11.4

For a while, I assumed my life would go on without incident, that everything would be the same, and that I would continue to cling to walls and violently invade the shadows and everything would be alright.
I forgot basketball intramurals.

In case I wanted to have an (aberrant) normal life (because only losers have normal lives), basketball came by to make sure I strayed not into the realms of peaceful solitude. Basketball came by to make sure I surrounded myself with as many sweaty cheery happy people as I possibly could. Basketball decided I needed very close contact with men who smelled like onions and women who smelled like dirty hair and children who smelled like sadness and loneliness. Truly, I couldn't blame basketball for my troubles, but I didn't want to blame Rosalyn. That's my choice (who to blame for my misery) and I chose basketball, not Ros.

So tuesday.
Self, I know what you're thinking.
But self, you have homework due on wednesdays. You can't be screwing around on tuesdays.
Yes, self. I'm right. Thanks. But Ros has always been there to support me. It would pattern me a heinous bitch if I didn't support her.
Self, I sure am stupid.
Agreed.
I went, on tuesday, to see Ros' basketball team win their first game. The difference between tuesday and soccer is that basketball is dangerous at this school. It being a state university doesn't help matters; basketball is revered. To get into intramurals, Ros had to go through a placement tryout just to make it into the worst level league. C. She was furious.
"Level C?"
"What's wrong with it?"
"Everyone in level C is gonna be craptastic! They'll want the ball and they'll never pass and they'll drive to the basket every chance they get and (at this point I zoned out for a bit, entranced by the way Ros' mouth moved. She wasn't particularly beautiful like women they put in magazines, but she was strong and complete. She looked like she had been planed down from a larger, more incomplete Ros into the shape I knew. But the person working on her left their work incomplete, somehow, like Ros needed extra work to really be smooth and beautiful. She wasn't perfect, but she was my friend, and it's my right to be entranced by the way her mouth moved. Her mouth was the fastest part of her, in that it said words that her face didn't catch up to) so it really stinks that they put me in with all the losers and egotists."
"Well, maybe you can make good things come of bad?" It was a stupid question, but I hated to see her so upset.
"It's possible, I guess? But the fact remains that I am in lumped with the lowest of the low."

And tuesday, Ross' team played for the first time. Of course, they had gotten together and discussed strategy, but tuesday was the first time they had played against an actual opponent. I crawled my way up to the absolute top of the bleachers to avoid having an avid fan's knees jab my back all evening. I arrived, sequestered myself, and took stock of my surroundings. That was when I saw him: Enrique (not Iglesias) who I had thought never to see again--was playing on Ros' team. I pulled out my phone and texted Ros.
"Is that Enrique on your team?"
Well, that was stupid, I said to myself. She's playing right now and she just made a goal basket point something and the crowd went wild and anyway, she won't want my stupid text.
"Ignore last text. I know you're playing."
"No, you know what? You always tell me to be more assertive. What's with Enrique?"
"How did he find you? Did he seek you out? Was it chance? Fate? FAAAATE? Or something boring?"
"And now that you're stuck with him, what are you going to do? I want to know."
"P.S. Sorry. So so sorry. Ignore me, focus on the game."
Rosalyn played beautifully and never saw my texts all game long. Thank God for small miracles. When her concentration breaks, it really snaps into little tiny metallic pieces that stick to the roof of my mouth and cut every time I try to say something because I'm so guilty for having broken her train of thought. She can't dance with thoughts like I can, and when I disrupt her, it means I have hell to pay. Ros played well, but spent most of her time yelling what I assumed was "I'm open, I'm open, why the hell won't you pass it to me you idiots seriously I'm open and the lane is right here or I could pass it to him or hell I could just stand here and play better than you" but I couldn't actually hear so it could have been anything. Finally, it came down to a tied game (twenty seven each, but nobody's judging by relative score) and Ros had the ball. She pounded down court, and the entire crowd swelled as one voice raised in a fearsome bellow. Ros found herself blocked in by two of the largest, meanest-looking players on the opposite team, but she was completely unfazed. She faked, and then passed to (what?) Enrique, who was waiting patiently open. He was so shocked he had to take a bit to understand that (for the first time?) someone had actually passed the ball to someone else (you know, I hate it when Rosalyn is right about her paranoia and pessimism. It just gives the world a greyish tint), and when he finally recovered, he shot for the basket. The ball did not float in slow motion like it does in the movies, nor did it roll around the rim before finally deciding to topple in on accident, nor did it rebound clunkily and fly away to enemy possession. It just went in. It was the most boring last two points of any game, ever, hands down, and this is coming from a girl who has seen more of Ros' games than she cares to admit. And yet, I wouldn't have known they were boring for the sound the crowd made. Everyone screamed and roared and hooted and whistled and generally cavorted together in joy.
It was the first game in the season. The possible reasons for their overexultation were these: they hated me and wanted me to suffer, or they were celebrating being young and alive and powerful and vulnerable and together. I chose to believe option one, because the bearded bro next to me jumped up and threw his soda on my shoes. Again, I chose to see this as malicious, and not some unfortunate accident.
Enrique was mobbed by fans.
Rosalyn got the victory she deserved.
My shoes were ruined by Dr. Pibb.

I found Rosalyn and hugged her.
"Supergame!" I said, laughing. "I thought you were MVP for your pass at the end, there."
"Yeah, you think so? Be honest: did you only watch the end."
"Of course not. There were at least ten minutes at the beginning I watched."
Ros grinned. "You're a wet blanket, you know it?"
"I'm perfect for putting out fires."
We headed towards the exit and our dorm and showers. I smelled worse than Ros. Sir Broseph Soda had worked his magic on me. On the way out, Enrique intercepted.
He grinned at Ros, then turned to me. "Hey, thanks for not freaking out on me the other day."
"No probs. It was quite literally the least I could do."
"That . . . sounds menacing. I'll have to ask later what that means." He turned to Ros. "So thanks for inviting me to play. It was fun."
"Yeah, fun." Ros looked away and down. "So . . . "
"So."
I wanted in, but I butted out.
Ros broke the silence. "I'll see you on thursday, then?"
"Of course. Um, hey, I got to go. I'll see you on thursday."
"Thursday." Ros nodded.
Enrique spun and lit out like a house on fire. If I wasn't me, I don't suppose I would have caught the edge of embarrassment in his face. I turned to Ros. The edge was there, too. I smiled and tried to hide it.
"So, showers?" Ros suggested.
"Indubitably," I replied. "Hey, Ros?"
"If you ask what I think you're going to ask, you'd better not."
I knew I was, so I shut up. Enrique could wait until later. Much later, like when I caught Rosalyn in a slap-happy laughter fit, and she would answer any question ever. They were illusive, but I had learned I could induce them at two in the morning. I reserved my power carefully, because Spiderman and powerresponsiblility whatnot.

It was a lovely evening, and the quickening fall bit our cheeks with wind. We had walked three quarters of the way back to the dorm when Rosalyn blew up with a tremendous yell.
"Six texts?!"
I just smiled. Homework? Who needs it? This tuesday kicked butt.