Hook Shot (Hoops 3)

On a gorgeous autumn day, I Iooked up and saw a fire rainbow. So rare most people go their entire lives never seeing one—arcs of color blurred, set on fire by the sun and streaking through the clouds.

A rainbow is the bridge from Heaven to Earth.

And this one was on fire.

“MiMi,” I’d whispered. I’d known.

And when my cell rang, when Iris called, jarring me from that sacred spot at the top of the subway steps, I knew MiMi was gone.

“Girl, I need a NeNe Leeks GIF for this conversation,” Yari says from the next room, pulling me to the present.

Though the voice that answers is low and less distinct than Yari’s, it’s female. I shuffle on bare feet toward the living room. We share a fourth-floor walk-up in Bushwick. It’s a gorgeous old brownstone renovated into four apartments. Yari and I are on the top floor. My steps come to an abrupt halt when a smell invades my senses.

The smell of burning hair.

“Hey, mami,” Yari says, smiling at me through a cloud of smoke.

Yari’s mother owns a salon in Queens where you can get one of the best Dominican blowouts in the city. As a side hustle, Yari does blowouts here in the apartment from time to time, but she’s never used the pressing comb resting innocuously in a small portable stove on the table beside her.

“You’re using . . .” I take a deep breath and try again. “I’ve never seen you use a pressing comb.”

“I know, right?” Yari picks up the iron comb by its wooden handle and drags it through her client’s hair. “Usually just the blow-dryer, but Ms. Diva here wanted it extra straight and to last a long time. Even brought her own comb.”

The client in question smiles at me from under a fall of newly-straight, smoking hair. I try to

smile back, but my mouth won’t curve. My heartbeat hammers my breastbone, a painful thrumming that shortens my breath. Sweat dampens my palms and under my arms. My body won’t pretend—won’t cooperate in my charade. A primal scream scratches the sides of my throat, begging to be let loose. I’m afraid I can’t contain it for another second, so I turn. I run. Yari calls my name, her voice laced with concern and confusion, but I can’t stop. Can’t explain. I run past my bed, into my closet, slamming the door, blocking out the world beyond and trapping the smoke and the smell on the other side.

The walk-in closet is a decent size, considering how small the bedroom is. I turn on the light and my gaze clings to the closet wall. There’s an oak tree sketched from corner to corner, its branches stretching, limbs drooping, leaves dangling. I race to it, curling my body into a tight ball around the penciled trunk, taking shelter in its charcoal shadow.

And I wait.

Wait for my heart to slow.

Wait for my breaths to even out.

Wait for the roar of blood in my ears to quiet.

I wait for the room to stop spinning.

I don’t know how long I’m there. Long enough for Yari to poke her head in and ask if I’m okay.

“Yeah,” I manage to say without croaking. I pull myself up until my back is against the wall, against the tree I drew there. “Sorry. I felt sick. Something I ate.”

There’s a pause, uncertainty in the look she gives me.

“You sure, Lo?” she asks. “You ran out of there like—”

“Like I was gonna be sick,” I conclude for her, forcing a laugh. “Your client probably didn’t want vomit at her feet.”

“But you’re—”

“I had sushi today. Maybe it was bad or something.”

“We were gonna go grab some oxtails from that place on Flatbush,” she says tentatively. “You wanna come?”

We’re never tentative with each other, and I wish I could tell her the truth, tell her everything, but I wouldn’t know where to start my story, and it feels like there is no end.

“You go on. I still feel a little queasy,” I say, willing myself to sound normal. “And I need to edit the podcast anyway.”