After Basketball-Part 3

We make it to Shakespeare’s at 1:30 and it’s already crowded. The smell of the pizza immediately makes my stomach growl and my heart smile. I spent many a dollar my parents sent me getting a pizza from Shakespeare’s while I was at Mizzou. My basketball squad went to the green, brick building on the corner of Ninth Street after practice on a regular.

We decide to wait after we find out we should get a table in 20 minutes. The twins have been to Shakespeare’s before on their many trips to Columbia to visit Frank. A couple years after our divorce, Frank moved back to his hometown to be the first, black Basketball Coach at his Alma Mater, David H. Hickman High School. Now he is remarried to a petite blond, Veronica, who is pregnant with twin boys due any day.

   The temperature has cooled off from the normal August heat, but I’m not complaining. We find a place to stand on the sidewalk with the other customers waiting for their table and the air almost feels electric with the students returning to campus. Looking around, I see a few other black people in the mix. Being from St. Louis, you see as many black people as you want to see. Columbia is vanilla with a few chocolate sprinkles.

   “Mitchell party of three,” the tall, lanky waiter calls from the door thirty-five minutes later.

   “That’s us,” I answer and we follow him inside the warm restaurant to a corner booth.

   “I’m starving,” Don says dramatically as she spreads the menu in front of her on the table.

   “Me too,” Nell answers, straightening the salt and pepper shakers and napkins in a neat row.

   “Yeah, I could eat my shoe,” I say, ignoring the menus, already tasting the hot cheese and pepperoni on my tongue. My stomach growls loud enough for the girls to hear and they look at me and bust out laughing.

    “Bruh,” Don says, bending over in her seat in laughter. “You’re killing me.”

   I catch my breath, wipe my eyes and answer, “Well, I said I could eat my shoe,” which just causes the girls to erupt into another fit of laughter.

   “Mom,” Nell asks, “like, who even says that?”

   Before I get a chance to answer, a red-faced, blond with braces bounces up to the table and interrupts saying, “Hi, I’m Brittany and I’ll be your waitress. Looks like you girls are having fun. What can I get you girls to drink?”

   Don catches my eye roll and grabs my hand gently. The twins know being called “girl” or hearing a full-grown, black man being called “boy” by a Caucasian can get me started on a hour long discussion of the longstanding effects of slavery in America.

   I take a deep breath, cross my eyes at Don and answer sweetly, “I’ll have a water with lemon, Brittany.” I’m determined not to let anything mess up my positive vibes. My twins are going to college.

   After the girls put in their drink orders, Nell says, “That was really mature of you, mom. I love seeing the progress.”

   “Hey, I told you, I’m going to be on my best behavior today. You’ll both get your own taste of good ole Columbia soon enough. You’ll thank me when you know how to handle a Ken or Karen getting out of hand.” The twins grew up going to mostly white schools in St. Louis so being in mostly white Columbia will not be a major culture shook. And thankfully, neither of them had ever dealt with being called “the N-word”. I always tell them, kids today have no idea they are just a couple of generations behind a black boy being hung and burned for accidentally bumping into a white girl.

  

Don asks, looking serious, “So mom, I mean really. How are you going to make it without us?”

   I laugh and shake my head. The girls have asked me the same question all summer as if I didn’t have a life before them. “For the hundredth time,” I answer and smile, “I’m going to keep on living. I have work. The team. My friends. I’ll miss my baby girls, but I’ll be fine.”

   “But, mom, you hardly ever go out with your friends anymore. When was the last time you saw Ms. Casey and em?”

   I tap the straw on the table, pull it out, put it in my water and take a long drink. I look down at the table unable to ignore the sting in her words. When enough time goes by for me to keep any hurt from my voice, I say, “You’ll understand when you become a mother. It’s hard to get together with your girlfriends all the time when you have a family. Ms. Casey is busy with her husband and sons. But when we get a free moment, we’ll go out for dinner. I told you girls, don’t worry about me! I’ll be fine.” I ignore my own rule and take out my cell at the table to avoid Don’s meddling eyes.

   They are right, of course. I have no idea what I’m going to do with myself. Uncle Jackson will be in St. Louis for his yearly middle school tournament in December, so I’ll help him with that. During basketball season, I’ll be busy with practice and games with my team, and I plan to make trips to Mizzou to see the twins play when their season starts. But from now until October, most of my days are as wide open as Bron in the NBA finals.  

   I hadn’t told the twins there would be no more dinner dates with Casey and the girls. I can’t remember the last time any of them reached out to me. The twins didn’t know Casey, the rest of the crew and their husbands remained friends with Frank after the divorce. Over the years, I got used to seeing the Facebook and IG posts of celebrations I was no longer invited to join. Now when the couples travelled to the Lake every year over New Years, Veronica sat in my seat at the bar.

    Nell says with her wide, piercing eyes, “Okay, mom. Well, just make sure you don’t become a hermit.”

   “Or a spinster,” Don adds with a smirk, breaking the tension. As they get older, they are looking more and more alike to me. I could always tell them apart from the first time I held them swaddled in soft, pink blankets against my chest in the hospital bed. Most people can tell them apart after they hear the story about a small scar on Don’s chin from a fall off the swings. Honestly, I thought I could tend to it at home, but it kept opening up when she was eating and it took so long to heal. Frank never lets me forget she needed stitches. Now when we can get her plastic surgery, she wouldn’t dare change a thing. Don loves the little extra attention it gives her.

   “Promise I won’t become a hermit or a spinster.” I smile and look at them both. I say a silent prayer I’m telling the truth.  

   Brittany arrives with the pizza and we all grab a slice and eat in a comfortable silence.

   “That was so good,” Nell says, finishing her third piece, rubbing an imaginary belly.

   “Do you guys still want to check out the campus?” I ask, checking the time. We planned to walk around and then take pictures at the Columns to add to our collection. Every couple of years, we take some pics there, first with the girls, me and Frank, but now the twins still indulge me by dressing alike and taking one with me when I ask. Before we came to eat, they changed into white t-shirts with gold Mizzou logos. skinny jeans with holes in the knees and these cute, gold Chucks I found at Nordstroms. But shoot, it’s almost three-thirty and suddenly the thought of walking around the campus while fighting off a case of the itis no longer seems appealing.

  Don arches her brows, bugs her eyes and says, “That would be a negative. She flops back dramatically in the booth again and I want to slap her. Kidding, not kidding.

   “Yeah, mom. Let’s just head back to the room and chill.” Nell sits up and starts picking up dirty napkins off the table and stacking the plates for the waitress. Leave it to Nell to do the waitress’s job and making sure she still gets a fat tip.

   “Okay, cool.” Definitely works for me. I can rest a while and then tackle the rest of Don’s clothes so their room isn’t a disaster by Monday. “But I still want my picture before we head back to the dorms.”

      We pay Brittany, fat tip included, and head towards the exit, definitely at a slower pace than when we entered. I hear my phone ding and I know without looking that it’s Frank, triple confirming our plans for the drop off. Always the controlling, anxiety filled sack.

   I grab my phone, see the letters F r and drop it back in my purse. I look back up, but it is too late and I bump into someone. A man. A tall, dark, chocolate man. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, feeling his hands on my shoulders as he tries to keep me from falling. 

   “Excuse me, sis. You good?” His voice is deep, a rumbling thunder from his chest.

   Am I good? I look up nearly a foot and a half and meet his eyes and woo. They are set deep under thick, black brows. He is grinning a lop sided grin and his teeth are white and straight. My heart starts skipping and jumping.

   “Yeah, I’m cool. Thanks.” I lick my lips subconsciously and look reluctantly towards the exit where Nell and Don are stopped staring, not missing a thing.

   “Okay, good,” he says smiling again and when he turns to walk away, the back of his hand brushes the back of mine and I swear I feel it in my toes.

   “You good, mom?” Nell asks, following me out of the door.

   “Yeah, I’m good. Let’s go.”

   “Okay, cause I could of swore that man was flirting with you,” Don adds.

   I put my hands to my face to hide my smile. “Oh please,” I answer, looking back towards Shakespeare’s.

   “Mom! Are you blushing,” Nell asks, laughing. She pulls my hands down from my face.

   “Cut it out, Nell!” I laugh and swat her hands away. “Let’s go.” I hurry ahead of them and get into the truck parked on the street. I rub the back of my hand and feel a fire.