The House Above the Sea

4.

It's funny how something so small can be worth so much.

After dinner is the first time Neo can escape his aunt's watchful eyes. She's been keeping an especially close eye on him all day, ever since she caught him trying to sneak back in earlier that morning. Now, he sits in what Joey calls his "cool gaming chair," though to Neo it looks much more like it belongs in a race car. His feet kicked up on the desk, Neo peers closely at the ring in his fingers, squinting one eye shut, then the other.

He imagines he's the jeweler who first sold it to Neo's father all those years ago, picking apart the stats. Only Neo knows nothing about jewelry, so the most he can say is that it's sterling silver, with a small, delicate diamond the shape of the teardrop resting between two shimmering diamond-encrusted bands. He remembers how it looked upon his mother's finger, the way the sunlight caught on it in a flash of white as she reached to ruffle his hair. And he remembers how it looked on their apartment floor, a shower of soot and ash falling from it as Neo lifted it from the ground.

He wonders how long he has until this delicate tower of lies he's built crumbles to dust. For all he knows, it could be tomorrow.

The door bursts open. Neo jolts, closing the ring in his fist and swiveling around.

Standing at the threshold is Joey, baseball cap slung backwards, a vibrant, American flag-printed basketball under one arm. "Neo?"

Neo raises an eyebrow. He's not sure what makes him realize it, but their shared bedroom is in a terrible state of disarray, a mountain of clothes strewn across the wood floor between them that are just as likely to be clean as they are to be dirty.

Neo grimaces. No wonder Aunt Vivian never comes up here; she'd have an aneurysm. "What's up?"

"I'm bored. Come shoot hoops with me."

Neo groans and swivels back around in the chair. He pulls open the desk drawer; there's a low rumble as a handful of pens roll forward. "Can't you call one of your teammates, or something? I can't even remember the last time I played basketball."

"Neo, just humor me," Joey says, insistent. "We can play Horse, or something. But you can't just sit up here the whole summer."

A clink as the ring slides into the drawer. Neo nudges it to the back, eases the drawer shut, and turns again. "You sound like your mom," says Neo, interlacing his fingers, "you know that?"

Joey gives a grand roll of his eyes and pivots on his heel, knocking twice on the doorjamb. He walks away, calling over his shoulder, "I'll do the dishes for you for a week if you beat me..."

"Wait," says Neo, jumping to follow him. "I'll be out in a minute."

They head outside to the driveway, where a haze of blue-black twilight settles upon them, the low murmur of crickets rising up from the deep green foliage. The basketball hoop has probably been here longer than either Joey or Neo have been alive, the backboard a grimy gray, the same color as the ratty, mud-streaked net.

Someone should have told Neo that Joey is a terrible person to play Horse with. He comes up with all sorts of wild requirements, everything from shooting it with his left hand to doing the chicken dance or a cartwheel before taking the shot. Neo's barely been outside for ten minutes and he's already broken a sweat; thanks to Joey's eccentric rules, Neo's already earned two derogatory letters, H-O.

It's Neo's turn; he spins around three times and sinks one from the free-throw line. He stands back, and though he's a bit proud of himself for that one, Joey mimics it perfectly, the long stretch of his arm flawless and practiced, followed by the swift flick of his wrist. As many rounds of this game they play, Neo realizes, his own shooting form will never be anything but clumsy.