Page 15 of I Hope This Doesn't Find
Beside me, Max starts dribbling the ball. “Ready?” he asks.
I take my left hand off the broom. “Okay. Go.” The basketball shoots across the space and lands perfectly in my palm. I bounce it a few times before tossing it over to him, which he catches just as easily.
“Damn, not bad. Not badat all,” he says. “You should join the team.”
I roll my eyes. “No need to flatter me.”
The basketball comes flying back. “For real,” he insists, then pauses. “Well, you might need to build some muscle—”
This time, I aim the basketball at his face. “I’m stronger than you are.”
“No,I’mclearly the strongest in the family,” he protests. “Remember, even Dad said—”
We both falter. The ball thuds to the floor and rolls off toward the shelves as we both do our best to act like nothing’s happened, like he doesn’t exist. But it’s impossible, like attempting to cover up a murder scene with napkins. It’s easier to remember how things used to be, those hazy, long-gone afternoons when my dad and Max and I would hang around in our small backyard and race one another and play basketball until dinnertime—
No.I stop myself before the nostalgia can sneak up on me. I refuse to miss him, to want him back in our lives.
“You do need more practice,” I say mildly.
Max scrambles to retrieve the ball, and when we start passing it back and forth again, we’re both careful not to bring him up. Still, the topic nags at my mind. Not for the first time I wonder if he blames me for what happened too. If that’s the reason for the faint but always noticeable friction between us, why he only comes back once every week or so, why half our conversations seem to lapse into silence.
By the time we finish, the sun has already disappeared. I save all the leftover bread in a massive container for our neighbors: the Duongs, who both work two jobs to feed their five children; the old nainai who’s been living alone since her partner passed away three winters ago, and only speaks a few sentences of English; the Henan-born divorcée who always brings us fresh lemons plucked from the tree in her own yard. I make sure to add a few extra slices of strawberries to the cakes before we close the store.
Then the three of us squeeze onto the late bus home, the bread balanced on my lap, my bulky schoolbag crammed under my arm, Max’s basketball cradled in his. The air inside smells like plastic and perfume, and there’s a kid sitting behind me who has decided to play kickball with the back of my seat.
Thud.
Thud. Thud.
Irritation flares up in my throat.
Ignore it, I tell myself.It’s not worth making a fuss over, and it’ll be your stop soon anyway.I turn my attention to the scenery as it unfolds outside the window. The streetlights are slowly replaced by old oaks, gray turning to green, the space between houses growing wider and wider until we’re fully in the suburbs—
Thud. Thud. Thud.
I take a deep breath. Squeeze my fists again, try to relax each muscle in my fingers one by one. But my fists stay clenched, and without anything better to distract me, the images I’ve been trying to keep at bay all evening flash through my head. Julius greeting the aunties with his fake smile and false charm. Georgina backing away from our group project. Julius laughing with the girl next to him. Rosie storming up to me, her eyes narrowed in accusation. Julius leaning forward in the gardens, the scratch of his voice against my ear:I think you’re obsessed with me, Sadie Wen.His twisted smirk, his cold, cutting gaze.
Thud. Thud—
“Can you stop that?” I snap, whipping my head around.
The kid freezes. My mother freezes too; she looks stunned.
I’m shocked myself. The words don’t feel like they could have come out of my own mouth. It’s like somebody has removed every filter I’ve fixed in place, cleared out a direct path from my brain to my lips.
Then, to my absolute horror, the kid bursts into noisy tears.
Oh god.
Oh my god. I just made a teeny-tiny human cry. What iswrongwith me today?
“S-sorry,” I mumble, heat rushing up my neck. The passengers around us are all staring at me, probably wondering what kind of monster I am. I couldn’t be more relieved when the bus rolls to a stop on our street. I grab my container of bread and hop off with record speed. The child is still wailing as the automatic doors fold shut.
In the following quiet, Max makes a low whistling sound. “Damn, I really thought you were going to punch the kid for a second there. Kind of scary, not going to lie.”
Mom peers over at me. “Is everything okay, Sadie?”
I push down the lump in my throat. “Yeah, of course,” I say brightly. “I’m sorry. I was just . . . annoyed. And Iwasn’tgoing to punch anyone,” I add, shooting Max a look.
