IT’S LATE BY THE TIME I get home. As I come through the door, I hear my mom say, “Here she is, Henry—” and my dad say, “Ah, thank God!”
“What?” I say, looking at both of them.
“The game,” says my mom brightly, with only a hint of sarcasm. “The big, big game!”
“Oh, right.” Game night. Thursday nights, we get takeout and watch a basketball game. One of our very few family traditions. I was so excited about the Oliver spell, I forgot today was game night.
Now my dad’s looking at me anxiously. My mom’s clearly ready to blow off our Thursday-night ritual. Am I going to join her and refuse to participate in family stuff, to show him how he wrecked everything?
Another time, I might have. But I feel like the universe was very generous to me today, and I want to be generous back. So I say, “Cool! Who’s playing?”
“The Mavs versus the Lakers.” My dad lowers his voice and narrows his eyes as he says “the Lakers.”
My parents do not root for winners. Because we live in New York, they root for the Knicks. But they’ll give their heart to any team that has a lot of old players looking for a title, so-so players that don’t get a lot of press, and little guys that try hard. My dad hates L.A. with a passion. My mom detests Miami. If you’re powerful, arrogant, and win a lot, you won’t have my parents as fans. I bet LeBron James is very sad about that.
So tonight, we abandon the kitchen and the dining room table and move to the living room. My dad sits on the couch, my mom takes an armchair. I kneel on the floor so I can put my dinner on the coffee table. As we eat Chinese food and watch Dallas versus L.A., we are united. Every time Kobe Bryant goes for a shot, my mother points two fingers at the TV and makes a zzzt, zzzt noise to put a hex on him.
Kobe’s making free throws. My mom says, “Zzzt, zzzt …”
I say, “Ma, seriously.”
Kobe misses. “See?” says my mom. “Zzzt, zzzt.”
He makes the next shot.
“It’s hard to get the hex all the way cross-country,” she says.
“Sure, Ma.”
My dad is smiling, amused by our back-and-forth. This is turning out to be a good night for us. The game fills in the silence. We can put our evil thoughts onto guys we’ve never met and know that the worst thing that can happen is someone loses.
My dad loves Dirk Nowitzki and Jason Terry. Not only are they old, but six years ago, when they had their best shot at winning, they lost in the finals and the other team celebrated on their court. This level of loserdom and humiliation earned them my dad’s loyalty for life, even though they did win a championship last year.
Dirk goes to the foul line. My dad leans forward. He gets super intense about foul shots. I guess because it feels like they happen in slow motion, it’s like the whole victory/defeat drama plays out over a minute.
Dirk crouches. Shoots. Misses.
“They could have used that point,” my dad mutters.
“He’ll make the next one,” I say.
But Dirk misses that one, too. My dad settles back in his chair. My mom glances at him.
The Mavericks play badly. Missed shots. Lots of turnovers. L.A. takes a serious lead. My mom starts getting restless.
My dad looks up. “What?”
“No—I’m just thinking about some things I promised to do.…” She waves her hand. “Never mind.”
My dad keeps looking at her, even when she goes back to staring at the screen.
I watch the game. Dallas has come back a little bit. But there’s only three minutes left to play. If they’re going to win, they’re going to have to make every shot.
My dad says to me, “Remember when you were little? You’d stand on one foot as a good-luck thing?”
“Oh, yeah.” I smile, pleased that his head is in the happy past instead of the weird present.
Wanting to keep it there, I stand up, lift one leg. “You watch, Terry’s going to make this shot.”
“Uh-huh,” says my mom skeptically.
“You watch,” I say. “I have magic powers.”
I try to believe that as I wobble on my one foot. In my head, I chant, Make the shot, make the shot, make the shot. Then, You win, we win. You win, we win. I’m not even sure what that means, but it feels like it’s coming from that place where the spells start to grow.
Terry lifts up, makes the shot. My dad crows, “Hey!” All of a sudden, there’s energy in the room again.
Scrambling back to my seat, I say to my mom, “Told you.”
“You did.”
“Here comes Barea,” says my dad. Barea is the Mavs’ little guy. Practically my height.
“He should pass,” says my mom worriedly.
“Foot, foot.” My dad points at me.
I get up, stand on the one foot. Think only, You win, we win. You win, we win.
“And he makes the shot from downtown!” cheers my dad.
“Whoo!” I call from my perch.
Before I can go back to my seat, L.A. turns the ball over and Dallas makes another two points. “Stay there, stay there,” says my dad.
“They need you,” jokes my mom.
The Mavs are winning and that awful feeling of flatness and defeat has left the room. You win, we win, you win, we win.… I chant it over and over, my leg bent at the knee. You win, we win, you win, we win. My eyes are closed now, despite the fact that it’s very hard to stay on one foot that way. I hear my parents cheering, “Go, go, go!” A burst of “Oh, yeah!” and clapping.
My mom counts down the clock, “Ten, nine, eight, seven …”
And the game is over. The Mavs have won. And my parents are with me on my one foot and we’re all ridiculously bunched together and hugging.
On Tuesday, I’m in the library when I overhear Jacob Carpio talking to Lily Bar David. “Yeah, I talked to his dad yesterday. He had to skip the interview.”
Jacob and Lily are friends with Oliver. They must be talking about him, they have to be. I slip behind a bookcase so they don’t see me.
Lily says, “Poor guy, he must be so bummed.”
“Pretty much,” says Jacob. “Let’s face it, this hasn’t been the best year for him.…”
There’s a short silence. Then Lily asks, “Has he seen Chloe at all?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Hm,” says Lily. “Well, maybe that’s not the worst thing.”
“Maybe not,” says Jacob.
Well, I think. Well, well, well.
The next day, I’m cramming stuff into my locker when Ella hurries over and asks, “Do you want to hear Oliver-and-Chloe gossip or you don’t care?”
“Eh,” I say casually. “I’m easy. Hit me.”
She beams. “Well, you know how he lost his voice and couldn’t do the interview?”
I nod.
“Apparently, he’s in mondo depression mode. His friends are all visiting him, trying to cheer him up. Only there’s one friend he doesn’t want to see.…”
She pauses for dramatic effect. “Wanna guess who?”
“Does it start with a ‘C’?”
“Wild, huh? And she is demented.”
I shrug. “What else is new?”
Just then, Cassandra comes out of the stairwell. I remember she asked me not to let Ella know we’re friends, but it’s impossible. She’s right there in front of us.
As casually as I can, I say, “Hey.”
Cassandra nods, says “Hi” to the space between me and Ella. Then she keeps walking down the hall.
I feel Ella looking at me. She says, “I didn’t know you guys knew each other.”
“Because of you,” I mumble, and wonder why I feel like I’m cheating.
On Friday, I’m on my way out to lunch when I spot Chloe on the plaza outside the entrance to school. She’s on the phone, pacing one step forward, one step back as she listens. I hang back, out of immediate sight range.
Chloe’s nodding impatiently.
Finally, she interrupts. “I promise, I swear, I will not make him talk for long, Mr. Chen. Just—if his voice is getting better …”
It’s been one week since Oliver lost his voice. He should be able to talk now. There’s a pause. Then Chloe snaps, “Well, I know he talked to his friend Jacob, so I know he can talk.”
So Oliver hasn’t even called Chloe.
Softer now, she says, “I understand. I guess, let him know I’d love to hear from him? Okay. Thanks, Mr. Chen.”
As I duck back inside school for safety, I think, Gee, Chloe. First your man cheats on you, then he has a major crisis and doesn’t get in touch.… Kind of unsettling. I could almost feel sorry for you.
Almost.
I look up, see Cassandra come out of the stairwell. She pauses to look at the school announcement board, a sign she doesn’t want to make contact.
But she puts her hand behind her back, wiggles her fingers at me.
I wiggle mine back.
Monday. The interviews are over. The committee has left. And Oliver is back at school.
I tell myself this is not important to me. What is important is studying for my first Spanish test. Thank God, I have a free study period in the morning. On the second floor, there’s a row of study cubbies—basically a long desk with little walls set up to create white boxes. Most of them have tiny graffiti notes on the walls.
As I sit down at one, I see a little tiny scribble. It says, “Ban all sluts!”
I lick my thumb, try to rub it out. It leaves an ugly blue smear. I get up and move.
Then I hear, “Hey.”
Oliver is standing by my seat.
“Hi.” I keep it neutral. “How are you?”
“Okay.” His voice is still thin and scratchy. “My dad said you called. When I was—” He looks down, seems in fact to lose the power of speech.
I can’t resist. “Did the doctors say what it was?”
He nods. “They said stress. That maybe the whole thing with the interview—like, I put too much pressure on myself and my body had this weird reaction.”
“Oh.”
“They said maybe it was just as well I didn’t get the internship. That I need to learn to take it easy. I’ve been thinking a lot about that. How hard I take stuff. I have to not do that.” He actually looks me in the eye to say this: “Not blame myself for every little thing.”
Wow, I think. Medical permission to be a jerk. Nice.
“Well, glad you’re better,” I say, and turn back to my work.
Oliver perches on the edge of the next seat over, says, “Just—when I was sick? When I couldn’t talk? I kept thinking—”
He strangles on his own words. I say, “Yeah?”
“I don’t know. I had this huge feeling that there was something I needed to say to you. When my dad said you called, I somehow felt like you knew that. I know that sounds totally insane.”
Not entirely, I think. “What’d you feel like you had to say?”
He sighs, stares into the white cube like it has answers. “Just … you’ve been nice to me. With everything that happened, you could have been harsh, but you weren’t. Like, you even called to see how I was doing. That was really cool.”
This makes me feel slightly guilty. “Well …”
Oliver takes this as an apology. Nodding eagerly, he says, “I mean, maybe you were a little harsh that one time when you were upset about Chloe—”
Upset, I think. Is that what I was? How about totally freaking out?
Then Oliver says, “But I get why that happened.”
This is meant to be a big fat gift. Oliver “gets it.” Only he so doesn’t. I feel a surge of anger and I look down at the floor. The hate is running through my body like an electric current.
Even Oliver clues in. He stammers, “Well, anyway, I—I …”
My head snaps up. “What, Oliver? What?”
His lips move, but nothing comes out. Guess the curse is still working.
But then he blurts out, “I miss you. I’d really like us to be …”
At this point, I don’t care what Oliver wants.
I’m about to shove back my chair and get up. Then I see Zeena standing at the door to the computer lab. Oliver half rises in a panic. From Zeena’s expression, there’s no question that she heard what he said.
Oliver blithers, “Uh, oh, hey, Zeena …”
Zeena’s hostile eyes are fixed on me. She advances, saying, “Don’t … even … think …”
But you have to have some wit to finish that sentence, and Zeena has none. Pushing back my chair, I say, “Excuse me. I think this is my cue to split.”
As I go, I hear Zeena call, “Yeah, you better run. Run fast. But don’t think we won’t find you. Don’t even think—”
I wave my fingers in the air à la Cassandra. Over my shoulder, I say, “Ciao, Oliver. Nice talking to you.”
That afternoon, Ella rushes up to me. She’s all excited and pop-eyed. I swear, I can feel her vibe like a million tiny tentacles reaching out to suck up other people’s energy.
“Hey!” she says, breathless. “Are you okay?”
“Sure, yeah. Why?”
“Uh, um …” Ella bobs like a beach ball. Then she cries, “Zeena’s telling the whole world she saw you and Oliver together. Like together together.”
“Oh, for—”
“Is it true?”
“No, it’s not true. We talked for like a minute.”
She bites her lip. “Well, you might want to let Chloe know that. Zeena said you guys were flirting big-time. Chloe’s totally on the rampage.”
And of course she’s blaming me. My stomach tightens.
“Are you okay?” Ella asks. Are you freaking? Can I see? Can I see?
“I’m fine,” I bark.
“Okay.” She nods uncertainly. “Only—”
“What?”
“Just—I was going to ask if you want to walk home today.”
I’m so scared and furious, I can’t think. I sputter, “I don’t know when I’m leaving.”
Ella hesitates. “I think you should really go straight home. And someone should be with you. Chloe’s really, really mad.”
“Chick is deranged,” I say, my voice rising.
“That’s what I’m saying,” says Ella. “I’m worried she’s going to try and … do something to you. Do you want me to walk you home?”
Ella is a sweetheart. But I don’t need a sweetheart right now. I need Cassandra. She and I are a team; together we have the power.
“No,” I tell Ella. “I’ll be fine.”