Page 3 of Ruthless Court

“It may be the same fragrance.”

“It costs more than your scooter.”

“Then you should be proud I showed restraint.”

Mom smiles over the rim of her mug.

“Ryan?”

I freeze with one arm through my backpack strap.

Mothers acquire information through channels unavailable to ordinary civilians.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You checked your phone four times during breakfast.”

“I’m expecting an email.”

“You smiled at the toaster.”

“It made excellent toast.”

She laughs.

I kiss her cheek and flee before the conversation requires eye contact.

Dad has already left for school.

He went in early to work with Ryan on his jump shot.

Ryan’s elbow drifts whenever he shoots under pressure. Dad noticed it during the regional semifinal and has treated the flaw like an urgent medical condition ever since.

A note waits beside the fruit bowl.

Take the bus to the gym after school. Ryan has film.

I fold it once and slide it beneath the bananas.

Not today.

Today, I have plans that do not involve sitting in the athletic lounge while Dad rewinds basketball footage frame by frame.

I wheel my scooter from the garage.

School is less than two miles away. The Chicago morning is cold enough to sting my cheeks, but the sidewalks are finally free of ice.

Wind pushes against me as I ride.

So much for the blowout.

By the second block, my smooth hair has become ambitious.

By the fourth, it has developed opinions.

I stop at a crosswalk and inspect the damage in my phone camera.

Not terrible.