Whisper to Me(63)

“What size?” said Paris.

“Make one shot, get a small one. Two shots, medium; three shots—”

“Large?” said Paris.

“Yeah.”

“Shocker,” said Paris.

The kid rolled his eyes.

“I work in the plush warehouse,” you said. “I can get a stuffed toy whenever I want.”

“Winning one is different,” said Paris.

“Tell me about it,” said Julie. “I’ve never won anything in my life.”

“Don’t be defeatist,” said Paris.

“Well, I’m up for it,” said Shane. He was kind of bouncing on his toes. He wanted to impress Paris. She wasn’t even looking at him. She lined up her ball and threw it; it bounced off the rim and the kid caught it. Smoothly, I have to say. He didn’t look sporty, but he’d been behind that counter for a month maybe. I knew the feeling.

Paris missed her next two shots too, and then Shane stepped forward and sank his first ball beautifully, straight down through the hoop. He missed the next two though and chose a bunny rabbit Beanie Baby. He handed it to Paris, and she clutched it to her chest, with her two Elmos. “My hero,” she said.

“Uh, okay,” said Shane, like he didn’t know if she was insulting him or not. It was sometimes hard to tell with Paris.

You took your first ball. “I suck at ball games,” you said.

“Excuses,” said Paris.

“Sucking is not an excuse. It’s just sucking. I’m not trying to hide anything.”

Paris frowned. “Yeah, acknowledged. I take it back.”

“Good,” you said, and Paris laughed, and I laughed, because I was glad, I was glad you and her were clicking, even if somewhere deep down I had a worry that went, What if he likes her more than he likes you?

You shot: missed.

Missed again.

Missed again.

“Said I sucked,” you said.

“You were not lying,” said Paris. “Cass. You’re up.”





Maybe it was the kid who made me do it. I don’t know. The way he patronized me. I mean, he handed me the ball and he said, “You might want to come a bit closer. The hoops are higher than they look.”

I raised my eyebrows. He had a month on that stall; I had two whole summers. I got the ball up on my palm, rolled it off my fingers as I laid it up, and it back-spun in an arc that just happened to send it sailing over the kid’s head, and it fell through the hoop with a hush.

Nothing but net.

“You done this before?” said the kid.

“Yep.”

I spun the next ball on my finger and then let it settle in my hand.

Hush.

Two.

Hush.

Three.

“So … ah … you get to choose a big one,” said the kid.

Paris started to say something, behind me, some innuendo, but Julie got in quick, said, “Nuh-uh. Don’t even think about it.”

“Spoilsport,” said Paris.

“What do you want?” asked the kid. He gestured at the big toys on the top shelf.

“I don’t know,” I said. “What do you recommend?”

“What do I recommend? Out of the plush kiddies’ toys?”

“Yes.”

He shrugged. “Cookie Monster, I guess.”

“I like cookies,” you said.

“Perfect,” I said. I reached out, took the Cookie Monster the kid handed me. It was surprisingly heavy, and furry. It’s funny how holding a toy like that gives you a momentary feeling of warmth, of comfort, even though you’re not small anymore. I handed it to you.

“For me?” you said.

“You like cookies. There you go.”

“Oh wow,” said Paris. “Now it’s Jersey Official.”

“What?” said Julie.

“She’s from out of town,” said Paris.

“So are you,” I said.

Paris waved this away like it was an unimportant detail; small print.

“What?” said Julie.

“When a guy wins a toy for a girl on the boardwalk, that’s like the sign that they’re, you know, together,” said Shane.

“Shut up, it’s not,” I said, feeling myself going red. Even though I knew it totally was.

Awkward.

“Anyway, she’s not a guy,” you said. “She’s … a girl.” But you had hesitated too long—Paris caught it. Hell, even I caught it, and I’m not exactly experienced with this stuff. The pause. The inflection on “girl.”

“She certainly is,” said Paris. “You’ve noticed that, huh?”

Double awkward.

“Shut up,” I said again. I was waiting for the voice to chime in, to tell me that I was imagining this vibe anyway, this idea that you might be interested in me, but then I remembered that you were there, so the voice wouldn’t speak.

You lifted the Cookie Monster, pushed it between me and Paris. “Excuse me,” you said, in the Cookie Monster’s voice. “I’m hungry. I want cookies.”

Paris smiled. “No cookies. This is Jersey, land of the funnel cake.”

You nodded. “Funnel cake it is, oh courageous leader.”