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“Connor, six-five but is hoping for a growth spurt.”
Trevor chuckles, shaking his head as he goes into my room to retrieve the laptop.
“We’re going to watch him play in a tournament today,” I say, more to myself than anyone else. “He’s going to kill it; I just know it.”
“Who is?” Mom asks.
“Connor.”
“Connor, six-five but is hoping for a growth spurt.”
Mom and I spend most of the afternoon in front of the TV watching all the games while Trevor sleeps or works or does whatever it is in his bedroom. When Connor’s not on the court, Mom and I do our usual weekend routine: flashcards, speech therapy, basic chores to remind her of daily tasks. She takes long breaks in between, her mental fatigue just as prevalent as her physical.
When Connor’s playing, I try to give him my full attention so that I’m present when he wants to talk about it all. But sometimes it’s hard. When Mom needs me, I have to stop. But it’s always on in the background, and I try to retain as much of it as possible. I do my best not to squeal whenever he scores because sudden sounds and movements can set Mom off. So on the outside, I’m still, but on the inside, I’m jumping up and down and screaming and booing, and he’s such a phenomenon to watch. And even though I’ve managed to find shitty-quality live streams on students’ social media or post-game highlights online, I’ll never not be amazed at his skill, at his level of dedication.
The team flies through the first two rounds, making it to the semis, where their opponents give them more of a challenge. They scrape by with a three-point win and move on to the final.
The camera zooms in on Connor at the end of the game, sitting on the bench with Rhys beside him. He’s covered in sweat, his face red with exhaustion. His chest heaves as his lips part, clearing his airways for the stream of water he pours into his mouth from inches above. I stare, fixated, my heart racing, longing for the boy who carried me through the clear blue water and darkened cave. It seems so long ago; that one day of adolescent bliss, and I wish we could go back there. Both physically and metaphorically. I wish we didn’t have all this burden and pressure from things outside our control that always fight to pull us apart. Sometimes I think that fight is winning. But then he’ll hold me. He’ll kiss me. And he’ll pull my head to his chest, my ear taking in his existence, a reminder that magic is real, and it lives within him, within us.
I whip up a quick dinner between games, and we sit in front of the couch to eat. I don’t want to miss a single second. I’ve thought about messaging him between games, but I don’t want to be a distraction.
The final starts and I’m on the edge of my seat, my pulse racing, nervous energy flowing through my veins. The leading score is continually changing, and by the third quarter, it’s a draw.
“I think I’ll try my prosthetic today,” Mom says out of nowhere.
I practically sprint to her room, retrieve it, and come back out, not wanting to miss a thing. I focus mainly on the game while I fiddle with Mom’s prosthetic arm, pretending to clean it and adjust it just so I can watch more of the game.
The team they’re against, Philips Academy, is at the top on the school district leaderboard and the same team that gave us our one and only loss. And Connor—he’s out for blood. I can see it in the way he plays. Everything is amplified. Every step, every dribble, every shot he takes. He’s nothing less than perfection, and the opposing team knows that because he’s double-teamed, and yet, he’s still managing to carry the team. He scores two three-pointers in a row halfway through the final quarter, giving us a three-point lead, and I don’t hide my squeal this time. I can’t. Mom sits up with a jolt, and I apologize immediately and calm her down. Two minutes to go, and we’re up by five, and I focus on the TV while trying to get Mom’s prosthetic on. “Ava, you’re putting it on wrong.”
“Just one second, Ma.”
“Ava!” She yanks the prosthetic out of my hands, and I watch, as if in slow motion, as she throws it across the room, smashing the TV square in the middle.
“Mama!”
She shakes her head. Doesn’t stop.
I gawk, wide-eyed, at the TV as the picture stutters, and then fades, fades, fades until there’s nothing but darkness.
Rage pulses inside me, beats strong against my flesh. “Why would you do that!” I scream, standing over her.
She keeps shaking her head, and she won’t fucking quit.
“Answer me!”
“Ava!” Trevor yells, coming out of his room. “What the hell’s going on?!”
Mom stands so fast I almost miss it. She pushes past me, sending me back a step, and then charges, full speed, full strength, right into the TV. It falls back, glass shattering. Mom wails, for no other reason than to wail, and I…
I yell, tears blinding my vision, “Go to your fucking room!”
Mom’s laughter is hysterical in the most menacing way.
I ball my fists at my sides, my jaw clenched.
“Ava, calm down!” Trevor orders.
Pressure builds in my chest, and I can’t… I can’t breathe. Through clamped teeth, I seethe, trying to hide my anger, “You need to take her to her room so I can clean up the glass!”
