“She’s way better, Ms. Clarke. I’m glad, too, ’cause I’m sick of having to reach everything in the house. You know I’m not that tall.” Jasmine puts a hand on her hip and gives me a pout for show. Not one member of her Filipino family stands above five-five, and Jasmine is no exception, maybe hitting five-two in her platform sneakers. “I think she’s keeping those crutches around to get me to do more chores.”
“Smart woman if you ask me. Enjoy the game, Jaz.” I nod to the one-woman pep squad.
“I hate the Royal-Hawkins basketball shirts and shorts. I believe synthetics are killing our environment more than cows,” Marisol shares in her mock activist voice. Since discovering that listening to podcasts while doing laundry makes the time fly, Marisol has become the climate change police. It’s a bit hard to listen to her preach when she’s picking remnants of a paper straw out of her teeth, but her intentions are good.
“Okay, here it is.” Roan is waving his cell phone inches in front of his eyes trying to create enough wind to keep from crying. Oh my God, is he moving? Is Tate making him go back to New Jersey? This cannot be happening to me this year, of all years! Roan’s racking up families for Royal-Hawkins like I haven’t seen in a decade, and he’s the one I need around to smooth out the rumors when the HOS is MIA when the B-A-B-Y arrives. He absolutely cannot leave me.
“Tate wants to elope!”
Oh, thank God, Roan’s not going anywhere other than into a panic.
“Elope-elope, or more like a destination wedding?” Marisol questions before we go chasing Roan down a rabbit hole.
“ELOPE. No toasts. No first dance. No running off to our honeymoon under a canopy of sparklers.”
“No gifts,” I chime in.
“EXACTLY. And I want a Vitamix BAD.” Roan sulks.
“You want the panini machine we got for our wedding? It’s still in the box,” Marisol offers, always looking for a way to clear out her cabinets.
“Dairy’s my new don’t.” Roan pats his stomach. “I mean, look at these pictures of us in Disneyland.” Roan’s aggressively swiping picture after picture of Tate hugging him at the happiest place on earth. In tennis shorts, Tate’s tanned and muscled legs are on display, his Mickey Mouse ears perfectly propped atop his golden crown of hair. “I want the world to see THIS is my man. At least I want my world to see it. My relatives back in Dublin don’t believe I’m marrying someone who looks like he just stepped off a Baywatch television shoot.”
“Does Tate want to elope anywhere good?” Marisol asks, hoping for a silver lining to Roan’s devastating news.
“Lake Tahoe. The Nevada side.” We all pucker like we’ve been served something sour.
“That’s unfortunate,” I say, unable to come up with anything better, but knowing the consoling has to start.
“I know, right?” This is exactly where Roan’s demand to stand by his side comes into play. Marisol and I nod our heads vigorously in solidarity with our wounded gride.
“Why does Tate want to elope?” Marisol asks, scrunching up her nose, put off by the idea. I dig my heel in between Marisol’s big and second toe so she recognizes her misstep. “I mean, does he have a fear of performing in front of crowds or something?” Marisol attempts to deflect from her rudeness.
“He’s hung up on the numbers. Money and people. Tate came up with an impossibly small budget for our wedding. It’s absolutely ridiculous to ask me to plan under his conditions. The budget alone won’t cover my suit, the photographer, and our rented 1975 Alfa Romeo getaway car!” Roan has worked himself up into an emotional lather that I know, from experience, we need to let run its course. “So, when I told Tate he was suffocating the creative vision that will set the tone for the rest of our lives together, he suggested we elope. To Heavenly!”
“Well, that will save you money and still set a nice foundation for your marriage,” I suggest, because Marisol is too busy choking down her fit of laughter.
Ignoring me, Roan continues, “So I had a thought, Nina.” I’m unsure which is worse, spiraling Roan or thinking Roan. “What if we have a double spring wedding to cut down on costs?”
“With who?” I ask. Marisol lets loose howling.
“With you! The one who decided to do it dyslexic and get knocked up first.”
“You two have to stop! I’m trying not to pee my pants in public,” Marisol gasps out, tears running down her cheeks.
“No way. I’m not getting married anytime soon. And I’m definitely not getting married pushing nine months pregnant.”
“So that’s it? You’re going to let me walk down the aisle, alone, surrounded by penny slots?”
“Cha ching!” Marisol belts out, mimicking pulling down a machine arm. Not helpful.
“What’s going on down there?” Marisol nods to the bottom of the bleachers, knowing we should probably change the subject from Roan’s nuptials lest he also find out Marisol and I have a bet going that he and Tate won’t make it through New Year’s. I assume Marisol has laid eyes on Xandra and her current goth wardrobe fit for a funeral procession. My need for consoling over my brooding daughter trumps Roan’s wedding woes, and I’m instantly bumped to the front of the friendship line.
“What are Jared and Winn doing down there cuddled up on the team bench?” Roan asks, following Marisol’s sight line. I’m looking around the gym for Xandra, but my eyes land on the mismatched couple hunkered over clipboards, furiously writing after a three-point shot is missed by a starting Royal-Hawkins junior.
“A high school basketball game is an odd choice for a date with your closet sugar daddy. Or I should say, not so closeted anymore,” Roan states more than speculates. I wave my fingers, signaling Roan to lower his voice.
“What? I’m just serving the tea while it’s hot. Jared’s a first-year teacher in pricey Pasadena. You know he’s living in a two-bedroom with three other people, barely making ends meet. Someone needs to take care of that Adonis, otherwise it’s a waste of a flawless physique.”
“Is Jared the varsity coach and Winn the helicopter parent assisting him?” Marisol asks, more interested in the ins and outs of high school sports than I ever would have given her credit for. “I know you didn’t cave and give that kid the head coaching position when he whined for it earlier this fall,” Marisol insists, fishing around for the chink in my leadership chain.
“Absolutely not. He’s still in charge of coaching our middle schoolers. He doesn’t even particularly like the varsity coach, so I have no idea why he would be down there on the bench. Or why Winn’s with him.”
“Weird,” Roan offers as his final thought on a topic he’s quickly lost interest in. He wistfully returns to the half-built wedding website on his phone. Marisol shoots excuse me eyes in my direction. She’s the only person who knows what went down in the November board meeting when Winn showed up late from his three-day basketball playdate with Jared.
Lethargy, uncertainty, or the three slices of pizza I ate for dinner—something is keeping me from leaving my perch and marching down to find out more about the Winn-Jared bromance. The “should I stay or should I go” question clouds my brain when I hear what sounds like a pair of pointy heels climbing the bleachers heading right for me. I pull my jacket tight to hide my midsection when I see Courtney Dunn laser in on the spot next to me. Is she climbing all the way up here to have a better vantage point on the game, or on Winn Hawkins? Maybe Marisol was right and Courtney’s persistence to join the board is akin to a fatal attraction plot line. Oof, our team just missed two baskets in a row. Even I know that ain’t good, but why do Jared and Winn whisper to each other and scribble notes after each lost point?