Page 23

Volleying

Seventeen Years Old, Tennessee

A couple days later, my good sense is nowhere to be found. I stay after Ceramics to talk to Ms. Robbins about Art Club.

“I like your class,” I tell her. “If you’ve got room in the club, I’d love to be a part of it.”

She smiles, eyeing me over her glasses. “We’ve got plenty of room. If you’re carrying at least a C average and can join us during Advisory on Thursdays, you’re in.”

“I am, and I can.”

“Then we’ll see you tomorrow. Happy to have you, Lia.”

Before I leave campus, I swing by the library to check out a few books for the research paper that was handed out in my Contemporary Lit class. We’ve got to include at least two physical books in our citations, even though the Internet is right there . It takes me forever to find sources, and by the time I’m on my way to the parking lot, basketball practice has wrapped for the day.

I spot Isaiah waiting on the sidewalk near the pickup loop in gym shorts, a Nike hoodie, and black-and-white Jordans. He’s got his phone pressed to his ear.

Even from afar, I can tell he’s unhappy.

I have to walk right by him to get to my car. He ends his call as I pass.

“All good?” I ask.

He pushes his phone into his pocket. “My ride fell through. Car battery’s dead, and she’s waiting on a jump. Otherwise yeah. All good.”

Before my brain has a chance to catch up to my mouth, I say, “I can drive you.”

“That’s okay. I’ll walk.”

“Where do you live?”

“West side of town, near the post office.”

“That’s, like, five miles from here. Come on—my car’s over there.”

In the Jetta, he gives me his address and I punch it into the GPS before pulling out of the lot. His house is zoned for Rudolph High. I know because I joined my parents on house hunting trips when we arrived in River Hollow, and they asked the realtor about a million school-centric questions.

I ask Isaiah, “How come you go to East River if you live on the west side of town?”

“Open enrollment, freshman year. East River’s a better school than Rudolph, and since I can throw a ball through a hoop with a decent rate of accuracy, they were happy to have me.”

“A decent rate of accuracy? I thought you were some kind of prodigy.”

He flashes a grin. “Your word, not mine. You like East River?”

I shrug, flipping the Jetta’s blinker. “It’s different from my last school. A lot smaller. But I adore Paloma. I’m not sure what I’d do without her, Meagan, and Sophia.”

I don’t feel much like talking about myself, so I set loose a question I’ve harbored since November. “That woman who picked you up before Thanksgiving… Is she your mom?”

“No. I live with her, though.”

“Oh. Why don’t you live with your actual mom?” And then my manners resurface, having taken a hiatus equal to the length of this conversation. “I’m not trying to be nosy. I’m just…”

I’m interested.

“You’re not being nosy,” he says. “We’re volleying—it’s cool. The woman I live with, Marjorie, is my foster mom.”

I’m surprised, and I don’t think I’m going a very good job of hiding it.

The light flashes green, and I give the Jetta some gas. “She looked nice, that day in the parking lot.”

“She’s an angel,” Isaiah says, his voice steeped in fondness. He laughs wryly. “You know, except for the dead car battery thing.”

It’s sweet how he talks about his foster mom. Endearing. I keep thinking about how I’m not sure I’m ready to open my heart up again, about how I should maintain emotional distance, yet I’m disarmed. “How long have you lived with her?” I ask.

“Almost six years.”

“Is she married? Like, is there a foster dad in the picture?”

“No, but there’s a foster sister. Naya. She’s nine. She’s lived with us nearly a year.”

We’re getting close to his house, and my head has become crowded with queries—so many, I’m not sure which to launch next. He must think my curiosity’s satiated, though, because he says, “My turn?”

I glance at him. “To…?”

“Ask about you. ’Cause that’s how conversations work.”

The events of our first interaction, I’m sure, left him with a slew of questions. Only perilous inquiries can follow melting down and making out. But it’d be super weird to decline.

“Yeah,” I say. “Okay.”

“The day we met,” he begins, and I brace myself, tightening my grip on the wheel as my pulse picks up its pace. “Had something specific happened, or were you generally sad?”

Turning onto his street, I say, “I was generally sad. Last year kicked my ass. But that day was also significant. It was the first anniversary of why last year kicked my ass.”

I slow the Jetta as the GPS announces our arrival and shift into park. The house is a ranch-style with a brick facade. A café table and a pair of chairs sit on the front porch. The concrete walk is covered in softly illuminated chalk: rainbows and fire-breathing dragons and a castle with a moat. I wait for Isaiah to toss another question my way.

His gaze is like a sunbeam. I feel it on my cheek…my hair.

He says, “I’m sorry you’ve had a shitty year.”

I look at him, taken aback. “You don’t want to know more?”

“Oh, I do.” He drags a hand through his hair, allowing me another glimpse of the scar on his forehead, and a recollection jars me: long limbs and ebony hair. “The thing is,” he says as I try to get a grip on my composure, “I know what it’s like to be sad. I’ve had my ass kicked more times than I can count. Tell me more when you feel like it.”

He climbs out of the car, stretching his arms over his head a second, showing off a sliver of skin below the hem of his hoodie. I look away because I’m feeling it again—that stirring of attraction that scares the hell out of me.

He dazzles me with a grin. “Thanks for the ride, Lia.”