I barely post my daily blog and get an instant reply from my Instabestie—JuneBugKicksA$$. “Dang, girl, you flyin’ high today! So the big game’s tonight? That’s so Excite! Wish I could be there, but there’s like a huge costly plane ticket sittin’ between us! Go get ‘em, Dawgs! P.S. You sure you’re white?”
I Snap a selfie, make all bug eyes, stick out my tongue, and check my background for a palm tree. “Yo, yo, June-y. The other teams goin’ down! We’ve got this one in the bag. P.S. Caucasian is a state of mind..” I hit Send before I step in the front door of my home, a cottage just two miles from the Florida beach, which I rarely visit, as I’ve got bigger fish to fry, which basically means playing as much basketball as I possibly can every minute of every day for the past twelve years of my life.
“Mom! I’m headed to work!” No answer. I tear up the stairs, grab my team bag, and pause for a few seconds at my mom’s bedroom door. She’s in her yoga stance, practically staring a hole through the T.V. screen, as meditative music floats around the room on surround sound. I sigh as I scan my mom’s bedside table and spy a plethora of new self-improvement books lying in the space where my dad used to sleep. I want to scream at her, “I love you just the way you are, and right now dad’s a total tool!” But instead, I clear my throat. “Mom. I’m headed to work. See you at the game at 7:30?”
She glances my way and pastes on a creepy June Cleaver smile.
“Of course, honey wouldn’t miss it.” There’s an awkward pause. “Will your dad be there?”
“I’m sure he will be. I gotta get to work.” I race downstairs and feel displaced as I have been for the past three months since dad moved out. I shake my head to clear it; not wanting to think any more about that.
I walk into work ten minutes early and go looking for my dad in the main office of the biggest car lot in South Florida, complete with tacky commercials with gators and pelicans and a cheesy tagline: “From the beak to the tail, you’ll get a whale of a Sale!” or “Take it from this odd duck, I’ll get you in an awesome truck!” The office is empty; maybe he’s out in the lot. I head for the back door. I hesitate when I hear noise coming from the supply closet. That’s weird. I turn the knob, even though my gut instinct screams No.
Let me just say the only thing more awkward than catching my parents getting it on is catching my dad getting it on with another woman. I close my eyes for half a second and wish my life were like Emma Stone’s character in Easy A, who bragged of imaginary sexual escapades. This reality sucks. Big time.
As I step into an alternate universe, my inner baller girl pops out and rescues me from falling to pieces. My emotions get the better of me as I stare at Debbie, the platinum blonde receptionist and well-endowed homewrecker who wears man-eater hotpants on the daily, which I snatch, along with her slinky shirt and push-up bra. I would take her panties, but they’re attached to her ankles. There’s too much skin. Too much everything. I slam the door. “Really?!” I yell at them from the other side.
“Are you going to tell your mother?” Dad’s pathetic voice comes through the door.
I crack the door just enough to look him in the eye. I’m dying inside. “Grow a pair and tell her yourself. You’re such a coward.”
“What are you doing with my clothes?” Hotpants has the nerve to speak.
There’s no way I’m looking at her again; so instead I summon the I-don’t-give-a-crap-because-I’m-too-cool-for-everyone attitude and sass of Emma in Easy A and tug the door shut in my dad’s face. “I’m throwing them in the trash, where you belong.” My words sound more like a snarl, but my claws are out, and they’re not done.
I spy an industrial-sized shredder, and I’m pissed. I flip the switch and feed it the stripper clothes; but even shredders have more class than my father, a fact I soon discover as the shredder tries to spit it out, sputtering and smoking. My palm stings as I beat on the red panic button.
Dad steps out of the closet in his polo shirt and boxers. He stares at me in wide-eyed wonder. “You broke my shredder!”
My eyes fly to the floor. “You broke my heart.”
His hands go to his sides, and he squeezes the fabric of his shirt. “Aw, baby, don’t…”
Rage on behalf of my mother waiting for him to move back home shoots out of me. “I can’t believe you’d do this to mom! You’re such an ass!”
His hands reach for me. “Honey, calm down. Let’s talk about this.”
“Don’t call me that! I’m not your little girl. Not anymore. I quit.” Awkward silence fills the room for a few seconds.
“I’ve got a game to go to,” I mutter before turning to go.
Hotpants homewrecker peeks her head around the closet door, and I give her the Emma Stone stink-eye I love so much as I point one long index finger at her. “You’d better not come to my game, whore.” Yeah, I just sunk that shot from behind the arc with one eye open. Nothing but net, baby. I walk away and add a little swish, swish in my hips. “That one’s for you, mom.” I whisper as I walk into the parking lot.