2. Everett
CHAPTER TWO
Everett
THEN
I remember getting car sick when I was six. It was a long drive, a thoroughly planned out road trip from Monterey all the way to Vancouver where my parents made overnight pit stops to national parks like Mount Rainier and Olympic. I threw up a few times, surviving off Gatorade and saltine crackers until my body somewhat adjusted.
Now, at seventeen years old, it seems I’ve outgrown those stages of motion sickness that come with long car rides. Instead, I’m able to ride out the boredom through the drone of my parents’ playful bickering in the front seat and the rubbery hollow thump of my palms against the basketball cradled between my thighs.
But this time, my view isn’t rows and rows of colorful foliage and mountains that hide the outside world with columns of thick forestry. Instead, I’m surrounded by the coastal breeze and the oceanic blue horizon as we leave Orange County.
“You’re going to fit in just fine, Everett,” my mom calls from the front seat, her fifth attempt to reassure me since we’d left Sacramento with a small U-Haul hitched to the back of the car eight and a half hours ago.
“And if those kids give you a hard time, you tell them to shove their shiny BMWs up their asses,” my dad chimes in. “Right along with their rich people money and fancy houses.” He swivels his head, throwing a quick glance in my direction as he changes lanes on I-5 heading into Carlsbad.
“Yeah, Dad,” I say, running my nail along the dark silicone lining on my basketball. “I’ll make sure to put them in their place.”
He ignores my sardonic tone, keeping his eyes on the road ahead of him. My mom asks him something about the washer and dryer back home in Sacramento, something for him to take care of when he flies back up next week while she and I get settled down here in Del Mar Heights.
Senior year certainly isn’t turning out how I thought it would. I thought I’d be starting my last year of high school up north, finally breaking the “new guy” curse. I think this’ll be three schools in four years? Or was it four? I lost count after sophomore year and first period English when Mr. Moon had me stand at the front of the class to tell everyone “two truths and one lie” about myself, which resulted in the most embarrassing guessing game that centered around the big question: Was I really abducted by aliens? (Was it not obvious?) Maybe it’s the difficulty of forming any sort of status in a school full of teenagers eager to stake their place and ready to rip you to shreds based on judgment and popularity. Or it could simply be the fact that any sort of label or standing in a social setting sets off warning bells in my head like a fire alarm. One full of smoke signals and a fiery heat ushering me away from group gatherings.
“You are still trying out for the team, right?” I catch my dad’s gaze through the rearview mirror, meeting my eyes again, but now with a more concerned edge.
“Yeah, Dad,” I say through a deep exhale. “Of course.”
“Maybe I should put in a call to the coach. If they know who I am?—”
“No, please don’t do that. I don’t need people knowing who you are.”
“Come on, Everett,” he argues. “What’s the point of this contract and name-dropping rights if not to get my son on the varsity team?”
I respond with an eye roll.
“I can even throw in a meet and greet with Peja Stojakovi?,” he offers, his voice sing-songy.
“Wow, using your players for personal gain. Is that how you’re going to start off the season as the Sacramento Kings’ new head coach?”
“I dare them to question their boss.”
“Thanks, Dad, but I think I’ll avoid the use of nepotism to ‘fit in,’” I say. “Wouldn’t make me any better than those spoiled kids with their BMWs.”
“Just give it your all. And make sure that Coach lets you try out,” he adds. “I know they always say their rosters are full, but they can always fit?—”
“Eddie,” my mom interjects. “Let him figure it out.” She runs her hand along his arm, gently putting a stop to this conversation.
“I just want to make sure he gets in. Those coaches at UC Davis are tough. Much tougher than high school coaches.”
“Dad, I’m not even sure I’ll get in,” I protest. “And I already said I’m not going to play in college.”
“I know.” He presses the heels of his hands to the steering wheel, holding his palms and fingers up in surrender. “But if you do change your mind, you need to have all the resources at your disposal. You can’t join a college team if you didn’t even play your senior year.”
“Yeah, well, if I stayed in Sacramento, I wouldn’t have this problem.”
“Everett,” my dad protests. “We already talked about this.”
“I know, I know.”
“Everett,” my mom adds, throwing in her two cents. “If your dad wasn’t so busy up there with this new coaching job, I’d love for you to stay, but?—”
“But you need to move here. I know, Mom.”
My mom awkwardly twists her arm to reach me in the seat behind her. Her fingers lightly tap my knee, a little pat of gratitude for my fluctuating sympathy.
The guilt of my frustration causes me to lay my hand on top of hers, a silent apology for my outburst. The truth is, I do feel bad. It’s not like she decided to move down to sunny Southern California for a year of sunshine and the easy life. And if it weren’t for my grandfather passing away two months ago, we wouldn’t even be in this predicament.
“How close is it to the beach?” I ask as my mom pulls away.
“About six miles. No more than a five-minute drive.”
“You’re going to love it,” my dad says. “And whoever decides to buy it is going to love it too.” He exits the freeway, finally feeling like we’re seeing the finish line after our last restroom break in Irvine.
“Eddie, we’ll wait to see what the realtor says,” my mom warns. “You said give it a year, and I am going to fully enjoy the house for a year before we have to sell it.”
My dad reaches for my mom’s hand, giving it a firm squeeze. They’ve been doing that a lot lately, exchanging secret glances and polite smiles, both reassuring themselves that this year-long separation is a good thing. While it isn’t ideal, it’s the best option considering the current circumstances.
When my mom was handed the deed to my grandparents’ house, she didn’t want to sell it right away. In fact, she wanted to move back home, finally plant roots back where she grew up. But with my dad’s work and the unpredictability of it, it wasn’t possible. So they compromised. He’d stay up in Sacramento while he completed his first year as the head coach for the Sacramento Kings, and me and my mom would move down to San Diego to finish out my senior year before I head off to college. If I looked up the word “compromise” in the dictionary, I’d probably find an image of my parents amicably shaking hands with firm, agreeable smiles.
The car slows as we turn the corner into a short cul-de-sac. My mom leans forward, peering through the windshield while watching the rows of houses pass by. “Ah,” she exclaims softly. “Here we are.”
My dad slows to stop in front of a two-story house that looks so much bigger than the memory of my four-year-old self. The driveway alone can probably fit four cars, five if the person driving knows how to parallel park. The tan paint looks freshly coated and the dark brown shutters siding each window make the house look homey and rich at the same time. My dad parks the car in the driveway, and we exit.
“Why does it look so much bigger than I remember?” I ask when the three of us meet at the hood of the car. We’re peering up at the house, our necks strained to the sky as we take it all in.
“Probably because the last time you were here, you were still using a little training potty,” my mom comments, gently patting my back.
“Come on, Everett,” my dad calls. “Let’s get the luggage down.”
My mom continues her way into the house while my dad and I walk to the back of the U-Haul. Just as we’re wheeling the first of our luggage up the driveway, we’re interrupted by a high-pitched squeal followed by the urgent pitter-patter of feet.
“James!” I hear a loud shrill screech call from the house next to ours. My dad and I both look toward the sound of the noise at the same time.
A girl, who looks to be about my age, runs out of the two-story home that’s a lot smaller than my grandparents—or, ours now, I guess. There’s a basketball hoop in the driveway, mounted high above the garage, and a few loose basketballs sitting in the grass off to the side. A Pathfinder sits in the driveway with a glossy CD dangling from the rearview mirror right next to a pearly white SUV.
“James!” the girl calls again over her shoulder. “Don’t hog all the Sour Patch Kids!”
More footsteps follow. “I want some too!” calls another voice, this one more playful and innocent coming from a boy about seven or eight. They race each other to the SUV, two more guys following behind them, and I suddenly feel out of place in my loose basketball shorts and plain gray T-shirt as I watch them walk out of the house in buttoned-up shirts and ironed khakis.
“Shotgun!” the girl announces with a smug grin. Her hair picks up with the breeze, and I see the glint of her smile shine against the late afternoon sun. The dress she’s wearing follows, the hem fluttering around her knees. Jesus, she’s pretty. Even from the distance across a driveway and a patch of grass separating our two homes, I notice the freckles lining her cheeks and nose and the way her dark eyes peer innocently at who she’s silently taunting with her hand on her hip and a cheeky grin.
One of the guys, already at the door to the front passenger seat, groans. “Oh, come on!” he complains.
“You can get shotgun in mom’s car.” She flicks a hand in his direction like she’s shooing away a bug, her wrist thickly adorned with bracelets and her nails painted a dark sparkly shade. A quick glance in my direction and we meet eyes, her smile disappearing behind the curve of bare skin where a single strap cuts across her shoulder.
“Hello!” a man calls, just as he approaches the SUV and joins his brood, noticing me and my dad awkwardly standing in our driveway. “You must be the new neighbors. I’m Jasper.”
“Eddie,” my dad answers as the two meet at the property line dividing the two homes. “Nice to meet you.”
“Welcome to the neighborhood.” Jasper turns to face the car where all the doors are open and the chitter chatter fills the air with chaos. “Those are my kids. James, Josh, Christine, and Andrew.”
My dad chuckles. “You got your hands full.”
Jasper smiles warmly in response. “You have no idea.” There’s a small pause and it’s interrupted by one of the kids approaching his side.
“Dad,” he calls. “Mom just called James. She asked us to pick up the cake before we head to the restaurant.” He has a full bag of Sour Patch Kids held loosely in his hand, the top ripped open and a dust of sugar smeared over his thumb and index finger.
“Uh, Josh,” he says, facing him. “This is Eddie and…”
“Everett,” my dad answers. “This is my son, Everett.”
Josh shakes my hand. His hands feel equally confident and shy through the small pause of hesitance and the lack of eye contact. He’s about as tall as me, hovering at around six feet, with the light, almost reddish-blonde hair his dad has. They have the same eyes too, blue with hints of copper, the complete opposite to his sister sitting in the front seat of their SUV.
“Are you new to the area? Or moving from around here?”
“We’re moving down from Sacramento,” my dad answers. “Though my wife is from here.”
“Sacramento! Where about?”
“Right around Land Park and Richmond Grove.”
Jasper exhales a long, drawn out whistle. “That’s some fancy roots you have there.”
My dad lets out a nervous laugh. “We just moved there about two years ago from Monterey,” he tells him. “Work has me going all over.”
“Wait a minute,” Jasper says with a slight rise of surprise in his voice. He has a loose hand pointed in my dad’s direction, and it’s the face that we’ve seen one too many times back home. I just didn’t think it would happen so quickly here. “You’re the Kings’ new head coach.”
My dad huffs an awkward laugh. “Sure am,” he answers with a polite smile.
“I thought you looked familiar.” He turns to Josh. “Josh, we got a celebrity next door.”
“Oh, no. No, no. I’m no celebrity. Just doing my job.”
“I’m a huge fan,” Jasper adds. “Though my kids have been trying to convert me into a Lakers fan for years.”
“Are you from up north?”
He nods. “Grew up in Santa Cruz. I moved down here after me and my wife got married.”
My dad’s face lights up. Though we’ve been all over Northern California, it’s the vast area that spans from Monterey to Sacramento that’s home. So while we have no small tight knit community, it’s the familiarity of the area that we feel attached to. “Hey! Nice to meet someone from back home,” he says, adding a friendly handshake and hefty pat to Jasper’s shoulder.
“So are you taking up a different job? You didn’t back out of your contract? Or is that confidential information?” Jasper asks, poking fun at the level of discretion my dad has to keep in relation to his job.
“Oh, no. Nothing like that,” my dad assures. “This is my in-laws’. Was,” he corrects. “Ours now, I guess. Anyway, my wife’s going to take the year to clear it out, enjoy it one last time before we sell it and this guy goes off to college.” He hooks a hand over my shoulder, grinning proudly at me.
“I’m sorry,” Jasper offers with a stern face of condolence. “Mr. Allen was a nice man. Always let the kids back there when one of their toys flew over into his yard.” He juts his chin toward our house.
“Daddy! What’s taking so long?”
We all peer at the car with the doors still open, a blast of radio music streaming out from the speakers. I see the girl, Christine, look in our direction with a set of curious eyes. Her lips are pressed together and twisted to one side while she sits impatiently.
“I’ll catch you later,” Jasper tells my dad. “We got a birthday thing to head out to, and now we’ve got to pick up the cake.” He chuckles warmly, extending his hand to my dad again. “It was nice meeting you both.”
“Nice meeting you too,” my dad answers. We turn back to our waiting bags as Jasper hops into the driver’s seat with everyone buckled and waiting. I glance back at the front passenger seat as Jasper pulls out of the driveway, only to see Christine peering at me through the window. I see her lips lift in a small smile, the sentiment reaching her eyes as they soften, and I smile back.