“Give it a fucking rest, Bigger,” Bither bellows from the flatbed of someone’s pickup truck.
The net’s gone, of course, but the mild temperature has left the pavement exposed. He intends no serious exertion, just wants to kill some time before going home. Keep his hands filled so they won’t wind up wrapped around a beer bottle or groping some girl. He spiders the dribble, shifts it to his knees, lets it rise and converts to walking figure eights. He forgets the parking lot and the noise from the gym and the uneven light.
Sardonic applause startles him and he spins around to find the Mutant grasping the hurricane fencing around the court. She rattles it furiously.
“Shirt!” she hisses.
Loping to the truck, he retrieves his sweatshirt and re-enters the court. Rather than go around the outside, he keeps the fence between them and stuffs the shirt through one of the diamond-shaped holes. She drops her coat. She is wearing a black Harley T-shirt that must have come out of Paul Romney’s tool kit. It’s greasy and full of holes—fits right into her look. Her tits in the lace bra stick out the tears in the shirt; the tips are like candied cherries before they disappear under the sweatshirt. She’s tied her headrag at the side with a hint of twenties flapper. The details lock themselves into Sam’s brain at first glance; he can’t help it. And the horniness in the gym is back in spades. She resumes her coat hastily.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” he says. “You ought to be home getting well, not prancing around showing off your tits.”
“Up yours,” she says.
He thinks about it a minute. “You wish?” he tries.
“Ha!” She slaps her hand against the fence, vibrating it.
Curling the fingers of his left hand through the wire, he stops the vibration. “You going to be able to make the practices during break?”
“Of course. I’m okay.”
On opposite sides of the fence, they have unconsciously adopted mirror poses with one hand on the fence. The chain links cast shadows all over her, cutting her into Mutant diamonds.
“Didn’t like the music?” she asks.
Sam gestures toward the gym. “ ‘This ain’t no disco, this ain’t no party, this ain’t no foolin’ around,’” he quotes.
She bursts out laughing. “What is it then? You can’t leave it alone.”
“Trying to leave the other stuff alone,” he admits. “Booze to the left of me, babes to the right. Thought I’d be safe out here.”
She grins. She gives the fence an emphatic shake. “Everybody else partying their heads off and I’m as straight as you are. Thought I’d at least have a smoke. Came outside looking to bum one. But I don’t really want to. I mean, I don’t want to but I do. You know? I don’t want to get sick again. Miss any more games.”
“Yeah.”
Their gazes meet in a moment of silence. Her dark eyes are level with determination; she wants him to know how serious she is about playing. About winning. The tightness of her mouth, her fingers around the wires, the tension of her leg muscles telegraph the same message. He nods, smiling approval and encouragement. She strolls around the corner of the fence and onto the court. With a shrug, he drops the ball into her hand.
She dribbles it thoughtfully. “I thought maybe J.C.’d be in a good mood tonight and I could make up with him, but he’s more interested in Lexie now. I’m still cheesed at him anyway.”
Stay cheesed at him, Sam thinks. I’ll keep him in a bad mood.
She pauses. “You fell kind of hard yesterday.”
Sam gently taps the ball loose from her hands.
“I’m okay. One on one?”
She grins at him. The chains on her face ripple in the light from the parking lot.
“Hey,” she assures him. “ ‘This ain’t no foolin’ around.’”
Coat skirts swirling dervishly, the Mutant pirouettes beneath the hoop and rockets to dunk the ball. It drops through the hoop into Sam’s extended palm.
The fence caroms, this time under the flat of Rick’s hand, with a noise like dragging chains.
“Sick, obsessive behavior,” he calls.
The Mutant answers with a double bird.
“She can’t help it,” Rick explains to Sarah. “Drug damage.”
Snickering, Sarah ducks her face against Rick’s chest. A little drug-damaged herself. Rick too.
The Mutant gives Sarah a disinterested once-over. “Got a butt? Better yet, a jay?”
Sarah whips out her cigarettes. The Mutant hesitates.
“They’re French,” Sarah says.
“Gauthier’s in training,” Sam objects. “And just getting over pneumonia.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” The Mutant kicks at his foot. “Mind your own business, Preacher.”
But she waves off Sarah’s pack. Sarah shrugs and lights one for herself.
The parking lot’s noisier and busier.
“They’re shutting this place down,” Rick says. He has his arm inside Sarah’s coat, around her waist. One hand under her sweater.
“Right. I’m outta here. You need a ride?” Sam asks the Mutant.
“See my limo? Chauffeur’s fucking off again,” she says.
Rick and Sarah are playing grab-ass, chasing each other around the court.
As Sam gives the Mutant a hand up, she looks past him and hoots at somebody. When he turns to look, he sees it is Nat, just leaving the gym with Deb Michaud and Kerry Hatch. Eyes narrow, Nat smiles acidly.
Shit and double shit. Shit to the tenth power.
He ducks behind the wheel. Hugely pleased with herself, the Mutant leans back as if she really were in her limo. He grabs a tape and slots it angrily, punching up the volume to eliminate conversation.
“All right!” The Mutant twitches on the seat. Very shortly, however, she thumbs down the volume without a by-your-leave and points out a yellow farmhouse set back from the road, less than a mile from the school. “That’s where my old bats live. The ones I clean for.”
He doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to know anything more about her than he already does. Which is too much.
“They took me to
