Five

She hates this part.  She does it all of the time, but she really hates this part.  Door open, screen door closed.  Someone is home.  She skips up the front steps and knocks on the wooden frame.  

“I’m going out!” he bursts from somewhere behind the haze of metal screen.  “I’ll be…around!”

Whew.  She follows him to the back of the house.  Basketball.  

The sound of the ball hitting the pavement soothes them both.  He tells her how their neighbor called the police yesterday because he can’t stand listening to that ball hit that pavement 24 hours a day.

“Ummm…What did they say?” she asks skeptically.

“They asked us nicely to limit our basketball playing.” He shoots.  3 points.  “Fuck him.”

More kids join the game.  She’s the automatic handicap.  The last one picked. He purposely doesn’t pick her.  Why lose?  

The older boy doesn’t mind.  She is on the older boy’s team most of the time.  She practices.  It’s futile.  They work together and rarely win.  She knows it’s her fault.

But this time it’s different.  They are playing 2 on 2—The older boy and her against him and his sister.  She takes a shot—it goes in.  The passes are flawless.  The older boy shoots—it goes in.  They are winning.  

She taunts him a bit.  He smirks.  He still doesn’t think she stands a chance.  He scores.

Check.  The older boy against him.  She somehow ends up with the ball.  They give her space.  There is no chance in hell she will make this shot.  Swoosh. 

Her eyes are huge.  The older boy picks her up and carries her around the driveway.  She wins.  He says nothing.  She taunts him some more.  The only thing she remembers is the flash of pain and warmth across her face and the sound of the basketball bouncing across the pavement.

His sister shrieks and holds her face into the twilight.  Blood.  “She’s swelling—Help me get her inside.”  He jumps on his bike and doesn’t come home until he sees the light on in her bedroom.