I pocket my hand so she won’t see my scar. My mom lowers her head. Better to chat with Evangeline instead of Dr. Slattery, the awful therapist I spent a few weeks talking to. “For sure.” I fake-smile because everyone wants happiness for me as much as I want it for myself. “Welcome back.”
I head back to the game just in time to see Me-Crazy bean Brendan with the ball. Thomas must’ve been eliminated a minute or so before because he’s already sitting down with Genevieve, probably chatting about fireflies again. I sit on the other side of Gen and Baby Freddy asks me, “Who’s that redhead with your mother?”
“My old babysitter,” I answer. “She’s pretty gorgeous, right?” This catches Genevieve’s attention. She stops talking with Thomas and turns around to scope out her competition. “I had the craziest crush for Evangeline as a kid. But I’ve moved on.”
Brendan asks, “How didn’t I know this, you punk bitch?”
“Because I haven’t illustrated my autobiographical graphic novel yet, asshole.”
Later I escape with Genevieve for some alone time before her father picks her up. She won’t be around to meet tomorrow—her aunt is taking her shopping for her retreat—but we’ll definitely be in touch and will see each other for her birthday on Monday. I walk her to the car. She punches me in the shoulder before joining her father, who grunts my way and guns the engine.
Thomas looks tired by the time I make it back to the courts. He’s sitting by himself, watching the others drinking Arizona iced teas and laughing. “You good?” I ask him.
He nods. “More fun than I ever have on my block.”
“You doing anything tomorrow?”
“I have work until five.”
“Where do you work?”
“This gourmet Italian ice cream shop on Melrose.”
“Sounds cold and terrible.”
“It’s very cold and very terrible.”
“I’ll meet you after work and you can actually play manhunt with us this time.”
“Sounds like a plan, Stretch.”
We fist-bump.
Once the courts are clear of adults who will be rocking hangovers tomorrow, we play basketball in trash bins rattling of beer cans and aluminum foil, and even a little handball before calling it a night ourselves.
5
A HAPPY FACE WITHOUT EYES
The next afternoon, I find myself on Melrose Avenue.
I’m picking Thomas up from his job, Ignazio’s Ice Cream, and the air-conditioning is on full blast. I have zero interest in buying anything. If anyone else were behind the counter I’d probably be a pain in the ass and eat a sample and bounce, but Thomas doesn’t look like he’s in the mood for that nonsense. He’s wearing the worst khaki apron in the history of the world, and his big eyebrows are knitted as he reviews some receipt at the register, punching in keys.
“Welcome to Ignazio’s,” Thomas greets me without looking up. “Would you like a cup or waffle bowl?”
“Just some eye contact,” I say.
Thomas’s head jerks up. He looks like he might stab me in the eye with a sample spoon, but just as quickly relaxes. “Stretch!”
“Thomas!” I don’t have a nickname for him. “It’s mad hot out. I take back what I said yesterday, it’s not cold and terrible in here. You got it good here.”
“Not for long.”
“What do you mean?”
Thomas takes off his apron. He opens the door marked with a bronze manager plate and says, “Hey, I quit.” Then he drops the apron and joins me on the other side of the counter.
I don’t know if I should clap or cheer or worry about his future.
He pushes me toward the door and shouts “WOOOOOOOO!” once we’re outside.
I have to laugh. “What the hell just happened? Did you just quit? You quit, didn’t you?” Considering how happy he looks, I take it I’m right. “Dude, I’m sensing a pattern here. You broke up with your girlfriend yesterday and now you’ve quit your job. You’re twenty years too young for a midlife crisis.”
“I always quit things I’m tired of dealing with,” Thomas says. “Always will.”
We make our way back toward Leonardo Housing, and he punches the air, but I’m not really sure what the hell he’s fighting.
“I couldn’t stand Sara’s paranoia anymore,” he says. “I couldn’t stand people coming into the store for eight samples when they already knew what flavor they wanted. I couldn’t stand pumping air into bike tires so I quit that too. If it’s not doing something for me, I quit. There. I said it: I’m a quitter.”
I don’t know how to respond. This guy was a complete nobody to me yesterday. And now he’s . . . what, I don’t know, exactly. But he’s more than a quitter. “Uh . . .”
“Have you ever quit anything, Stretch?”
“Skateboarding, yeah. I must’ve been ten or something. I went down this crazy steep hill, and saw my young life of playing with action figures flash before my eyes right before I crashed into a parked van.”
“Why didn’t you just hop off the skateboard?”
“Why are you questioning the irrationality of a ten-year-old?”
“Well played.”
“But I get where you’re coming from. I guess you can quit whatever you want. You know, as long as you’re not quitting something or someone that’s a good fit for you.”