“Right. You don’t know their histories and details, all the things that make them who they are now. And you’re the only one who feels that way.”
“While the rest of them go to class and go to lunch like, Oh, look at me, I’ve been doing this forever. I know you and I know you and time never stopped, and here I am.”
“Yeah.”
Her eyes are large and the lashes are long. The color of her eyes is this very clear light brown. Like amber or whiskey. I’m having a hard time seeing the girl in the crane in this girl here. Even though the girl in front of me is big, she’s much more delicate in person.
She goes, “Do you ever wonder if it’s everyone else who sees the world differently? Like, maybe you see people the way they’re supposed to be seen?”
“Identifiers. That’s what I call it. Everyone has at least one thing that stands out.”
“Is that why your hair’s so big?”
“My hair’s big because it’s so damn awesome, baby.”
She makes this hmm sound as if she doesn’t quite believe it, and then she tilts her head to one side, scrunches up her forehead, and says, “I feel like I know you. You know, from way back when.”
My pulse speeds up. It starts buzzing the way my phone is buzzing. I’m thinking, You don’t know me, you don’t know me, like I have some power over her mind and, whatever happens, she cannot find out I was there that day she was rescued from her house. If she does find out, she might think I’m making fun of her because I saw her being rescued from her house, that this is why I grabbed her.
She says, “Did you go to Westview Elementary?”
“No, ma’am.” Before I can say anything else, my phone buzzes again.
“Do you need to get that? Someone really wants to talk to you.”
“They can wait.”
She’s still studying me, but finally she shakes her head as if she’s clearing the slate. “I’m having that ‘I feel like I know you’ feeling a lot these days.”
“You’re in good company. Or maybe shitty company, depending on how you look at it.” I smile. She almost does, but stops herself. “With face blindness, I seem to constantly lose the people I love.”
She goes quiet for a second. “I know what that’s like.” And walks away.
I drive home and collect my little brother, and we scavenge the garage for robot materials. This is where I store the wreckage from all the creations I’ve built and later taken apart.
I say, “Hey, little man, how was school today?”
“Okay.”
“Real okay or fake okay?”
“Somewhere in between.”
I meet Rachel in the park. We sit on our usual bench and she says, “So why did you punch him?”
Because I’m ready for my normal life. I just want to move forward like everyone else without being grabbed in cafeterias as if I’m some sort of prize heifer at a rodeo.
I tell myself, This is the person you can say anything to, the person who knows you better than anyone. But all I come up with is “I was mad.”
And then I think of three more questions I want to ask Jack.
The next afternoon, Mr. Levine is practicing free throws when we all walk into the gym. He says, “You’re here. Excellent. Keshawn, Travis, Jack, and Libby, you’ll be playing Natasha, Andy, Maddy, and me.”
“Playing what?”
“Basketball, Mr. Thornburg.” And he throws the ball to Keshawn, who catches it one-handed.
“Shouldn’t it be all of us against Keshawn? You know, just to make it more even.”
“Quiet up, Mass. And prepare to lose.” Keshawn sinks a basket from the door, which is no surprise. During the time Rip Van Libby was sleeping, he’s become Mr. Basketball three years running.
“This isn’t about winning or losing. It’s not a competition. This is about teamwork.” We all stare at Mr. Levine, who’s doing this crazy back-and-forth shuffle-dance, like he’s in a boxing ring. “Everyone in this room needs to learn how to play well—or at least better—with others.”
Of course Keshawn wins the tip-off. We run up and down the court, and except for him, we all suck, even the athletes among us. It’s sad and embarrassing really, and the only thing we’re learning is how to humiliate ourselves in front of our peers.
Every single time Keshawn makes a basket, he acts like he’s just won the state championship. He’s barking orders at his team and dribbling behind his back and through his legs and making these impossible jump shots, and honestly it’s like playing against LeBron James, if he were a six-foot-six-inch baby. At some point, Mr. Levine grabs the ball from him and says, “This is not Keshawn hour. It’s about helping out your teammates. It’s about we’re all equal. It’s about pulling together.” He sinks a perfect three-pointer. “Take a time-out, Mr. Basketball.”
“What?”
“You can sit on the bleachers for a few minutes. It’s not going to kill you.”
“Man.” Keshawn goes dragging off, the slowest human on earth. We wait for him to leave the court, and, two years later, he finally sits down.
Natasha rolls her eyes. Shakes her head at the ceiling.
Mr. Levine says, “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll sit out too. Even numbers. Whatever’s best for the group, right, Keshawn?”
Keshawn looks at him, then past him at Natasha, who raises a single eyebrow. He says to Mr. Levine, “Sure.”
So now we’re three and three. We keep the lead until Jack passes the ball to Andy, who’s on the other side. After Andy shoots and scores, Keshawn is on his feet. “WTF, Mass?” Only he doesn’t spell it out and he shouts it.