Free Pure Red by Danielle Joseph Page A

sits facing me. “I’m sorry. I know how you feel.”
    I lift my head. “You do?”
    “Of course. I told you the other day I wanted to come. And I bet all the other parents were there, too.”
    His face is peppered with tiny whiskers. He can’t go one day without shaving.
    “Don’t worry about it. I sucked anyway. Messed up an important play.”
    He leans in closer and squeezes my arm. “You don’t have to tell me. I’m really sorry. I’ll come to the next game. I promise.”
    I hear footsteps on the staircase. Graham’s back with a bottled water. “Everything’s fine, Dad,” I say, and get up from my perch.
    “Good to hear.” He stands up, too.
    I feel like crying. I cost us the game, and I need to curl up on the couch under heavy blankets even though its eighty-five degrees outside. Sure it was only one shot, but why did it have to be THE shot?
    I look over at Graham, sketchbook tucked under his arm and a permanent smile tattooed on his face. How can I throw a hissy fit when someone else is so genuinely happy? I can’t. That’s not me.
    “I’ve got to run. I didn’t realize it was so late. But thanks so much, Mr. Bernard, ah, Jacques. I’ll be here at ten tomorrow,” Grah am says.
    “My pleasure.” Dad reaches out to shake his hand.
    Then Graham turns to me. “I’ll see you later, Cassia.”
    My body perks up. “Okay, great,” is all I can think to say. But then my shoulders quickly slink down into hunch mode. Of course he’s going to see me later. That’s like stating a fact. The sky is blue. I look like crap today. I’ll see you later. Graham’s got what he wants now. Full access to my dad.
    He leaves, and I wait for another half hour until Dad finishes up a small canvas he was commissioned to paint for a friend. It’s a painting of the guy’s Nemo fish. Fish don’t count as portraits, apparently. Plus, money talks. I don’t know too many people willing to shell out a grand for a picture of their fish. What’s next, a still life of the guy’s toaster?
    I don’t even want to think about going to practice tomorrow and facing everyone. I’m such a moron. From now on I’m not going to look at anything but the ball. Maybe I should wear horse blinders.
    I play the scene over in my head. Teri has the ball, can’t move due to overload of Browns. Cassia is open. Cassia waves her arms wildly to proclaim her freedom, and catches the ball. Cassia thinks of Dad (always him), turns for a split second to the oak tree, mystery man is standing there shouting “Pass, Eleven!” Cassia falls into a deep hallucination and thinks mystery man is Graham. With her mind elsewhere, Cassia gets slammed by a Brown and drops the ball, causing damage to her already compromised brain. Now if only I can convince my team that cerebral injury is the most likely explanation of the events that unfolded.
    “Why so blue, kiddo?” Lucien pulls up Dad’s stool and sits beside me. He’s wearing a cream-colored lin en shirt and suit pants. He looks funny sitting on a small, paint-splattered stool. There’s something on the corner of his shirt. Looks like a ketchup stain.
    “Tough game today,” I pout. I watch as Dad walks over to the sink to dump the cup of cloudy paint water. “We lost.”
    “Nobody likes to lose,” Lucien says.
    Exactly. Maybe I should’ve said to Ms. Cable, “What’s better, a nobody or a loser? Is it better to be a blip on the radar or a blop?” Okay, so blop is not an actual word, but it sounds like one big mess. Like a blown-up blip.
    “It’s even worse when it’s all your fault,” I grumble.
    He puts his arm around me. “All your fault? Impossible. You can’t carry the weight for the entire team.”
    “Yeah, but I lost the ball and blew a very important shot,” I say to his shirt. You really have to work hard to keep linen clean. It picks up everything. Even the hairs from Lucien’s cat, Café.
    “Then you go out tomorrow and show them what Cassia’s really made of,” he