"I'm still confused," Darnell says after I've explained it for what feels like the hundredth time. I've only gone over it twice but definitely feels like a hundred.

"That figures," I mumble. "The ball has to hit the hubcap of that car, bounce onto the streetlight over there and finally... Make it into that trashcan. Simple."

The trashcan is a few yards away from us so asking him to do just that would be too easy. A toddler could do that, blindfolded. Instead he has to hit a hubcap with enough momentum to get it to wack the streetlight hanging over the trashcan and land. The perfect trick-shot.

"I'm not throwing my ball into a trashcan," He says after a few seconds of deliberation.

"I can't help but bait him: "Fine. If you can't do it then just say that. There's no shame in it."

"Can you even do it?"

"Of course, I can," I tell him. "I wouldn't ask you to do something I can't."

It's true, I can do it. When I saw the angles of the car and the trashcan opposite my brain lit up and my first thought was trick-shot. It would make for the most incredibly satisfying basket. It would keep bothering me until I tried it and he'd given me the perfect opportunity to test out my theory.

"Then you try it first." He tosses me the ball and I can't help but grin as I catch it.

I twist it between my hands for a few seconds. Then when I feel ready, without hesitation, I toss the ball lightly in direction of the hubcap. I don't turn to look at the ball tap its way from the car to the streetlight and then almost impossibly into the trashcan. I look, instead at Darnell's open-mouthed expression as the ball hits home.

"Nothing but net." I say with a hair flip when it lands.

"It's a trashcan." He retorts.

"Buzzkill," I reply before I walk over to the trashcan to grab the ball. It's a green bin marked for paper only. I pass him the ball and he receives, thumbing over the division lines with his fingertips.

"Your turn."

"What do I get?" Darnell says twirling the ball in his hands. "For doing this. Apart from your never-ending awe and devotion."

"Isn't that enough?"

"No," He spies something over the top of my head, and his eyes literally sparkle. "I want that." He continues, pointing up.

"You want my hair?" I ask with mock horror. "Why would you want my hair?"

"Not your hair." He says. "Your hair tie. It's shiny and nothing motivates me as much as something shiny."

That may very well be true. There's probably a trophy case of spelling bee prizes that can vouch for the idea.

"Fine. If you make the trickshot—"

"When I make the trickshot."

"You get my rainbow hair tie," I say letting his interruption slide.

"And if I don't... What's in it for you?"

I smile, glad he asked. "Nothing," I say. "The satisfaction of beating you is enough for me."

He rolls his eyes and under his breath whispers whatever.

Then he turns to face the parking lot and plants his feet. When he's just about to throw the ball, I lean over and whisper-shout, "fail".

Darnell jolts and drops the ball, "Shut up, Hazel."

I laugh and raise my hands in quiet surrender. He bends over to pick up the ball again and straightens.

"Any day now," I say because why not.

He throws the ball and we both stare as it follows the correct trajectory and lands with a faintly triumphant sounding thud. Not nearly as cool as when I did it, but still something.

Darnell whoops and breaks into what I have reason to believe is his victory dance. A cabbage patch with fancy footwork.

"Whatever," I say. "I guess that means anyone can do it."

He laughs with smug satisfaction. "And I guess I'll be needing your hair tie."

I yank it out of the tangle of my ponytail and hand it to him. Letting my hair fall onto my shoulders. "I hope you choke on it."

He shrugs and sets it on his wrist with such delicacy that in another life it could have been a bracelet from Tiffany's.

"It was a pleasure doing business with you."

And that, I guess, is my cue to leave and so I start to walk away.

"I could always give you a ride home," He calls from behind me.

"I'm fine," I say turning back. "My bike's on the sidewalk."

"Okay, bye then."

I wag my fingers in a wave and head for the soup kitchen's gates. I've always been a sore loser.

*****

Timothy Monroe speeds through his prayer. Something only he can get away with at the dinner table. A few quick words and an unceremonious thank you tacked to the end of a sentence are apparently all you need when you're a ten-year-old boy and need to get a message across to heaven.

The main reason for the religious haste is the shredded beef and spinach quesadilla spread set up on our checkered tablecloth. Dad is already making up his second before the prayer ends and as Timothy starts reaching for his first, Andrea intercepts him with a neat smack of her wooden tongs.

"Oldest first." She cautions as she stabs a fork into her own.

The platter is thick with the scent of melting cheese and Tabasco. I pick one for myself and a second for Timothy. It's moments like these that I live for. Family dinners where I can forget the stresses of life and—

"Hazel?" Andrea calls causing me to look up from my plate and right at her.

"Yes," I say with my mouth partially full from the first bite.

"Ms. Finch called me the other day. Asking if I went out at night on Sunday."

I nod but keep chewing in an attempt to hide my growing panic. Why ask about Sunday today? Days after the fact.

"She claims she heard the car start in our yard but didn't have a chance to report it until now."

I didn't think anyone had heard me drive to pick up Anika that day, but obviously I was wrong about that it. The best-laid plans of mice and men are more often than not spoiled by their nosy neighbors. A lesson I'll have to learn the hard way.

"I started the car."

"You started the car," My dad asks, raising a pair of bewildered, graying eyebrows at me. "To go where?"

"Nowhere." I say quickly. "I needed a quiet place to study so I got into the back. It got a bit cold and I switched on the engine to up the temperature."

"Oh," Andrea says. "Impressive. You're taking so much initiative this year. Setting such a good example for your brother."

I clear my throat and smile at them blankly, shoveling another forkful of food into my mouth to sate my guilt at lying. The brother I'm responsible for setting a good example to side-eyes me, knowing full well I wasn't studying in the car that night. He's aware that I was helping Anika. But he doesn't say it and I appreciate his loyalty to the cause. But at what cost? I'm not sure.

"How's school anyway? Have you started SAT prep yet?" My dad inquires.

"More importantly are you keeping your grades up. You need to score as high as possible to have a chance at scholarships." Andrea adds.

Classic parental's, I love them but they like to get straight into the heavy stuff when it comes to school.

"I have a bit saved up for college and—"

A careful sum of one thousand nine hundred and thirty dollars to be exact. UCLA has an annual tuition of twenty-four hundred dollars not including accommodation, textbooks, and upkeep. Irvine Valley community college on the other hand has a tuition of just over a thousand dollars. It's clear I'm placing my hopes on the latter. My GPA isn't high enough for me to consider a scholarship or anything remotely close to the ivy league. I need something in-state and that offered a degree program. Community college wouldn't open that many doors for me but I could at least try to jam my foot in between before it shut.

Here's the main thing though, my parents, bless their hearts, believe me to be a lot smarter than I actually am. A small incident in the fourth grade where I won our class science fair may have lead them such skewed beliefs

To them, I'm the smartest kid in my class, even though concrete evidence has surfaced time and time again to disprove that theory. They're my biggest supporters and motivators. They think I could apply to Harvard and just get in, they think I could get a full ride to UCLA despite not having the talent to back it up.

"— If you could just let me apply for a job."

"Hazel we've talked about—"

"I could save a whole lot more."

"And spend less time on your schoolwork. That won't help your grades. You already spend too much time in the mascot hobby." Andrea says

"It's not a hobby. I..." My throat gets hot, a sign that I'm either about to cry or say something stupid. So I hold my tongue and say something else. "Dad says I'm probably not going to get into college anymore so why bother applying. There aren't that many grants for poor kids."

He was drunk and mostly joking when he said it but I still haven't forgotten.

She turns to him. "You can't tell her that. Why would you tell your teenage daughter that?"

I let him take the heat while I think and chew. Slow and thoughtful.

"I didn't say it in those words. I just don't want to get her hopes up." He replies raising his hands in his own defense.

"And so you think it's better to tell her she can't get in?"

"Of course she can get in." But I hear the higher pitch his voice takes. "That's not what I'm worried about."

"Then what is it?"

"College is expensive." He says with a sigh.

"Yes, but it's completely necessary. In the world we live in."

"But if we're being realistic, can we even afford it?"

"So now I'm not being realistic?"

At this Dad drops his quesadilla, a sign that this talk is taking a much more serious turn.

I learned long ago to never pick a side in an argument between Andrea and Dad. No one ever wins, and more importantly, whenever I do I always lose. So instead I pick my wrap apart breaking it into its individual components and drenching it through the salad dressing.

"Can we have this conversation in private when she isn't right in front of us?" I'm glad they've suddenly remember that we can still see them.

"Fine as long as we actually have the conversation this time."

Just as this chat seems like is about to end he has to throw in that last line. Peace was never an option.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

And so begins the back and forth.

Timothy leans over to me and whispers, "Do you want to take this to the living room?"

Sometimes he operates with a level of intellect I am sure I will never be able to reach. But most times I have to show him how to tie his laces. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy it. Crossover, under the bridge, yank and bunny ears. A tried and tested method. Our exit plan isn't too complicated the living room is a few steps away. A worn leather couch facing an older television set. The very definition of uncomplicated.

Timothy grabs the remote and tunes onto the Cartoon Network.

A channel that if asked publicly, I would disown in a heartbeat, but here, in the safety of my own home, I am mildly entertained.

"I don't get it, I thought Marceline didn't like PB?" I ask Timothy who stares at the screen.

"Well, now they're Bubbline."

"Hmm," I say. Cartoon logic strikes again.