“Dude, just stop this,” I mutter at his side. He doesn’t bother to look at me, dismissing me with a flick of his hand.
“What? Hollis is good with it. Aren’t you? We don’t have a problem here.” He nods at her, prompting her to fold or call his bluff. Only, he isn’t bluffing. I’ve seen Zack get like this before. When we were little and playing against club kids from the rich teams, he stood his ground over fights he clearly picked. It always felt as if we were on the righteous side back then, but now he comes off like a dick.
“Yeah. We’re good,” Hollis says, nodding slowly. Her eyes lazily sweep from Zack to Tory, then to me. She’s summing up everyone present, and I’m not sure what label she’s assigning me.
“We’ll call that a foul, then. Your ball,” Zack says, letting it fall from his fingers into a lazy bounce in her direction.
“How very honest of you,” Hollis bites back.
She doesn’t pause for long, catching us all off guard by faking a shot then driving in around Zack for a left-handed layup. Her move draws praise, some of the guys waiting for the next game whistle, and both D’Angelo brothers bump fists with her. It was impressive, and it was actions instead of words. I expect it to only light more gas in Zack’s belly, but he seems equally impressed, nodding with big movements as he says, “Okay, I see you.”
For the next ten minutes of play, everything and everyone seems to find a rhythm. Zack holds a stiff forearm against Hollis while he dribbles in, but he never crosses the line into flagrant fouling. It’s a contact sport, and it stays contact—hands smacking against arms when shots are fired, inadvertent scratches, tripped-up feet, trash talking spilling equally from all our mouths. I block one of Hollis’s shots on a double-team and she nails me right back, punching the ball between my legs and right into Tory’s hands. We’ve battled so hard, nobody’s noticed the dark clouds creeping in and the sudden drop in temperature. The only thing that could shake our moods would be the clouds opening up and dumping icy rain on our game—or what my cousin does . . . right . . . now.
Hollis has the ball, working it around the imaginary three-point line, Zack stuck to her like second skin, hands reaching in but never quite fast enough to throw her off or find the steal. Our shoes are loud against the pavement, screeching when we stop hard, and sliding against loose gravel. Tory is nearly impossible to guard, but I’m doing my best, always somehow in contact with his body, be it an elbow matching the one he’s got in my ribs or our legs fighting for position. The game’s tied, and maybe that’s what pushes Zack over the edge. Maybe he was waiting for his moment.
Or maybe . . . maybe he’s desperate and angrier and more insecure than I realized.
After long seconds of faking grabs at the ball and getting nowhere, Zack swings his hand around Hollis’s side, his hand slapping against her ass with enough force that the sound of skin-on-skin bites through the heavy wind despite the padding of her joggers. He yaps in laughter, practically beating his chest when the ball juts out from the top of her foot, her world visibly thrown.
My arms suddenly go slack, no longer struggling to hold on for defense. Tory’s do the same, no longer itching for the ball. Only the people in our game actually see it—feel it—but the awfulness of it all actually chokes me.
The ball now in his possession, my cousin rushes the lane, no one engaged enough to stop him, and dunks the ball with enough force that the rim vibrates along with the slow rumble coming from the clouds above.
“I gotta get home. I think it’s going to rain,” Hollis says, her gaze at no one in particular and her announcement cursory, an excuse to let us all leave and pretend everything is normal. Maybe it is. Maybe that was something playful, like the way Tory slaps Hayden’s ass when he does a good job. Maybe I didn’t see what I think I saw, or feel what I should have.
The fact Hollis is already in her van and swinging around for a U-turn tells me my instincts are sickly attuned.
I glance to the right, everyone suddenly broken up, gone in different directions—away from my cousin who is still shooting and smiling, proud of his big win. Hollis’s ball still sits in the grass. I walk over and kick it up into my hands, rotating it until I see her name carved into the side in thick black pen marks. I trace it with my thumb, a sourness coating my stomach that I immediately try to convince myself is only in my head. I glance out to the road in time to make eye contact with Hollis as she drives by, and I know better.
This problem between her and my cousin? It’s only going to get worse. And I’m in the very middle.
8
Hollis
I’ve gotten better at pretending for my parents. For a while, I still had a lot of tells. They could sense that something was under my skin because of the way I picked at my dinner plate or only gave short answers. I’ve found that sticking with my natural knack of being a smart-ass can carry me through any interaction without questions.
I came home from basketball Friday and pulled into the driveway seconds before my father did. Mask in place, I rushed from the car and ran toward him, greeting him as he stepped out of his truck, and leaping at him like one of those flying monkeys at the Bronx zoo. He had exactly two seconds to prepare for my weight, but he still caught me effortlessly, despite how awkward it looks when
