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Miss Diaz shakes her head. “Connor, six-five, but is hoping for a growth spurt.” She glances up at me. “Hi, Connor.”
“Hi, Miss D.”
“Jo. You call me Jo.”
“Okay, Jo.”
Fixated on her cards again, she picks up a picture of a bee. “Bee.” She puts the card on a pile to the right.
“Connor?” Ava says, pulling my stare away from her mom. “Should we start narrowing down our favorite murders?”
“It’s so weird when you say it like that.”
“Murder,” says Jo.
Ava sighs, and her mom goes back to the cards.
Ava and I spend the next couple of hours working on our project, deciding that the current hype around the sudden arrest of the Golden State Killer from back in the seventies and eighties will give us enough resources to create a decent podcast or video. We gather as much information as we can while Jo continues her flashcards. She’s moved on from animals to inanimate objects. Ball, ring, bat, all of these go to the pile on her right. Toaster, television, computer all go to the left.
“Hey, Jo,” I say, curious. “What is it that you said I needed to work on?”
She looks up at me. “Connor, six-five, weak jump shot.”
“My jump shot, huh?”
She nods.
Ava’s eyes narrow as she gently nudges my leg under the table. “What are you doing?” she whispers.
I ignore her and ask her mom, “Do you know what sport I play?”
Jo scoffs. “Basketball.”
I find a picture of the basketball from her pile and push it toward her with my index finger. “What’s this?”
Ava kicks me.Hard. I ignore it again.
“Ball,” says her mom.
“What kind of ball?”
Jo sighs. “Ball.”
“I know it’s a ball,” I say, and now Ava is grinding her foot on top of mine. “But what kind of ball?”
Jo looks up at me, a blank expression marring her features.
I lean forward. “Did you play any sports in college?” I ask her.
She nods. “Basketball.”
“One second, Mama,” Ava says through gritted teeth. She gets to her feet and tugs on my ear, using that grip until I’m standing up and she’s dragging my ass out into the living room. “What the hell are you doing?” she whisper-yells, finally releasing me.
I rub at my ear, relieving the pain. “Your mom’s not deaf, Ava. She can hear you just fine.”
Her arms cross. “You’re making her feel stupid!”
“No, I’m not,” I say, matching her stance. “I’m having a conversation with her. Didn’t you just see what happened?”
