket.
     “So, Sylvie-e-e-e-e.” Her voice trailed off as though a new idea that had nothing to do with me had entered her mind this instant, distracting her. She moved across the dresser just enough to see my reflection. “What was I saying?” After a few seconds, she snapped her fingers and continued, “Right. Is there any particular reason you’re still in bed? It’s already ten o’clock, is it not?”
     My silence drew a slight reaction from her; the woman eyed me over her shoulder and followed that with a short yet silly laugh that made no sense to me.
     “Wanna let me in on what’s so funny?” I said, not realizing the level of displeasure and outright contempt in my voice until several seconds later.
     She sat on the edge of the bed and lowered the book in my hand. “Well, I guess it’s only the two of us now,” she said. “Look, there are some things I wanted to talk to you about, but I guess this didn’t happen because, to put it simply, I had a feeling you wouldn’t understand.”
     Did she know how lucky she was to receive a shrug from me instead of the middle finger? In my book, a shrug represented nothing less than kindness, a class act of significant generosity.
     “Okay. Kyle . . . has never been a happy person, Sylvie.”
     I scoffed at her and tried to resume reading.
     “No, sweetheart, that’s the cold, hard truth.”
     I slammed the book shut, unfolding my right leg.
     She held my shoulder to keep me immobile and said, “See? If only you had the faintest idea how much I hate it when you sit there and presume you know everything.” She bolted from the bed and went back to the dresser. Now, from where she stood with her hands on her hips, I couldn’t see her face. “I don’t know what you want me to say, but that’s how the man was. Always unhappy. That’s how he was built. If you think you or I could have done anything to change what was a reality all along, well, you’re dead wrong.”
     The room fell silent until I asked the woman where she was going.
     She sighed in fake relief (what else could it have been?), grabbed a ply of tissue from the dresser, and tapped the corner of one eye. “Just going out,” she said. “You know, a few stops here and there. God, I haven’t seen Brenda in ages. Maybe I could drive down to Fort Lauderdale before the day is over. Surprise her like a soldier coming home.” She turned with the cutest grin she could manage, her eyes as bold as ever, without a trace of tears.
     “I thought you were going out to look for a job or something,” I said, baiting her to see if she’d mention the job she’d applied for.
     “I see. You worry about money, is that it? Come on, now. Nothing but utility bills. It’s not like we have a mortgage or anything like that. Right?”
     I shrugged again.
     “Well, for your information, I have it under control, Sylvie.” The same grin rose on her face again. “Just when I presumed the first thing you’d say to me today was congratulations.”
     “Say what?”
     “I’m talking about my license suspension. It’s been over since yesterday. Yay! I’m free as a bird!” The woman threw her hands in the air while her feet clattered out of the room, her hips swinging from side to side.
     Without wasting time, I ate a late breakfast, following a rather cold shower. Should I call Derick and ask him to stop by? Thinking it over, I put on something sexy—the cleanest and finest booty shorts I could find. Maybe we could do it on Vivian’s queen-sized bed for once. I hadn’t even finished tidying up my room when I called.
     “No. Actually, I don’t think he’s here,” Derick’s mother answered, her voice breathy as hell, like she was struggling to breathe through a stuffy nose. “Didn’t he go somewhere with your mother?”
     “Wait, what? Vivian?”
     “Yes.”
     “Are you sure?”
     “Well, I believe he mentioned something like that. I don’t know.”
     “When was that?”
     “A while ago. Why are you asking me? Is something wrong, dear?”
     “No, I’m sorry.”
     Derick and Vivian? Think. Think, you stupid. Keep a heady calm. Fingers laced behind my neck, I sucked air through my teeth. Next, I took a long, deep, regular breath. The notion of them having gone shopping for basketball accessories hit me right on time. That was it, I decided, before I could get all worked up about something else I wasn’t supposed to think about. Not until I unlaced my fingers did I discover several fresh tooth marks on the back of my hand. 
     Now, the anticipation of going to the master bedroom had vanished. I masturbated in bed and lay there after the climax. About two hours later, I heard a throaty, growl-like sound entering the parking lot. When I heard the front door open, the mechanical sound went dead. Vivian’s and someone else’s muffled voices drew me into the living room.
     With her lips widening further apart and the tip of her tongue sticking out, Vivian grabbed my hand and said, “Let’s go outside, Sylvie. Let me show you something cool.” Derick, who had a black and white helmet in his hand, moved his feet as though he were beginning to learn a foreign dance. He wore a neutral smile, like the face between anxiousness and excitement.
     Outside, a brand-new motorcycle sat beside the sedan. “Whatever you say, don’t tell me to take it back. Please,” the woman said. She came to stand beside it with her back to the basketball hoop. “Well?” she said, her palms pressed together beneath her chin like she was waiting for me to open a present.
     Still speechless, Derick pursed his lips, so I stood there with my arms crossed, nonplussed. What was I supposed to say? 
     “It’s a 2004 Sportster 1200 Roadster!” the woman said. “I know what you’re going to say: Can we afford it? Can we afford it, Mommy? Whatever. Wait till you hear this. It’s not even one hundred dollars a month. Way, way less than that, Sylvie.” She strolled around her new toy for a few seconds and raised her fists like she was rolling the motorcycle’s throttle as she went inside the house, chanting, “All I have to do now is learn how to ride it. I have a feeling it’s going to be fun and easy. Oh, yeah.”
     What else could Derick do besides ride a motorbike? He hadn’t moved from where he stood with the helmet still in his hands, making it difficult for me to guess if he even enjoyed the ride. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll tell you all about it,” a part of me expected to hear from him. It never came to pass. Nonetheless, one thing became clear: While his little stunt impressed me, I wouldn’t be surprised if he showed up the next day on an Arabian horse or Mustang to take me out.
     “Before you say anything, listen, this wasn’t my idea,” he said. “All I know is we were looking at some stuff in the game section at Best Buy, and all of a sudden, she wanted to buy a PlayStation 2. So I was like, It’s kind of a shitty thing to do with PlayStation 3 coming out next year, right? You know, why bother? Girl, next thing I knew, after we saw those cool bikes outside in the parking lot, she was like, ‘I gotta get me one of those, Derick.’ Before I knew it, we went motorcycle shopping.”
     I pulled Derick’s face with both hands for a smooch. “You know something? I believe you.”
     He stared open-mouthed with a question in his eyes.
     “Derick? I do.”
     “Okay. Cool. Hey, you smell nice.”
     “Thanks.”
     “Like that flower. What is it again? My dad’s favorite. For the old lady. Anyway, can we do something fun later?”
     “How about tomorrow?” I asked.
     We smiled once before I got back into the house, all the while attempting to block Vivian’s adventures out of my mind.

XI.

     The next day, I left my bed almost two hours early, unlike the day before. Banana slices were tossed into my breakfast cereal, which I ate while reading the comic section in a two-day-old newspaper. It wasn’t until I decided to do the crossword puzzles as well—which I seldom did anymore—that I remembered Vivian’s latest photos. I was hunched over the table where I’d been picking at my supper for at least an hour when she returned home late the night before. She had been tapping the Eckerd picture envelope against her palm as though she wanted me to see it.
     I put away the cereal bowl before Vivian could come home from wherever she’d gone that morning. I wiped away the tiny puddles of condensation on the purple place mat and hurried toward the master bedroom.
     For fear of disliking what I might find, I came to a halt two feet from the entrance. Her cologne, still hanging in the room, wafted from the doorway. My face turned away from the room. I imagined and imagined. All I could see was a pile of four-by-six photos—glossy images of her making a jump shot, the ball parting two inches from her fingers. The second or third photo from the stack was certain to flaunt her midsection, her glistening biceps, and the basketball under her arm. So close I came, but I still couldn’t go any further, even to see the difference Kyle’s absence had made and what was left of his comforting scent with everything emptied from his wardrobe.
     What should I do to forget about this nerve-wracking episode? Resuming reading Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone would help, I assumed. It did. At one time, I heard an anxious Vivian on the phone with her lawyer in the living room. “Am I what? What divorce lawyer asks such a question? Yes, I do mind if you put me on hold. No, I’m busy all day, Mr. Wolverton. Trust me, I have a lot on my plate.” I continued reading once I realized the conversation didn’t entail any job interviews.
     With the time for my afternoon rendezvous with Derick approaching, I chose a casual outfit. I applied light moisturizer to my face before the mirror. For a brief moment, I wondered if Kyle was happy. Was he thinking about me or Vivian? Would he call me soon, on the first day of school or my seventeenth birthday, weeks before Thanksgiving?
     I was trying to recall the last thing he said to me before leaving when Vivian knocked on my door.
     She opened the door before I could answer. Filled with excitement, her eyes weren’t focused on me but rather on the small fruit salad in her hand, as if she were examining each fruit before putting it in her mouth. “Do you have the iron?” she asked as she stood in the doorway in her baby blue tank top.
     “Sure. I’ll get it,” I said with a scoff. That was when I noticed the envelope—the recent letter I wrote to my father. It sat on the bedside table behind the iron. It’d been such a chaotic week that I’d forgotten to file it with the others in my drawer. As much as I wanted the woman to talk about what my father was like for a change, the last thing I needed was for her to discover the letters.
     “Derick is here. I mean, I think I heard his car,” she said after I handed her the iron.
     “Then why didn’t you say so?”
     “I just did.” A smirk grew on her face before she shut the door behind her.
     My eyes fluttered shut as my hand refrained from reaching my cream eyeshadow on the dresser. My father’s handsome face floated in my mind. Tiny hairs danced and twisted on the back of my neck as I heard his sweet and caring voice. Sylvie? Are you okay in there? The door creaked open following a soft knock, just enough to poke his head inside. Um, I believe there’s a young man waiting outside for you. Am I saying this right, sweetheart? Said his name is Derick. Do you know him? And what rose on my father’s face was his infectious smile, his gaze trained on my face. Wow. My baby girl’s all grown up. You look beautiful. I placed my hands on my heart. Then, I kept smiling long after I opened my eyes, misted with tears.