When Malia's boyfriend perceives her first conversation with Reese, their college's star soccer player, as flirting, her night ends in lies, denial, a nasty breakup, and a tight strain between her and the hot soccer star.
A hopeful romanticizer at h...
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Tall downtown buildings hover. The sleek metal cocoons me in a shiny hellscape of nightlife, Arizona palm trees, and honking horns. My heart beats against the echo of Malia's words. I bounce my sneaker against the sidewalk, but whips of wind and whirring cars capture the noise.
About fifty feet from my bench, a group of drunk men stumble from the bar's clanky door, the clash drawing my attention. Laughing, the group light cigarettes, adding to the already ashy cloud saturating the street.
Ramona, sitting beside me, nestles her pale hands deeper into her sweater pockets. With her attention forward, she doesn't register the ashy cigarette smoke. Had she, the health nut would guide (force) us to a new location, rambling about the dangers of second-hand smoke. Instead, the silent death cloud slips right over her head.
Today is also hard for her, even if she wants me and everyone else to believe otherwise.
Dodging a cloud of smoke, I lean forward, avoiding a splat of bird poop laying inches from my jean-clad thigh.
I hadn't planned to sit out here.
On my beeline from the club, my getaway plan fell short. I was only ten strides out the door before the thought of Ramona stopped me. Losing track of me would stress her out, and I didn't want her walking to our car alone.
So, antsy and ready to get the hell away, I sucked it up. I planted my ass on the first bench I saw, waiting. Ramona exited a few moments later, saw me, and sat. Then I explained what happened.
Now, over the electric flicker of streetlights, my explanation hangs in the air.
I roll up my sleeve and yank down my thin bracelet. Running my fingers over each groove, the feel of the rough, braided leather soothes the stress of this anniversary. Still, the frayed brown strands do little to help the minute-old memory of Malia's bouncing ponytail, sharp words, and barely-there freckles.
A strand of long, jet-black hair thrashes across Ramona's face, snapping her from her mind. She clears her throat, looking back at me. "Malia must have—I don't know. She must have heard us talking or something."
The second the bitter words left her rosy lips, I pieced that together. Her juice is only available from the vending machines, and the weird, nervous recommendation about nachos...
I bounce my sneaker harder.
Ramona sighs, her throaty voice low. "The club might not have been the best idea. I thought it could get your mind off everything. They're loud. There's a lot going on. I read a study about how helpful it is to ignite the senses when looking for distraction."
The anniversary of our dad's death is always hard, but this year, it's harder. This year, I'm not allowed to play soccer.
Last year, against Ramona and my mom's wishes, I went to a local park. Since I know the park manager, she lets me use the fields after dark, and that night, I did. Soccer is my outlet. Kicking the ball is a relief, the swoosh against the net a stress reliever, and the grass under my cleats a familiar satisfaction. With every connection of my foot against the ball, the feeling of improvement crackles through my bones.
