Free Pure Red by Danielle Joseph

head, let off some steam. Plus, the last thing I need is one of Liz’s pep talks: You can do it, Cass. Keep your head in the game . I don’t need a second coach. One is enough.
    “No, I’m fine. Thanks, though.”
    Liz hops in the car and holds her fingers up like a phone and mouths, “I’ll call you.”
    Yeah, but not before you call Harry back , I think.

golden shower
    Half a block from the gallery, I realize I’m still wearing my sweaty polyester basketball uniform. Red, no longer the color of victory; rather, the color of temper and anger. After all, red attracts raging bulls (Thunder). My psychology teacher, Ms. Kravitz, said it’s no coincidence that one of McDonald’s official colors is red. Studies have shown that red stimulates the mind and sucks people in. My theory about the game: the red shirts of our team lured the dull browns in and allowed them to soar to victory.
    I’m standing in front of La Reverie now, too tired to turn around, go home, and shower. Actually, I’m hoping Graham is long gone and I can talk to Dad. Alone. I could really use a hug right now. When I was little and came home from school with a frown on my face, Dad would pull out two huge blankets. We’d cuddle up on the couch until he put a smile back on my face.
    I finally step inside the gallery and stand at the entrance. The cold air is a welcome change from the extreme h umidity of Miami summers. I check for Lady in Red ; she’s still th ere. A smile instantly spreads across my face, and if I squint my eyes, it feels like she’s smiling back at me. For all I know she could be asleep under those shades, but I like to think she’s looking beyond the canvas.
    Then I head upstairs to Dad’s studio. I hear them before I see them. Dad and Graham. Talking. Laughing. Talking. Laughing. Aren’t they supposed to be working? What time is it, anyway—five thirty? Shouldn’t Graham be dust by now?
    Dad sees me first. “Ay, Cassia, ma cherie , how are you?”
    “You had a game?” Graham asks.
    Yeah, don’t remind me.
    I look at Dad, not Graham. “Yes. We lost.”
    “Sorry,” both Graham and Dad gasp, like they’re Siamese twins sharing one brain.
    “Yup,” I say, still frozen in the doorway. All the lights are turned on and the studio has an unfamiliar brightness to it. Everything here is communal, so you would never know that three people share this loftlike space. There are easels spread about, a table and chairs in the back, a large cabinet and boxes of paint and supplies in every corner. Lucien’s half-finished painting of a marina is perched on an easel by the door.
    “Tell me about it,” Dad says.
    I shake my head. “It was really crappy … ”
    Dad holds up his pointer finger, signaling me to hold on, and turns to Graham. “Now I remember the name of the Russian artist. It’s Malevich. See if they have anything on him at the library.”
    Graham just nods.
    “Thanks for asking, Dad,” I grumble, and walk toward his desk in the back.
    “Sorry, cherie , please continue.”
    “Nevermind.” I position myself against the wall instead, away from them. “So how was it here ? At the gallery?”
    “Graham’s building an impressive portfolio.” Dad pats him on the back. “He’s got a great eye for detail.”
    “That’s nice,” I say, and really mean it until I remember my not-so-great attention to detail. Apparently, I wouldn’t even know a basketball if I was holding one in my hand. No, I was too busy mistaking Thunder’s friend for Graham. That’s like mistaking prune juice for Coke, which, by the way, I only did once.
    I think Graham senses I’m an emotional wreck; either that or my high rate of perspiration sends him running because he asks if we have any water. Dad directs him downstairs to the mini-fridge and I take a seat on the paint-splattered footstool.
    With my elbows pressed against my thighs, I let out a huge sigh. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
    Dad pulls up another stool and