Hoops and Dreams

[1] Wrong side of the tracks

Timothy hesitates for a split second before kicking the soccer ball and sending it crashing into the chain-mail fence that divides our yard from our neighbors.

In response, it rattles and the cat perched on it mewls and makes a suicide leap onto the ground. Landing on her deceptively soft paws. Right on cue our neighbor, Ms. Finch slams open her screen door with the haste of a bat out of hell. An old bat.

To his credit, my little brother stands his ground. Unflinching as she scans the yard for signs of trouble and spots the two of us. Timothy, guilty as ever with the smoking gun of his ball rolling back to him and me, bent over my fur suit and scrubbing, hard.

"What the hell are you doing, boy?" She asks. Or more accurately screeches.

"Your cats were staring at me again." He responds, deadpan.

"They weren't bothering you," she says. Then she picks up the suicide jumper, an orange tabby with white feet, and nuzzles it. "They wouldn't harm a fly."

I snort. Tell that to the two mice I saw the tabby drag onto the porch two nights ago. Granted they weren't flies but their bloody, limp bodies looked pretty harmed to me.

Ms. Finch narrows her eyes at me when she hears the sound. "Hey stupid, tell your brother to keep his ball off my property."

Did she just do a rendition of Get off my property? She should be careful with that. She's one stern fist shaking away from senile.

I dust my knees and stop with the task at hand to face her. "My name's Hazel and the ball isn't on your side yet, Finch."

I know they say respect your elders but all those rules fly out the window when it comes to my dealings with this woman. If I didn't know any better I'd have said she was my life-long enemy in a past life come back to haunt me. We had a Curse you Perry the Platypus type relationship like that. It was just my luck that we moved in next door to her.

She's single-handedly responsible for calling security on my family five times. The last call was referred to the police.

On that occasion, I was practicing my pep rally routine one night, fully kitted in my panther mascot doing twirls and tumbles when a flashlight landed on me. Apparently, Ms. Finch had seen me through her blinds and called to report a cat burglary in progress.

It was a great joke. Even my dad thought so. She must have spent hours bent in her armchair, cackling with glee after the fact. But I wasn't amused in the tiniest bit. It only served to cement my dislike of the woman.

"The next time it does, I'm going to chop it up and use it as cat litter." With that, she turns on her heel and retreats into her cavern. I mean her home.

Timothy sets down the ball, preparing to strike again but I stop him.

"Don't," I say.

"She deserves it."

"She deserves a whole lot worse than that," I say. "But she has to cast the first stone."

The next time I found cat poop in my trainers or Tim got the tires of his bike mysteriously slashed. Then we'd strike and err on the right side of both neighborhood justice and Jonny law. I watch as the door closes behind her and bend to get back to my scrubbing. Working at the paint stain I got from a fundraiser for the art club. Spinning signs and charming parents.

My phone buzzes and I sigh at the distraction before pulling it out of my back pocket. The first text is a broadcast message:

If youre free tonight, pull up to Xaviers. Free vodka!!!