Sol quietly belched, shaking her head again. The tennis talk and the Jack were bringing up memories of Jerry. “Tennis Titan,” she’d used to call him. He actually wasn’t particularly good at the sport. As Sol improved her game, she realized that Jerry’s only skill was his reaction time. He didn’t control space like a veteran player. He simply defended it well, chasing the ball to every crevice and cranny of the court like a determined puppy. His pursuit of the ball was so dogged that he seemed to forget the possibility of injury. Matches with him used to last forever because even if he was obviously outmatched, he’d trap his opponent in a purgatory of deuce, refusing to relinquish a game until his opponent collapsed from fatigue or frustration.

His specialty was the high-flying return lob. No matter how impossible the odds were of him reciprocating a well-placed shot, he’d accelerate toward it at inhuman speed, committing life, limb, and racket to a cloud-chafing return that would make the ball linger in the air like an escaped balloon, then casually glide back toward the court like a Tony Parker teardrop. His opponent would then smash it when it finally touched down and repeat the cycle. Their coach used to call it the float-a-dope method, much to Jerry’s goofy satisfaction.

“I just can’t, guys. I’ll go and watch you,” Sol offered, slipping on some worn flats.

“That works!” Kai said, leaping from the couch and heading toward the door. Her head suggestively turned from the open liquor cabinet to Sol, but she didn’t say anything. Sol didn’t either.

Zed followed behind Kai, twirling her car keys. Sol stayed behind to take a quick swig. Her empty stomach erupted into a ruckus as the whiskey slithered down her throat, but she felt calm. Derrick could wait.

° ° °

Zed drove cautiously, the FBI press conference from earlier still haunting her. It was midafternoon, but traffic was light. Maybe Riverdale was more spooked than she realized. All Things Considered, her favorite NPR show, took on a new meaning as she noticed the traffic cameras at every stop along Highway 85. She’d never been pulled over before, but the ambient gaze of the law suddenly seemed to be confronting her head-on, vis-à-vis.

Her anxiety brought back memories of the day in fourth grade when she realized that her classmates knew she was Asian. She thought she had camouflaged herself well, hiding in plain sight among the Mexicans and Puerto Ricans, but when she took out some khmer num krok at lunch, the eyes that fell on her were observational, not incidental. They were still friendly eyes, but she could sense the re-sorting, the recategorization. Nothing was the same. Within days, the boys were suddenly eager to discuss anime and video games, and the girls wanted to talk about K-pop and skincare.