Old Games, New Territory

You unlock the door to your aunt’s condo, and walk through the parking lot toward the basketball court with your ball in hand. Floridian palm trees shiver in the breeze and lizards scurry across your path. It feels like a travel show. Like life’s being played out on an Instagram post. Like you’re on vacation. Except you’re not.

There aren’t any palm trees where you’re from. There are basketball courts, yes, but they’re usually covered in snow this time of the year. This one is littered with people of all different backgrounds. Shirtless guys versus the shirts. You watch a tall topless, skinny guy pivot and fire off a mid-range jump shot. The ball swooshes the net without touching the rim. You picture your dad at the fence applauding.

You’re drenched already, and you ain’t even bounced a ball yet. Aunt Hilda told you it would be like this; that you would be trading snow pants for cargo shorts, sleds and shovels for slides and wife beaters. But you miss sledding season — the steep hills at the park on Dumbarton Street, where you and your friends would pat the snow down with your shovels until it was smooth; smooth enough to slide on until the snow melted away.

Toronto is behind you now, whether you like it or not. You look over towards the coastline as you walk between the parked cars. There are more trees, a broad walk and crashing waves. A moth floats by and high above two condors cruise in long sweeping circles. Yes, this could be a scene from an Instagram feed. But you’d give all the Canadian dollars you have left to the first person who could show you a social media post that captures the heat, the loneliness, the sticky-icky feeling you feel both inside and out. You don’t want to be here. There’s no way you do this on your own. Aunt Hilda pretty much threw you out of the condo. “Today, you’re going to make friends” she said, like that was a cinch. “This is your home now,” she said, like that was a good thing.

You stand at the edge of the court and dribble the ball, a kind of mini-warm up for you; a crossover, a between the legs move. Basketball’s a universal language. A girl whips by on a skateboard. The ball hits her knee and spins towards some hedges. She throws a faint “Sorry!” behind her as she pushes off towards the nearby park. One of the guys on the court spots you, and motions you over as you retrieve the ball. “Hey,” he says, “do you wanna play?” He has an accent, dark hair, thick eyebrows and tanned skin. He looks a little darker than you. You’re guessing he might be Dominican. He looks — they all look — around the same age as you. You nod.

“Name?” He says.

“Rashid.” You drop your ball onto the grass by the fencing.

“Carlos,” he replies and points across the court to where there’s some activity by the other exit. “Brian’s gotta go, we could use one more. Skins are kicking our butts.”

So you’re on the Shirts team. On the one hand, you’re thankful that you won’t have to expose your pooch to the world, but you’re so not overjoyed with the idea of going up against the skinny guy with the Kevin Durant-style jump shot. And with good reason. The game resumes and he starts hitting threes like you all are keeping score, hitting lay-ups whenever he feels like it, and collecting rebounds like they’re grocery store coupons. It’s like this for a little while. You shed a couple litres of sweat just chasing Durant’s shadow, and there’s not even a cloud in sight to grant you any mercy from the heat.

The game feels like a wrap; it’s so one sided. Your “Shirts” are taking a beating, and you might drop like this, wilting between the heat and, well... the heat that Durant and his shirtless team are bringing you. But the game changes when one of your guys goes down with what might be a cramp or a stitch or just plain old shame. That’s when Carlos calls for Gigi to get into the game.

Cue the uproar.

Aww nah, she’s a cheat.

Aww nah, she starts fights.

Come on, she’ll slow the game down!

Come on, she plays soft.

Even Durant gets in on the complaints. And you don’t need to have been in town long to understand where it’s all coming from. Fear is fear in any country. But Gigi looks harmless and none too bothered whether she plays or not. She stands on the sidelines, leaning against the fence. She’s tanned, like Carlos, with long, shoulder length ash-brown hair. She wears a white t-shirt with pink sleeves and blue athletic shorts. You don’t recognize her without a helmet, and but for the skateboard at her feet, you might not have recognized her at all. She giggles as the Shirts and the Skins come close to duking it out over whether or not she can play.

“Take Dwayne,” one of the boys on the Skins finally says. “We’ll take Gigi.” And then he turns to her like: “Gigi, you’re on our side. Take your top off for us.” He laughs, but no one else laughs along with him. She frowns. Nods. She doesn’t like this. It seems to make up her mind for her. She walks onto the court and joins the Shirts team. There’s a chorus of groans.

No one needs to tell you that she’s about to kill this game, but you wonder where all this fuss will come from. You wonder how she will kill this game. She is tall enough, but not extremely so, far from the tallest, inches shorter than the Skins’ Durant.

But then the game starts again; oh man, you can see where all the fuss lies. The girl doesn’t need height. She is the fastest on the court, shoots threes better than anyone else and has a mean mid-range. The Skins resort to fouls; they nudge and they elbow; they body her off the ball. If you had an official, they’d be calling fouls and she’d be taking (and making) free throws all day. But, instead, whenever she falls (or is otherwise thrown) to the asphalt and scuffs her knee or grazes an elbow, she just shakes her head, curses, gets up and keeps it moving. You like that. You think you’re in love. But you know you’re not.

Truth be told, you realize as the game goes on that she is fighting back; she is just doing so on the court. Saving it for when she has the ball, which is often because the team tactic by now is to get the rock to her whenever she is open.  She steps up her moves with each foul that goes uncalled — spin moves, jukes, no-look passing. There’s no doubt in your mind that this sister must play for her school, that scouts must hog the sidelines at that school, and that someday she is going to play at the college level and beyond. She throws a sidestep move that almost breaks Durant’s ankles, that leaves him on the floor and the onlookers in laughter. That’s something else you notice, the crowd that’s gathered, that’s grown since Gigi came in, like they all knew beforehand that she was going to give them a show.

This Durant character, who by now you’ve heard them call Justin, gets up and turns into a monster. Cussing and everything — just damn ugly. And the Skins take their lead from him, throwing abuse alongside elbows now. They call her “Dora,” “Pink Curry” (after Steph Curry, I know, not very clever), and “The Broad Baller,” and you can tell from the way she responds with just “And still better than you, and still better than you,” that she has been in this position before and has been taking this abuse for a long time now.

“And still better than you,” she says, again, as you pass her the ball. You don’t even know what Justin has called her this time around. He takes a defensive position up in front of her. She starts dribbling, passing the ball between her legs a couple of times, then she fakes a shot and Justin goes sprawling back, ankles broken again. There’s more uproar from the sidelines, and Justin just can’t live in the embarrassment and laughter again, so as Gigi jumps to actually shoot, he outstretches a long leg, and clips her feet from under her, sending her crashing to the ground. This time it’s a hard fall, chin first.

You, like other members of the Shirts team, run to her aid. But this isn’t enough. You don’t know why. Something’s rustling under your skin. Everything’s got in you: The fouls have risen to the level of dirty play. And this latest foul wasn’t a foul at all, just straight violence, which couldn’t be anything further from the idea of sports, or even gamesmanship. The constant abuse between the two teams, the smack talk between friends that doesn’t sound like how you should talk to friends. The fact that some of it has been directed towards you, towards the weight you are carrying. Then there’s the crush you've been steadily developing for Gigi. The blood on her knee. It’s all in you. Is this what home looks like now?

You think back to playing ball on the court with your dad, the way he would run you through drills every day after school. “Hey kiddo,” he’d say. “Remember to think one step ahead of your opponent.” You’re pretty sure your dad didn’t mean it like this, but you pick up the ball anyway and throw it, and you make sure it hits Justin square in the face before you rush at him screaming.

Oh man, playing hero — bad idea. Both Skins and Shirts turn against you. They pull you off him, they punch you, they stomp you out as you curl up into a ball. They kick your butt, some. What were you thinking? Nah, they’re not condoning Justin’s behavior. But this is more of a case of defending one their own. I mean, who are you to come at one of their friends swinging punches and taking names? You’re an outsider invited in to play with them. They use their fists to remind you of this.

Fortunately, most of them tire quickly in the sun, the others are pulled off of you. Light bird chatter fills the air. You listen as everyone catches their breath. All you can do is just focus on the pain, which is everywhere, the back of your head, the ribs, the knees. You think your nose might be broken. It’s bleeding heavily. “Make friends,” your aunt said. Boy, you’re trying your best.

Gigi kneels beside you and helps you sit up. You can see how spent everyone is. How they’ve gathered in the shade to cool off. The game is over and, seeing this, another group of boys on the sidelines takes over the court. Gigi says something, but you can’t make it out. Your ears are ringing. She puts her hands on your shoulders and helps you to your feet. You touch your nose. Blood comes away on your fingertips.

On the sidelines, in the shade, Gigi reaches into her neon pink fanny pack and takes out a tissue. “Here, this might help stop the blood,” she says. “It’s Rashid,” right?

You nod. “Gigi.”

“Nah,” she says. “It’s Gisele to you.”

“Are you okay?” you ask. Her chin is grazed.

“Me?” she says, and chuckles. She waves the tissue. You take it and apply pressure to your nose. You wince with the pain.

You reel off a string of curses, threats, things you’re going to do but not really going to do to Justin. “They’re out of line,” you say, but then stop when you see Gisele smiling. “What?”

“You didn’t have to jump him like that.”

“Huh?” you reply. You don’t understand what she means by this. “He kicked you while you were shooting!”

“Boy,” she replied. “You ain’t my savior; don’t be acting like you saving me. I know how to deal with these boys. I’ve been dealing with them for years.”

“But...”

Gisele picks up her skateboard. “I’ve known those buttheads since middle school. And that one kid since elementary. They weren’t always like this,” she says. “But nowadays things are hard, you know? It’s like, for many of them, all they have is basketball and then I come along and take it away from them, you know?”

“What do you mean by ‘take it away?’”

“Like, I might be that reminder, you know?”

“Of what?”

“Dude,” she says, “where are you from?”

“Hey, Gigi,” one of the new boys on the court calls out, “come on in.”

She laughs, and shakes her head. “Nah, I’ve smacked you guys around enough for one day.”

“I’m from Canada,” you say. “I just moved here.”

You watch her eyes light up. Her whole attitude changes. “Canada?” she says. “Cool.” She opens her fanny pack again and removes two bubblegum lollipops, as if to reward you for the knowledge, but then again, the flavor she hands you is Sour Apple. “My parents took me to Vancouver once, is that where you’re from?” She unwraps her lollipop. You remove the tissue from your nose, and tell her that you’re from Toronto. Gisele hands you another tissue. Your nose is still doing its best impression of Niagara Falls. “We better go to my house,” she says. “My grandma will be able to tell if it’s broken or not.” She tucks her skateboard under her arm. Her helmet hangs from the crook of her other elbow. You stuff the new tissue into your nostrils and try your best to not give away any visible signs of discomfort. You retrieve your ball and toss the old blood-soaked tissue in the trash as you make your way towards the condo complex. “I’ve never been to Vancouver,” you say, your voice sounding too nasal for your liking.

Gisele smiles. “That’s where my parents were stationed when I was a baby. We were there for a year before we moved back to the States.” You think you can detect a little sadness in her voice. The two of you walk past your building and towards building 4, where you make your way up the steps to the second floor. You pass a neighbor struggling with trash bags in each hand.

You arrive at her door and make a note of the number: 11, for future reference. She struggles with the key in the lock, but then the door opens and a slightly older and taller version of Gisele is standing in the doorway. The older girl wears a Naruto t-shirt and stonewashed jeans. She crosses her arms, looks at you and the ball you’re holding, frowns and says, “You just don’t listen, Gigi. You keep playing basketball with those boys and you’re going to get injured. Your coach has told you this.” She lifts Gisele’s chin. “This time your face, what if next time it’s your knee or your ankle?” She looks to the heavens. And then at you again. “Is this the nose your chin made friends with?”

Gisele pushes past her sister. “Abuelita!” she cries as she disappears down the hall. You stand in the doorway, her older sister inspecting the mess out of you. It feels like you’re in trouble. Her sister turns but then looks back at you. “Well, come in, come in. We don’t want any more mosquitos inside.” You shut the door, take off your shoes and place them neatly beside your ball at the front door. “What in the world?” Gisele’s sister says, then calls out down the hall. “Yo, Gigi, where’d you find this one from? A boy, taking off his shoes without being asked. What next?” She walks into the kitchen area. You take in the colorful hibiscus wallpaper, the smell of warm spice that is somehow both savory and sweet.

“Rasheeeed!” you hear Gigi call from down the hallway. The way she says your name... like it begins with an “L.”

Jesus is on the wall in the living room, next to some family portraits — Gisele and her older sister are in most of them. All sorts of trinkets line the mantel and there are plants in every corner. Sunlight spills through the window blinds. Her grandma is sitting at a table against the wall, despite the sofas looking a lot more comfortable. She has grey hair, held in big curls. Her skin is tanned and leathered. She wears a cardigan over her dress and looking at her feels like you’re back in the north, back in the comfort of the cold. She gestures for you to come closer, “Ven aquí, niño.”

As soon as you’re within grasp, Gisele’s grandma grabs you and squeezes your nose bridge. Oh man, you want to flip, but your dad taught you better. Gisele’s grandma looks at Gisele as if to say: Why are you wasting my time? “It’s no broken,” she says. “Keep the tissue there.”

You don’t know if it’s the pain, or exhaustion, the heat or even all three, but as you nod your head you begin to feel light-headed. Your eyes roll back, and just like that your knees buckle and give out from underneath you.

* * *

You open your eyes to find Jesus is staring at you. Sunlight beams gently through the window. The smell of onions and peppers wafts up to your nose. You remove the wet hand towel from your forehead and sit up. You’re lying on the sofa. There’s a fresh bandage over the bridge of your nose.

“Hello?” you cry, and you can hear the excitement gather from the kitchen.

“Ah,” the voice of Gisele’s grandma cries out. “You are awake from sleepy time!”

Moments later, she walks into the room holding a tray of juice and a sandwich. “Too much heat,” she says, as she lays down the tray next to you. The sandwich is steaming hot and it smells so good you start to salivate. Your cell phone is next to the tray. You pick it up, expecting to find several missed calls from Aunt Hilda. Gisele’s grandma is watching you, expecting you to expect this. “We called Hilda, told her you were fine,” she says.

“You know my aunt?”

She chuckles. “Sí, Gisele told me you had a really bad skateboarding accident. You hit your head that hard, eh?” She moves to the table, and sits down in the same spot as before, and when she looks at you again she realizes that you still haven’t put it all together.

“Me,” she says, gesturing to herself. “I am the one who your aunt called. I told her I will send for Gigi to take you to the skateboard park. I suppose it is my fault you hurt yourself. I told your aunt this. Apologized. I’ve known your aunt for a very long time. She’s such a sweet woman. Helps me take care of my plants.” She gestures to all the foliage in the room with a sweep of the arm. There’s a lot.

You pick up the juice and clean it with one gulp. “You’ll get used to the heat,” she says, but by now you have a bite of the sandwich in your mouth and can only grunt a response. Gisele’s grandma chuckles, plucks a magazine off the table, opens it and rustles the pages. “I sent Gigi and Dani to the store. They should be back soon,” she says, glancing at the window. You eat in silence, listening to the clock tick away, the radio playing soft Spanish music and the faint sound of kids playing outside.

You don’t know what to do once the sandwich is done. Small talk has never been your forte. You always wind up saying the wrong thing. You fiddle with your thumbs. You’re not too sure if you should head back home or if you should stay and wait for Gisele to return.

“Was I knocked out?” you ask.

“Hmmm,” Gisele’s grandma replies. “You fainted. Too much heat.”

“For long?”

Gisele’s grandma doesn’t look away from the magazine. “Long enough to make a sandwich.”

“Do I need a doctor?”

“We all need doctors.”

“Where are Gisele’s parents?” you ask. And there it is. The wrong thing. You can’t help yourself.

Gisele’s grandmother looks up at you. “They are no longer with us,” she says. But something about the way she says it makes you look away, the way she lays down the magazine, and adds, “There was a car accident, my dear. Both the girls were very young.” Your eyes land on the family portraits again, only this time you look harder. You find her parents among the portraits; in one picture they are in their military uniforms, another photo captures them during their wedding, a third photo with their children, Gisele still a small baby between them. You think of your father. His sudden sickness: prostate cancer. It all happened so quickly. Tears begin to well up in your eyes. You fake a cough and try to quickly wipe them away with your sleeve. It doesn’t work.

“Your father,” Gisele’s grandmother says. “I’m sorry, I should not talk like this.”

“You know?”

“Yes, Hilda mentioned having to travel to Canada... for her brother... I’m sorry.”

It is too late though, you are already thinking about Canada, about Toronto, about the lonely days that led up to the funeral. And then the funeral itself. You wore a pressed suit that was far too big and the baby blue with white polka dots tie that was your dad’s favorite. Your mother dressed in tattered black clothing, and explained that it was all they had at the shelter. Her hair piled high in a nest that hadn’t been combed, washed or even touched. You remember the grief, but you also remember feeling so embarrassed standing next to her. After seeing your dad, lying there motionless, all you wanted to hear was one of his jokes. You wanted to laugh. Instead, you remained silent through it all. Silent as those in attendance who prayed. Silent as those who lowered him into the earth.

“My dad used to train me in basketball,” you say aloud. “We used to go out to the park every day and train. If it was winter we’d go to the gym.” Gisele’s grandmother is the only other person in the room, in the condo, but you’re not really talking to her. You’re not really talking to anyone... at least, in your mind, not anyone who can hear you. “I used to get so tired of the same drills... over and over again. Same time, every day.” Gisele’s grandmother shifts in her seat but keeps her gaze soft as she listens. “And now, I’d give anything to play with my dad again. All those moments are just... gone.” You wipe your eyes, but it is too late for any of that now. You are sobbing up a storm at this point. You just don’t know what to do with yourself.

Gisele’s grandmother gets up and walks over to the cabinet. She opens a drawer and is shuffling a few items around before she turns and faces you again. “Yes, those moments are ‘gone,’” she says, “but that doesn’t mean your father isn’t still with you.” She walks over to you and places a pebble in your palm, a blueish-grayish looking thing. “Moonstone,” she says. “It helps us deal with healing. It helps us deal with change. Your father is with you because you are right here. Right where you belong.” You turn the stone over in your hands. It feels cold and smooth; it has some weight to it, too. “You’re going to be alright, dear. Cry, scream, laugh, but don’t forget to love.” She places a hand on your shoulder and drops a box of tissues into your lap. She doesn’t say anything. All you can hear is the rough breaks of silence as you gasp for air. She leaves the room and you know it’s to give you some space, some time alone.

Gisele’s grandmother does not return until Gisele and Daniela are back from the store, their bags rustling with ingredients for tonight’s feast. By then, you’re thankful that you’ve managed to get yourself together. Gisele’s grandmother invites you to stay for dinner. Gisele sets up her PlayStation while you wait for the food to be prepared. You show her that Canadians can crush Fortnite, too. When Gisele grows bored of losing, you switch to watching some WNBA, and she walks you through almost every move Diana Taurasi makes, some before she even makes them. Daniela rolls her eyes and accuses her of showing off.

Dinner is served. Rice, corn, refried beans and crispy fried chicken. You eat well, and you talk around the table like you’ve known the family for years. You only wish Aunt Hilda was there with you all. You discover that you and Daniela share a love for Animal Crossing, and the sisters talk about the neighborhood. Where to go (the ice cream shack down the block), where to avoid (the CVS on Barton, because past that, was the bad side of town). They talk about the local high school, how it’s big but not so bad. Homeroom is by last name, and since yours is Harris, it is likely that you’re going to end up in the same room as Gisele. Between all this, the jokes and the laughter, you begin to feel a little lighter and even forget all about your nose until you take a trip to the bathroom and catch your reflection in the mirror.

Gisele offers to walk you the short distance home. “In case Justin is still out there,” she says, but you both know that ain’t it. You leave the condo with a chest full of gratitude, your basketball tucked under one arm and a bag full of tupperware in the other. There’s enough food to see you and your aunt through the weekend.

It’s quiet as you make your way down the steps and set out towards the building, and, as previously mentioned, you don’t know what to do with silence, so again you just can’t help yourself. “Your grandma told me about your parents,” you say.

“Yeah,” she replies. “Do you know what the worst thing is? I don’t remember much about them. I try my best to hold on to my memories and it scares me that they might be fading.”

“Wow, do you know what my problem is?”

“I can guess,” Gisele replies.

“I remember too much, and I’m worried that it will always be like this.”

“It won’t,” she says. “I mean, I’m pretty sure it won’t be. It’s still... new.”

“I know,” you reply as you move between the cars in the parking lot. By now the sun has long gone down but it is still hot and humid, and though you have observed this from the windows of your aunt’s condo over the last few days, it still feels crazy to be out at night in this kind of heat. You stop nearby the basketball court, near the bushes where hours before you retrieved your basketball. “Hey, Gigi,” you hear a voice call out, and realize that there are one or two people still out on the court, even though it is dark. “You want to play Horse?”

“Nah, I gotta get home,” Gisele cries out.

“You told your grandma that I hurt myself while skateboarding...” you say, once she turns back to you.

“Oh, yeah. She would’ve freaked out if she’d found out I got these cuts and bruises while playing basketball.”

“Because they’re bullies, Gisele.”

She laughs, “That’s not why. Coach, Dani, Grandma — they’re all so protective of me now. They don’t want me playing basketball in the park anymore. They don’t want me risking injury and messing up my chances of going to college.”

“Well,” you reply, “I can see why they would be worried.” You nod towards the park. “They’re playing bully ball out there, not — ”

“You don’t understand...”

“I know, I know. It’s like everyone wants to play with you...”

“Yeah,” she replies. “I mean, I get that. That’s true. I’m good and people want to play with me. I know that, and I don’t say it to show off. I’m lucky. I’ve been blessed, but I work hard at my game, too.”

“That’s even more reason why you shouldn’t let them call you names.”

“It ain’t cool, and they are going to have to learn that. I play with them because those are my people. I got to show them love. They know I’ve got a good chance of getting a scholarship and that makes them happy, but that also makes them mad. Like you shouldn’t have to be a good free-throw shooter to get a chance at life, but it can feel like that sometimes, have a spectacular talent or bust. Sometimes they be gettin’ on my nerves. I have a ticket out, at least that’s what they think, but even if I make it to college, my parents are not going to be there to see me graduate, and I just want to tell them: shut up, you get to go home to a family, your mami and papi. You’ve got everything. Shut up.” She sucks her teeth.

You both start to walk again, in the direction of your aunt’s place, which you feel won’t be so hard to call home after all, and for a moment it is quiet but for the sound of the nearby waves.

“You know,” Gisele says, “when my grandma told me to come out and meet you, to catch you before you went too far, I was going to grab you, tell you who I was, and take you to the park. But then I see you out here with a basketball, trying to perfect a crossover, failing at it, and I’m like: the skate park, for what? The hipsters and the skaterheads? The best and worst parts of the neighborhood are all in one place, on that court. Let me see what this cat is made of...”

“Wait,” you say, as the two of you stop outside your aunt’s ground floor condo. “Your grandma sent you out this evening to come and find me; to hang out with me?”

“Yep,” Gisele says and nods her head, “I guess she and your aunt felt like I could understand what you were feeling.”

“You do?”

Gisele shakes her head. “Nah, I don’t think so.” But when your face falls flat, she adds, “I was still a baby when it all happened.” Still, it’s not enough to lighten the sudden heaviness in the air and, as if she knows this, she asks, “Did she give you a stone?” and when you nod, her eyes light up. “I knew it, I knew it!” She punches the ball out from beneath your arm, chases it a little distance in the direction towards the courts, and when she retrieves it, she starts bouncing it between her legs. “Dani owes me money. I told her Nana would give you a stone.”

“You have one?”

“Uh-huh,” she says, “my sister, too. Cry, scream, laugh — ”

“But don’t forget to love.” You both say at the same time and that’s more than a little awkward. She starts mimicking your warm-up routine with the ball.

You smile. “Did you run into me on purpose?”

Gisele laughs. “Well, technically, I ran into your ball. I wanted to make sure I had the right person. And when I saw that I did, I figured: why take you to the skatepark? This here,” she gestures to the basketball court, “is your home now and those cats on the court are going to be your family, for better and for worse. And trust me, beyond the name calling, when push comes to shove, they’re going to have your back, just like they all had Justin’s back.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” you say. You watch her move from mimicking your routine with the ball to performing her own tricks. “Gisele...”

“Gigi.”

“What?”

She stops bouncing the ball. “Gigi,” she repeats. “You can call me Gigi.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Do you think you can coach me up a little some day?”

“Show you a few tricks?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

She throws a fake pump at you. “Sure, I think I can manage that. We’ll have you shooting in no time.”

“I can shoot,” you protest.

“Right...” she says. “I didn’t see you hit a single one.”

You both start laughing.

“Well, goodnight then,” you say.

“Yep,” she says and stops bouncing the ball. “This was fun, let’s hang again tomorrow.”

“That would be cool,” you say. You close your eyes and lean forward, lips puckered and feel them as they smack against... what you realize is your basketball. You open your eyes. Gisele is holding up in front of your face.

“Boy,” she says, “this is what you better learn to love.”

She pushes the ball into your stomach and you take it from her, she laughs again and shakes her head “See? You fitting in already.”

She turns and starts to walk away, shaking her head and smiling.

You call out behind her, “Same time, same basketball court. Tomorrow?”

She looks back and smiles but doesn’t stop walking. “Sounds good,” she says.