Page 39

Something Real

Seventeen Years Old, Tennessee

The girls and I make our way down the bleachers, savoring the last sips of victory.

My pulse races.

Isaiah found me.

Mid-celebration, he sought me out, a face among hundreds. His eyes met mine, and he grinned. In that moment, my heart did something it hasn’t done in ages.

It soared.

The gym’s air is humid, thick with musk and fervor. I’m so warm, my makeup is likely voyaging down my face, but I don’t care. My skin tingles, my vision shimmers, and my ponytail swings; I feel good . Better than I have in more than a year.

We step into the gym’s lobby, which is lined with trophy cases and dozens of portraits, Athletes of the Year spanning decades. There’s a similar Hall of Fame at Rosebell High. Beck’s senior portrait hangs there, snapped during autumn, two years ago. His auburn hair complements the trees’ red and gold leaves. Cheeky grin, broad shoulders, freckled skin. It’s the same photograph that hangs in his parents’ home, framed in dark wood.

I falter a step, as if Beck has extended a phantom hand to hold me fast.

Paloma pauses, looking back to where I’ve stopped. She’s been wearing a perma-grin since this afternoon, when she found out she was accepted early action to USC. Now she gives me an inquisitive look.

I shake it off—the memory, the sense of obligation, the guilt.

“Lia?” she asks. “You okay?”

I nod, but I’m not sure.

Is it okay to be okay?

Once we step outside, I feel lighter, clearer. This is what it’s like for me. Highs and lows that come and go, sudden reminders of what I’ve lost and what I’ve found. The winter wind surrounds my friends and me, rekindling the excitement that sadness tried to extinguish.

Meagan and Soph lead the way, hands linked, as we cross the dark campus. We rehash the game: did you see when…? and I can’t believe… and holy shit—that shot!

“Molly’s party?” Paloma asks, confirming the night’s plan.

“Totally,” Meagan says. “Who’s driving?”

She and I rode with Paloma to Rudolph. Sophia met us, thanks to a club volleyball practice that didn’t end until just before the basketball game. Tonight we’re all sleeping at her house because her parents don’t wait up to administer breath checks.

“I will,” she says. “We can pick up your car tomorrow, Paloma.”

As we near the parking lot and its bus loop, Meagan spins a circle, arms wide. Sophia joins her in a series of twirls that leave them cracking up. Paloma laughs, then pulls me in.

“I saw that, back there in the gym,” she says into the space between us. “Isaiah. After the buzzer. He looked for you.”

I could pretend I don’t know what she’s talking about, but after half a year of friendship, she knows me well.

“Do you really think—?”

She cuts me off, grinning. “Yes. I really think.”

We emerge from between buildings, Sophia and Meagan making a commotion up ahead, Paloma and I giggling because, God, there’s something between me and Isaiah. Something more than ceramics and flirting. Something more than joint loss and hard times. Something fresh and promising. Something real.

My name cuts through the night.

I whirl around, dragging Paloma with me. Scanning the parking lot, I search for the source of the shout. There’s an idling school bus dumping billows of exhaust into the parking lot. East River’s basketball players are visible through the open windows, and they’re making fantastic noise.

Isaiah isn’t on the bus. He’s standing a few feet from it, hands on his hips, head high, back straight, eyes locked on me. He smiles and calls, “Come here.”

Butterflies awaken in my belly.

Paloma nudges me forward.

Meagan purses her lips in a kissy face.

Sophia smiles. “We’ll wait for you by the car.”

My heart spills over with love for the three of them.

I skip toward Isaiah.