Chapter Forty

      “What’s the most amount of points you’ve scored in a game?”

      “Points or baskets?”

      “Points.”

      “Ever?”

      “Ever.”

      “Ninety-three.”

      “How is that even possible?”

      “Talent.”

      “Clearly,” he muttered. “How ‘bout baskets?”

      “Seriously, Dylan, why do you think that I would know?” I asked, throwing my backpack over my shoulder after dumping all my unneeded materials into my locker. School had ended a good one hundred and fifty-two seconds ago, so I no longer desired nor was required to be confined within the building.

      “Because you’re smart, and smart people usually keep track of crap like that,” he said, slinging an arm loosely over my shoulder. We began to walk down the hallway, inching closer and closer to the much-awaited exit. The entire day had dragged on, and felt as though it would never end. Ever since getting back from the Boston trip with him, things had been slightly different.

      Aside from stalking my mind of personal stats, the only thing he seemed to want to talk about was basketball. He wouldn’t leave me alone about it. Though it was refreshing to actually converse with someone about something other than shopping and football, it was a lot. He had been spending more and more time with me, finding my knowledge about the sport I loved quite the interesting topic. He was still the same Dylan I knew before, but there was something that just, well, different.

      Now, that wasn’t to say that the change was a bad thing—on the contrary, really. I loved being able to talk about basketball with a well-informed person, I really did. It was nice to be able to express who I truly was to someone without having to worry about ruining everything. Personality wise, I didn’t have to keep my full guard up anymore, and could be slightly more open. I had never enjoyed being myself more than I did with Dylan.

      “Forty-six,” I finally answered.

      “You scored forty-six baskets in a single game?” he gaped.

      “Yup,” I shrugged.

      “So, tell me again why you’re not playing for our school?” We continued to near the large doorway swarmed with teens.

      “Remember when I told you that people weren’t supposed to know that I played?” I questioned rhetorically with a sigh, thankful that he had finally dropped asking about my rationalization. He hadn’t been able to crack me during the four hours of hell I spent with him back to New York, and hadn’t brought up my motive in a while. “Yeah, well, playing for the school would pretty much defeat any and all secrecy of my abilities. Also, there is no way in hell that I would play for a school like this.”

      “Hey! What’s so wrong with Madison High?” he questioned defensively.

      I waited two moments of silence before it finally clicked in his mind and I chose to answer. “Uh, it’s Madison High. We’re in the middle of this suburban, rich kid community, and you expect me to play for their basketball team? Yeah, I don’t think so.”

      “Oh, c’mon! The girls’ team is pretty good… when they’re not fixing their hair in the middle of a game or complaining about having to cut their nails so they won’t chip, of course,” his argument crumbling just as fast as it came out of his mouth.

      “Girls’ team?” my tone was consumed in puzzlement and disgust. “Dylan, even I were to play basketball here, I wouldn’t play on the girls’ team.”

      “What do you have against girls?”

      “Nothing, the female gender is a wonderful one to be apart of, it being superior to male, but, at school like this, I wouldn’t play on the girls’ basketball team if you paid me,” I explained, exaggerating slightly. If I were to be paid to play on a crappy team then, maybe, just maybe, I would consider it.

      “Then what team would you play for?” he inquired, not understanding.

      “The boys’, of course,” I answered lightly, sensing surprise from him.

      “You’re kidding, right?” he let out an uneasy laugh.

      “Do I look like I’m kidding?” I said seriously, backing away from his hold so that he could see the authenticity of my expression.

      “Why on earth would you play for the boys’ basketball team?” he shook his head densely.

      “Because I’d rather play with people serious about the sport than with individuals sharing the same gender as me who couldn’t give two shits and are only playing because they think the uniforms look ‘cute’,” I sighed. “Besides, I’ve done it before.”

      “You’ve been on a boys’ basketball team before?” his face looked stunned.

      “Uh, yeah,” I said in a bored, ‘duh’ tone.

      “You never cease to amaze me, Lizzie. Never…” he smirked down at me, as I heard my name being called in another direction. I looked up and spotted Tara waving her hands feverishly at me, sending a glare to Dylan. I held up my index finger, indicating that I’d be right there.

      “It appears as thought I’m wanted,” I commented.

      “So, it does. I’m guessing this means that we’re going to have to postpone this conversation for another day?” he asked hopefully.

      “That, or you could use this really cool thing called ‘texting’ if you really wanted to,” I sent him a wink, inching my way away from him.

      “If you wanted me to text you all you had to do was ask, Lizzie,” he smirked, his eyes igniting up with jubilation.

      “Bye, Collins,” I bid, striding away from him.

      “Bye, Lizzie!” he called after me.

      I strolled over to Tara—the smile on my face only marginally faltering at I took in her evident scowl. Normally, she was the carefree, sweet, joyful one in the group. The expression she wore wasn’t normal.

      “Why were you talking to him?” she immediately interrogated upon my arrival.

      “Uh, because he’s my friend,” I supplied.

      “But he’s a boy,” she pointed out oh-so brightly. I physically had to bite my tongue to hold back the vomit of defense that instantly formulated in my mind in response. Despite Tara’s normal amiability, she wasn’t exactly the smartest at the majority of times.

      “So, what did you want to talk to me about?” I questioned, plastering on a fake grin as I tried to bury her words deep in the depths of my thoughts to not think about them.

      “Oh, right!” she said, as we strode through the threshold of the educational institution. I had escaped. Finally. “So, prom’s coming up, by the way, Eric’s going to ask you, and I wanted to remind you that you’re going to need a dress, because I feel like you’re one of those people who waits until the last minute to do things and yeah.” Well, she was right about one thing. Planning for the future had never really been “my thing.” In fact, I hated it.

      At the mention of Eric, though, I cringed slightly in guilt, regret, and nostalgia. It was the same thing every morning. He would pick me up, say hi, ask if we could talk, and all I would give him in return was a simple, “Not today.” I had no desire to talk to Eric, and wasn’t sure when I would be compelled to do so.

      “So, I need a dress for prom?” I summed up.

      “Yeah,” she nodded, “and, like, everything else. Oh, and also shoes, but I figured that since your mom’s, well, your mom, those wouldn’t be an issue.”

      “Oh,” was all I said.

      “Do you, like, need a ride, like, home today or is Eric, like, picking you up or, like, what?” I tried to piece together the main nouns and verbs in her question, as that was the only way to understand Tara: need, ride, home, Eric. Comprehending her at first was a challenge. I was much more accustomed to the fragmented slang that certain individuals I had befriended of the male gender (I also attributed my inclination to swear rather than exclaim, “OMG!” to them) over the years used. Tara was, well, Tara. She was definitely unique—that was for sure.

      I thought about what she was asking, and was about to say that a ride would be great, when a car horn honked loudly in front of us. Glancing up, I noticed that it was a vehicle that resembled one belonging to a woman by the name of Monica Turner. It even had the same license plate number, and everything! The driver continued to frantically press on the horn, creating a scene as she so often did. Disapprovingly, I shook my head, sending an apologetic look to Tara.

      “Thanks for the offer,” I said to her, “but my mom’s picking me up… or kidnapping me.”

      “Oh. Yeah. Totally! I love your mom! Have fun!” she said in the cheery tone I knew. I nodded once again, strolling at a speedy pace over to where my mother was idling her car (no doubt adding unneeded pollution to the air).

      “Finally!” my wonderful legal guardian exclaimed as I pulled the passenger’s door open. “How was school, Liz?”

      “Eh. Good, I guess,” I shrugged, strapping a seatbelt across my chest involuntarily. A high-pitched voice resembling that of Justin Bieber’s played as background noise, wafting its way into my ears.

      “That’s nice,” she said dismissively.

      “Uh huh,” I mumbled. “So, why are you picking me up again and why are you listening to Justin Bieber?”

      “Firstly, this isn’t Justin, honey. This is—” she started to correct.

      “Mom, I honestly don’t care, I’m sorry.”

      “Elizabeth, don’t be rude! And I’m picking you up because I feel like we don’t spend enough time together,” she went on, as if inducing a clear and not at all ambiguous comprehension from me.

      “I’ll ask again, why are you picking me up?” I reiterated, obtaining neither a desired nor truthful response.

      “Liz, what happened between you and Eric?” she asked, veering away from the subject yet again.

      “E-excuse me?” I stumbled, startled, though I shouldn’t have been after years of talking to my mom. She was Monica Turner—after a point, anything she did that could be perceived as “surprising”, just became her normal behavior.

      “There’s something going on between you and Eric. He hasn’t come into the house in the past couple weeks, and you seem content, but not happy,” she elaborated, expressing her intellectual observations.

      “Uh, we’re not exactly on speaking terms at the moment,” I said, immediately regretting it and wishing that I could shove the words back into my mouth.

      I gulped in a breath of air, bracing myself for the impact of what was to follow. Wait for it—wait for it—“Oh. My. Goodness! Liz! Are you saying that you’re heartbroken? You don’t even know how long I’ve waited for this moment! We’re going to have so much fun together! I’ll get the ice cream and you can pick out the romantic chick flick! This is why I wanted a daughter! Did you two break up? That would make this night way awkward, but that’s okay. We’ll work out your differences. What type of ice cream do you like?” Ah, there it was.

      Much like with Tara, at times, my mother’s speech needed to be dissected very carefully. As I played back her words in my mind, I picked out only the most necessary of phrases: heartbroken, “fun”, ice cream, “chick flick”, break up, night, and ice cream. Then, with my mom, I generally had to categorize everything to keep my thoughts straight: my relationship with Eric, bonding time with Monica, my whereabouts in the near future, and ice cream. Yup, I was screwed.

      “Mom,” I said slowly, making sure I had her full attention, “I’m not ‘heartbroken’, what are we doing tonight, and can I have ice cream?”

      “You’re not heartbroken?” she snapped her head over to me, momentarily not looking at the busy road ahead.

      “No, I’m not,” I shook my head, “please look back at the road.”

      “Liz!” she scolded. “Don’t get my hopes up like that and I know how to drive, thank you very much.” Her head swiveled back to the oncoming traffic of teens just let out of school and housewives picking up their kids from daycare and elementary school.

      “What are we doing later, and can I have ice cr—” I began to ask the other two topics that I had selected when my phone began to vibrate from someplace within the car, indicating that I had received a text from someone other than Monica. Bending down, I shuffled around in my backpack for a few moments, before extracting the source of disruption. After glancing at the screen quickly, I let out a real laugh, nothing like the emotionless “LOL” that was generally associated with the scope of texting. The message was that funny. Well, at least to me.

      “Who is it?” my intrusive mother asked.

      “Dylan,” I replied, placing my fingers on the required areas needed to respond.

      “What’d he say?” was her follow-up question.

      “He asked how many times I’ve fouled out of a game,” I snorted. Unsurprisingly, Monica let out a laugh too, clearly also recognizing the twisted humor that I had. I typed a concise, “2 many 2 count,” into my cellular device, shaking my head as a finger brushed across the feared “send” button.

      When I was younger, I had a few issues. I still had issues, as did everyone, but, at an earlier age, I had defined matters in my behavior of which my mother and others around me weren’t the biggest fans. Anger was an emotion I possessed a great deal of the time, and didn’t quite know how to handle it in the most constructive of ways. Sports were a good outlet to funnel all the aggression, but I still got mad while playing them. I was already a good enough player back then, but the additions of all my built-up aggression and easily ticked off personality made a deadly combination.

      It wasn’t only in sports that I displayed overly irritated conduct, for it followed me wherever I went: at home, school, out in public—everywhere. It was bad. Really bad. I had “anger issues”, and at about age nine or ten, my mom made the decision to send me to a psychologist to try and deal with everything. For about half a second she thought that maybe, just maybe, the way I was acting had to do with a “void” that wasn’t filled in regards to my lack of a father figure, but that notion was swiftly dismissed. I didn’t care whether or not I had a dad, and never did.

      Monica placed me into therapy session after therapy session. As a child who was used to getting what she wanted, I was definitely not happy that I was being forced to sit in a room with some lady I didn’t know who expected me to tell her about my life and what was going on with me. I didn’t want to be there, was trying to prove something to my mom, and was angry, resulting in complete and utter silence from me for the first few times that I went.

      The psychologist that Monica had hired was this lady in her mid-fifties who seemed ancient to me at the time, Dr. Plat. She was a nice woman, and had a calm voice to which I always liked listening. At the beginning, I didn’t understand how she could be a “doctor” when she didn’t wear a stethoscope around her neck or scrubs, like all the others in the medical professionals with whom I had come in contact over my years. She explained to me, once, that she was a “mind doctor” and helped people with things like being sad, confused, or, like me, mad. I didn’t like the concept of who she was, because I had no choice to talk to her, but, as a person, she was all right.

      My first couple visits were practically a contest of who could play the “Quiet Game” better, and a waste of money, in my eyes. We would sit in these comfy chairs, facing each other, just staring for fifty minutes straight. Then, one day, I got bored, and left the chair, walking over to one of the bookshelves I had seen week after week. There was a miniature basketball on one of the ledges, and it was calling my name. I picked it up, cradling it in both my hands carefully. “Basketball, huh?” Dr. Plat had said, after eyeing me with the object. I merely nodded, and then, for some reason, decided to open up slightly. It was a slow process, but I got better at dealing with my spurts of anger both on the court and off.

      Though I wouldn’t have even considered admitting it at the time, therapy helped me. Once a month, every Thursday, I would go to Dr. Plat, and just talk to her. Sometimes it would be about anger, and other times it would be about something as simple as one of my games. It was good to have someone to open up to. She taught me ways to deal with my aggression in a constructive way, and I would probably be forever grateful to her for it.

      Anyways, the reason I found Dylan’s text to be funny was because of what he had asked. He wanted to know how many times I had fouled out of a game. A foul occurred when a player was being too physical, and made prohibited contact with another player. Each player, generally, was granted a maximum of five fouls per game. When a player exceeded their personal limit of fouls, they “fouled out” of a game, and had to sit out for the rest of the game.

      In my extensive basketball career, I had been fouled out so many times that I truly wasn’t aware of the exact amount of times. When I was younger, it was worse, and about half the games that I played I ended up somehow fouling out, but, as I got older, the number of times I was forced to sit definitely decreased. I was an aggressive person when I was playing sports—it was just who I was. Therapy did help, but, honestly, it had to do a lot with maturity. I discovered that everything in life didn’t always go my way, and that I had to be okay with that.

      It was comical, almost, thinking about who I was when I was younger. The naivety I possessed at one time was shuddering to even think about. Everyone went through that one stage in their life that they weren’t completely proud of, though, so it was relatively inevitable for me. I was this little ball of anger with a passion for basketball and a lack of understanding for the world around me. Even if I could, though, I wouldn’t change who I was back then. Getting through the rough patches in life made the smooth ones all the more worth it.

      “Did you tell him that you stopped keeping track after the fortieth game?” my mom smiled, bringing me back to the world around instead of the realms of contemplation.

      “Kinda,” I laughed.

      “By the way, are you now telling people that you play basketball better than Michael Jordan, or is that still a secret?” her inquiry was more than legitimate.

      “No one is better than Jordan, and not really. Dylan figured it out, but otherwise, it’s still not something I plan on posting as my Facebook status any time soon,” I said.

      “I like Dylan. He’s a nice kid. Cute, too,” I saw the faint traces of smirk formulating on her face, as I mentally barfed.

      “Mom, you don’t even know how wrong that statement is on so many levels,” I shivered, trying to erase her words from my brain.

      “But you’re not denying it,” she pointed out as nonchalantly as she could.

      “Please stop!” I begged as my initial thoughts surfaced, reminding me of what I still had yet to ask her. “Can I have ice cream?”

      “Yeah, I bought some last week. It should be in the freezer,” she said, bringing a smile to my face with the promise of food, as I remembered that there was one more thing to confront her about.

      “What are we doing tonight?”

      “Oh, uh, nothing much,” she skirted around answering yet again.

      “Seriously, mom, tell me,” I pressed, determined to get a real answer.

      “Do you really want to know?” she sighed, acting as though the topic wasn’t an interest of hers.

      “Yes!” I exclaimed, not a fan of the unneeded suspense she was applying to the situation.

      “Well…” she trailed off, continuing to evade the information.

      “Monica Turner!” I snapped firmly.

      “Fine, fine, fine!” she agreed. And then, just as she so often did, in a span of nine words, one being a contraction, she wiped all notions of stability from my mind: “We’re going over to the Wilson’s house for dinner.”