Lourdes
It’s been a week since Splashtown and I’ve realized that sometimes a test of loyaltyisn’tas simple as a strawberry cool cup.
“Come on,” Bryson begs from behind our screen door, crunching the plastic cup in his hand. “You still mad at me?”
This morning betweenDivorce CourtandMauryre-runs, the weatherman said it’s the first day of fall in Texas and Ace is tripping the fuck out on my phone because Mama threw up a Mexican pizza from Taco Bell. I don’t have time for Bryson and melting strawberry cool cups, so I curl my fingers tight around the door handle every time he tries to pull it.
I don’t even ask about the black eye he’s sporting. I saw the ugly purple bruise along Ace’s knuckles when he cornered me in the kitchen after shooting ball with Marcus the other day.
“I think we should put parties on ice with Twitter until we learn how to control ourselves,”he said, dragging his wet face against mine.“They make us act out of character.”
I didn’t have to be Einstein to connect the dots.
Marcus drags his feet behind me, smacking his lips. “Stop messing with that boy and let him in. Lucy already blacked his eye for getting drunk last week. He look pitiful.”
“Yeah... pitiful and annoying.” I drop my hand from the handle while my phone vibrates from the entryway table.
Bryson pushes his way inside as soon as I swipe it up to look at it.
One of One
That’s how I saved Ace in my phone because that’s how I saw him saved in Marcus’ one day. It’s the last song on Dough’s mixtape, the one I hear them shooting around to the most, and it made our school viral for two whole seconds according to Chelsea. Now I think I get the lyrics.
One of One: Why you let her eat that?
Me: ’Cause that’s what she wanted after her infusion. Just like I want you to leave me alone.
One of One: I see you capped out early this morning. Feeding my mom that nasty ass shit. I don’t know how bone broth turned into Taco Bell. Imma get your ass.
One of One: Call me
“So you can’t speak?” Bryson asks, creeping up behind me.
I roll my eyes and brush past him. “Nope.”
One of One: Oh, you really want me to leave you alone? Bffr.
He’s sipping because his texts aren’t like those subtweets I fell for—they’re worse.
One of One: You don’t wanna come home to a nigga no more? a’ight bet.
There’s a sink full of dirty dishes, Mama’s nauseous and Ace is drinking on a Saturday morning when he should’ve been headed to Coach Williams’ house like he told me he planned last night because he never stops shooting that ball. Not even on the team’s off days, but today is different.
I fumble with my phone, pressing it into my ear as I pass Marcus and Bryson in the living room. I head straight into the kitchen toward the sink.
“If you not calling me to come pick you up, I’m hanging up,” Ace garbles into the phone.
“What you been drinking?”
“What you been spending all our money on this week? I’m looking at the credit card statement now—Uber Eats, H-E-B, H-E-B, Walgreens, more Uber Eats. Shit, I might as well buy stock in Uber and H-E-B.”
I giggle, knocking the knob forward to the sink.
“Victoria’s Secret? More flowery PINK panties for me to keep?”
“It’s about to get cold. I needed a jacket.”
“It’s Texas. It never gets cold. I’ll take you to Aspen in March and let you taste the snow. Get you a Canada Goose instead.”
