Nothing to See Here (42)

“Okay,” Bessie said, shrugging, though I could tell that she wanted this distinction to be made clear.

“Hi,” Roland said to Timothy, who hid behind his mother. Eventually, though, he replied, “Hello,” and things seemed okay.

She offered us lemonade and we each took a glass and it was so cold and so sweet. The kids gulped it like they were dying of thirst, the lemonade leaking down the fronts of their shirts.

“You’re teaching them how to play basketball?” Madison asked me, and I couldn’t tell whether she thought this was a good or a bad idea.

“Trying to,” I said. “They’re getting it.”

“And things have been . . . good today?” she asked, and of course I knew what she meant. She meant, Have these children, who are now my wards, caught on fire and burned something beyond repair? Are they demons? Will they hurt me? Will they keep Jasper from becoming secretary of state?

I didn’t know exactly how to answer all that. There was so much to cover. So I just nodded. “Things are fine,” I said, as if that helped.

“Great,” Madison said, and like she had torn the wrapping off a gift, she smiled and moved on to whatever was next. She was wearing this Lycra thing, like something a speed skater would wear, kind of risqué, honestly, or maybe only I thought that. “Have you been exercising?” I asked her.

“I was doing aerobics in the workout room,” she said. “And then Timothy told me that you were out here, so I thought we’d come over and say hello.”

“Hey, Timothy,” I said, and the boy waved, the kind of wave that could easily have been dismissive but had just enough movement to be okay.

“Lillian is really good at basketball,” Roland offered.

“She is,” Madison acknowledged, and it gave me a slight thrill to hear it.

“Are you good at basketball?” Bessie asked her.

“I am,” she said, not the slightest hesitation.

“Better than Lillian?” Roland asked.

“Different skill set,” she said, and, even for me, an adult, this was not a satisfactory answer.

“You should play each other,” Bessie said, and I shook my head.

“Madison has stuff to do,” I told the kids.

“No,” she offered. “I don’t mind.”

“Well, we have lessons, right?” I asked the kids. I don’t know why I didn’t want to play her. Well, shit, no, I knew why. I didn’t want to lose in front of the kids. I didn’t want them to love her more than they loved me.

“No lessons,” the twins whined.

Madison took the ball out of my hands and started dribbling. “It’ll be fun,” she said. “Come on.”

I tried to think of a time when I hadn’t done what Madison had asked me to do. That time did not exist.

“Okay,” I said. “A quick game, I guess.”

“Timothy,” Madison said, “sit on the bleachers there with Roland and Bessie.” Timothy looked like he’d been asked to sit on a hill of fire ants, but he did what he was told. Bessie and Roland sat scrunched together on the edge of the bleachers, amazed to see this sport, this game of basketball, performed right in front of them, like it had been invented only fifteen minutes earlier.

“Do you need to warm up?” I asked her, and she shook her head.

“I’m good,” she said. “We’ll play to ten.” She passed the ball to me and set herself for whatever would follow. She was giving me enough room to shoot, almost daring me to take the shot, just to get a sense of my range. Or maybe, I thought as I started dribbling, she wanted me to drive, so she would tower over me, ruling the interior. I faked a drive, but Madison didn’t even seem concerned, simply postured up again and waited. I threw up a shot, perfect from the moment it left my hand, and it fell effortlessly through the hoop.

“Hell yes!” Roland shouted.

“Watch your language around Timothy,” I said, and Madison nodded her approval, of both the admonishment and the shot.

She had chased down the ball and passed it back to me. 1–0. This time, she played me a little closer, those long arms, her hand just a few inches from my face, her fingers almost wiggling. I stepped back, took the shot, and it went through the hoop again, nothing but net.

“Yay,” Roland said.

“Nice shot,” Madison said, and I didn’t reply. My heart was racing. I loved playing. Even at the YMCA, when I played girls a lot younger than me but not nearly as good, when I played men who let me join, no matter what the stakes were, I would feel my heart hammering in my chest. Like I couldn’t believe I was getting to do this, like it might be the last time. And I loved the way it felt.

This time, Madison was right on me, and I dribbled to get away from her, but she moved laterally with ease, sticking to me. I faked a drive, put up a shot, and Madison, not even really jumping up, managed to get the tip of her finger on it, which sent the ball off its course. It hit the side of the rim and bounced away. In two steps, Madison had it, and she reset. I got low, bending my knees, my arms spread out. She drove by me, smacking my shoulder hard enough to spin me just a little, and put up a floater that bounced around the rim before falling in.

“Yay,” Timothy said, a little squeak, and Roland and Bessie turned and frowned at the kid.