Words and Their Meanings by Kate Bassett Page A

green, but the whole thing is stained black with permanent marker now. I stare at the Patti photo grid and frown. Sometimes it would be nice to just have a mirror.
    The doorbell rings. I hear Mom get up, and listen to her exchange cautious pleasantries with Mateo. I wonder if she’s running through a catalogue of faces, trying to recall if she should know this boy from school plays or games or field trips. I wonder if she is afraid my heart will be on my sleeve, or if she’d rather see it broken than not beating at all. I wonder if she’s hoping he’s a promise of better days.
    I don’t let myself wonder anything else.
    â€œWe’re watching Alex’s game. Back later,” I say without stopping, pulling Mateo outside with me. His hand stays in mine a second too long. My skin tingles like a new lifeline was carved with the trace of his finger.
    â€œI like soccer,” he says to break the silence. “I played when I was younger. But then I got too busy with cooking and school, plus I play basketball too. Still like to watch, though…”
    His head bobs with the beat of some pop-ish love song on the radio. The window is down. I let my hand surf waves of warm air. This is what life felt like, I think, back before it happened. This. Normal. Happy.
    We pull into the parking lot just as Nat is stepping out of her car.
    â€œNatalie, right?” Mateo says, flicking his head in her direction. Her hair is pulled back in a high ponytail. She’s wearing a green and yellow Hornets T-shirt, which is what all the girlfriends on Alex’s soccer team wear to games. She waves.
    â€œMateo?” she asks, and I’m reminded just how talented of an actress she is. “Nat. Nice to see you outside of a kitchen. Hey, Anna.”
    I give her a quick squeeze, like this is what we do.
    â€œYeah, nice to see you girls in Technicolor,” he says with a grin.
    Nat throws back her head and laughs. It reminds me of Sameera.
    â€œI like him,” Nat says, as if Mateo isn’t standing right next to me. She winks and walks ahead of us. I shake my head and make a mental note to strangle her later.
    The team is already on the field, doing their ritual warmups. I know the whole sequence from when Joe used to play. They lift their legs in a sort of high march-skip, moving toward the bleachers and then dropping to the ground for five push-ups before gathering into a circle to dodge and weave in place. I look over at Mateo and roll my eyes.
    â€œI used to find this hilarious. They look ridiculous out there.”
    â€œUsed to?” He cocks his eyebrow. “Come to a lot of games with Nat? Or did you have a boy on this team too?”
    â€œNat. I don’t have another connection to soccer,” I say a little too quickly. I don’t glance over, but I know Nat’s shot me a curious look. We’ve always been able to do this too—feel what the other is thinking without having to confirm it. I lean against her as an answer.
    â€œNat and Alex have been together a long time. That equates to a lot of ‘Go Hornets’ cheers along the way. It’s like a prerequisite of being a best friend, you know, to be the supportive wing-woman. I could probably go out there and play as good as those boys just from watching. Or not, since I spend most of my time buying popcorn, eating the popcorn, buying more popcorn, and then running for a slushie because salt levels have caused my body to go into full dehydration mode. Yup. Love soccer games.”
    I pull my sleeve up for a second, glance at the reminder I wrote to keep from yapping away.
    And what I don’t want to say is this: sitting beside Nat on the third row of cold metal bleachers brings me back to last year, when Alex’s team broke out of its normal warm-up to form a human version of the number four. They stood there, staring straight ahead, while the speaker above announced a moment of silence for Joe