Breakaway by Kat Spears Page A

downtown. That day we ended up finding two pickup games on the Mall—one with a group of older South American guys I had played with before when I was with Mario, the other with a group of guys our age who were all really good.
    After the games we stopped for empanadas and sat on the patio in the sun to eat them before catching the Metro back home.
    â€œYou talked to Mario?” Jordie asked me as we stood in the train car for the ride home.
    â€œNot really. He’s buzzing all the time lately.”
    â€œWhat the hell is he thinking?” Jordie asked.
    â€œI guess he’s not,” I said.
    â€œHe’s got the rest of his fucking life to be off chops,” Jordie said with disgust. “Why the hell is he messing with that shit now? Right in the middle of season?”
    My tongue burned with a sharp retort. Jordie wasn’t really concerned about Mario or his health. He was only worried about how Mario’s using would impact our soccer record. When it was just Mario and me, Mario would often complain about Jordie in the same way—thought Jordie was stuck up and a narcissist. Which maybe was true, though it wasn’t really Jordie’s fault. He had just been raised privileged, an only child, used to the idea that everyone should give a fuck about how his life turned out. He would never understand where Mario was coming from, and I wasn’t going to be the one to explain it to him.
    When I got home that afternoon, Ma and Aunt Gladys were sitting at the rickety dining room table, a pot of coffee and two mugs between them. Aunt Gladys’s hand was on Mom’s arm, but she pulled away as I came into the room. I kicked off my shoes and went to get a glass of water from the tap.
    â€œHi, Jason,” Aunt Gladys said when it became obvious Mom and I had nothing to say to each other. “I’m glad you’re home.”
    I leaned one shoulder against the kitchen doorway and waited for her to continue. “I was thinking,” Aunt Gladys said, her voice softening as she spoke to Mom, “that if you aren’t feeling up to it, Jason and I could clean out Sylvia’s things. Box up some of the clothes. Maybe move some of Jason’s things into the room so he could have the space.”
    Ma lifted her bloodshot eyes to look at me and I looked at the tops of my feet.
    â€œBox up her things?” Ma asked.
    â€œWell, not everything, of course,” Aunt Gladys said quietly. “Just … I thought a little change might do you some good. Maybe do you both some good.”
    â€œIs that what you want, Jason?” Mom asked me, her voice hard and tight. “To throw out your sister’s things?”
    Aunt Gladys jumped in before I could answer, “Of course he doesn’t, Claire. No one’s talking about throwing out her things. But you have to … you have to accept that Sylvia is gone. You have to move on with your life.”
    Mom started to cry and covered her mouth with her hand, as if to hold the grief inside her head. She didn’t want to let it go, wanted to just go on being miserable forever. In the weeks since Sylvia died, things hadn’t changed at all. Mom’s sadness never got any better, only worse.
    â€œWhy don’t you just drop it?” I said to Aunt Gladys, more harshly than I had meant.
    â€œI’m just trying to help,” Aunt Gladys said as she held her hands wide in supplication.
    â€œHow?” Mom asked. “By telling me to forget about my daughter? She was my daughter for Christ’s sake. I never did one thing to make her life better. And now she’s gone. Because of me. You can’t possibly understand. You don’t understand what Jason and I are going through.”
    â€œDon’t drag me into this,” I said with a sigh as I gave up on the idea of being able to relax in my own house.
    â€œI didn’t come over here to start a fight, Claire,” Aunt Gladys said,