style="font-size:15px;"> On my left, and at the head of the table, is Anthony. No longer in hospital scrubs, but in a pair of dark jeans, a black shirt and a blazer. Looking not like a dad at all, but more like one of People magazine’s 50 Most Beautiful People. On my right is Nevaeh. Across from me is a very conservatively dressed London, a stark contrast to the nearly naked London that greeted me upstairs in our shared room. She’s dressed in a white blouse that is buttoned to the collar, dress pants and strappy sandals. Her pretty black hair is hanging neatly over her shoulders. Beside her is Heaven. Margaret and Pumpkin are at the opposite end of the table.
“We always thank Jehovah before we eat,” Anthony explains, taking my hand and bowing his head as everyone else joins hands, too, and I wonder who exactly this Jehovah person is. For some reason I picture a red-faced man with horns and a pitchfork but wait...no, that’s the devil.
“Jehovah,” he starts. “We give You honor and great thanks as we sit before this meal. Thank You for safe travels for Tiffany and for blessing us with a complete family. We praise Your holy name and give You honor and glory above all things. In the name of Christ Jesus. Amen.”
“Amen,” everyone repeats except for me.
“Tiffany,” Margaret starts, “now we go around the table and say something we’re grateful for. Why don’t you go first?”
My stomach drops. “Um, I’m grateful I didn’t die on the way here.”
Everyone sort of stops cold; an array of disturbed looks are tossed my way. Shoot! What was Grams thinking telling me to be myself?
“Was there some sort of accident or something?” Margaret asks quizzically. “On the freeway?”
“Yes,” I lie. “We barely missed it, thank goodness.”
“Thank Jehovah,” Anthony states seriously.
There’s that Jehovah guy again. Who is this man?
“Can I go next?” London asks with a quick raise of the hand.
“Absolutely, honey. What are you grateful for?” Margaret replies.
“I’m grateful that I could be Curington’s valedictorian and give the graduation speech. That’s a huge honor. I’d be the youngest valedictorian in the history of Curington.”
“What about Marcus McKinney?” Nevaeh asks.
London scowls. “What about him?”
“He beat you out for the Young Scholar Award and the Minority High Honor Award for the eleventh grade last year. Let’s just be real. He’ll probably beat you out for valedictorian, too.”
London turns to Anthony. “Dad. Can you please tell Nevaeh not to interrupt what I’m grateful for? That’s so rude.”
“Nevaeh, don’t interrupt what London’s grateful for,” Anthony replies as if on dad autopilot.
“I’m stating the facts. Besides, how can you be grateful for something that hasn’t happened?” Nevaeh asks.
“It’s called faith,” Anthony replies. “The evidence of things not yet seen.”
“But that would be like me saying I’m grateful I might maybe be valedictorian, too,” Nevaeh explains. “In six years. That’s stupid.”
“Yeah, that is stupid because you get Cs,” London replies smugly. “You’ll never be Curington’s valedictorian.”
“That’s stupid,” Pumpkin squeals.
“London and Nevaeh. Sweethearts,” Margaret cuts in calmly with her polite head tilt, “that’s a bad word for Pumpkin.”
I look over at Pumpkin, whose mass of curly hair is approximately three times bigger than her head. The plate in front of her is plastic and instead of a fancy, gold-rimmed glass she’s got a Tinker Bell sippy cup, which she suddenly hurls through the air. I watch it soar before it splashes down into the pool. Man, that kid’s got an arm on her.
“Yay! Fun!” Pumpkin claps.
Anthony waves his hand at Margaret. “Don’t get it. Let her learn. You throw your cup, you don’t have anything to drink.”
Margaret nods.
“I’m grateful I might be valedictorian, too,” Nevaeh says. “In six years. When I graduate. That’s what I’m grateful for. I have faith.”
Anthony rolls his eyes. “Heaven? What are you grateful for?”
“I’m grateful our first scrimmage game is next Friday.”
“Finally, right?” Nevaeh says. The twins bump fists across the table.
“Sixth-grade basketball.” London rolls her eyes. “How droll.”
“Tiffany, do you play ball?” Anthony asks. “I would imagine, with all that height.”
“No. Not since I was four and had one of those plastic basketball hoops attached to the bathtub.”
“Tiffany plays the guitar, Dad!” Nevaeh exclaims excitedly. “She brought a guitar case with an actual guitar inside.”
Anthony’s brow furrows. “Well, that’s a shame about not playing basketball. With all that height? We gotta get you on the court. Basketball skills run in the Stone family.”
A sport played by two teams with five players each on a rectangular court: how Wikipedia describes basketball.
Something fun to watch or play: how most people describe basketball.
Sweaty athletes exhausting themselves while running around and throwing an orange bouncy ball back and forth until a winner is declared and the madness ends: how I describe basketball.
“You should see if you can try out for Curington’s team!” Nevaeh suggests. “Stone house rules say you gotta play a sport. Why not basketball?”
“I have to play a sport?” Dread crawls up my spine. “Why?”
Instead of answering my question, Anthony nods and says, “Good idea, Nevaeh.”
“But, Dad,” London cuts in. “JV team is suspended this year for hazing. And varsity tryouts are over.”
Anthony shrugs. “I’ll talk to Coach James. See what we can do. She’s a transfer. She deserves a shot.”
I picture myself on the court, braids out, hair in a Buckwheat-style ’fro with tiny bald patches peeking through. Gripping the ball, running across the court in tears. The referee blowing his whistle at me. The other girls on the team hurling profanities my way. Crowd hissing and booing. Cheerleaders standing in disgust, arms folded, refusing to cheer.
“Margaret, babe. What are you thankful for?” Anthony asks.
“I’m thankful Pumpkin’s doing so well. Her behavior therapist thinks she might not even have the diagnosis by the time she’s ready
