Dad unlocked the basement door in the corner of the living room. I haven't been allowed in here since I was a kid, but I'd hear him with his guy friends playing Spades every other Sunday night after dinner.

During matches where the energy would spill out of the room, they'd sometimes blast oldies music from artists like James Brown. But, for calm sessions, they'd listen to soft jazz melodies and mostly played in silence.

It was like whatever they needed, the basement games gave them.

Same for Dad. He calls it his man cave.

We walked down the stairs, the walls so closed in that it felt like my shoulders could brush against the grey paint.

It took us a few minutes to find our seats and open the Uno box. He shuffled and flicked cards like a dealer at a casino, but kept his eyes on me while I repeatedly swiped mine off the table.

Every now and then, I'd catch him staring at me, but when he would smile, I'd lower my attention to my cards.

Our first match is almost finished.

I have five cards—red reverse, yellow three, red block, green draw two, and yellow draw two—but he has one.

He changed the color to red.

I scan my hand, then the neat pile beside the deck. He placed a draw four card when I was on Uno, ready to throw down my green draw card.

"We wait any longer and I'll be in my forties," he says, and I lift my eyes to him over the top of my hand. He cracks a smile that steers toward the side of his face like a devious smirk.

I swallow my nerves and look at my cards one last time. Taking a deep breath from the bottom of my stomach, I slip my hand across the table and pluck another card.

I could've given my block and reverse, but eventually, I'd have to draw a card anyway.

I'd rather save those for the end of the match.

"You sure you wanna draw," he asks, and I stop moving. My arm is extended with the card facing down. His eyebrows are raised to his hairline, and his smile spreads until he's showing his top row of teeth.

I look to my left, then my right, and into his eyes.

Slowly, I slide the card with the rest in my hand. A blue reverse.

I stare at the symbol and my eyes dim. Whatever he has, I know I can't combat it.

It's taking everything in me not to toss my cards and flip the table between us—even though it'd be impossible since the table is nailed to the floor.

"Well," he says, taking a deep breath. He flexes his lips to keep the grin off them. "This was a fun game."

He lifts his card and slaps it on the table. It resembles a whip snapping and I blink back, cringing into my t-shirt and shorts.

I lean forward while he reclines in his seat, resting his hands on his stomach.

Green draw two.

"Well, for starters, you didn't say Uno Out," I say, my voice quiet like I'm whispering. His smug grin fades and he opens his mouth like he's about to say it. I shuffle through my cards like CDs at a record store. Without looking at him as he sits up, I ask, "Also, you said we can stack cards, right?"

He pulls two cards, watching me with an eyebrow raised.

Before he can answer, I align the two draw cards in a neat stack, then I raise them. They come down between my fingers and land on the table in my failed attempt at copying the sound he made.

"Draw six." Now, it's my turn to sit back with a smirk. I watch his eyes narrow onto the pile, then he sits at the edge of his seat.

Dad holds his cards to his chest in one hand while the other lightly brushes the draw cards off the stack one by one. His dark locks fall over his shoulders and gather with the rest hanging down his back.

He huffs a breath from his nose, "Hm," and his eyes flick onto mine. They relax, then shrink again. He watches me and I, him. Finally, after a few seconds, air whistles from his wide nostrils in a slight chuckle. "You better hope I don't find a draw four card, LeeLee."

"Well, don't be so sure I don't have one. I'd hate for you to draw eight," I say a bit louder than the last time. He sticks out his lower lip and nods like he's thinking touché.

"So," he says while plucking the cards from the deck. "How's school?"

I take my lips into my mouth and lick them, my eyes wandering onto the staircase far behind him.

"Um, it's okay. They gave me homework, so nothing's changed." I force myself to chuckle, but it's dry.

He turns his eyes into slits and stares at me through them. He says, "I thought you said you didn't have homework."

Then, without missing a beat, I tell him, "Well, yeah, I don't, because I did it on the bus," and he relaxes his face. He nods and returns his attention to his hand. I do the same with mine.

"How about the kids?" I furrow my eyebrows. "Anyone been messin' with you?"

"No," I drone, unsure why he's asking me these questions. "Not really."

"Good. I guess our little sit-down conversation with your principal helped." We lock eyes, and I swallow my spit. There's that déjà vu feeling again; That feeling of reliving something.

Immediately, I think about Melissa Hayworth and the black eye I gave her. That was a fight I tried my best to avoid, but I don't know the other Leila enough to know if it was the same for her.

Did she pick on someone or was it the other way around?

Then I remember Regina and Michelle telling me about the time I—well, the other Leila—threw a bike at the other Keenan.

"Can you just tell me what was said for you to knock her in the head with a basketball," Regina asks, and I shrug.

"It doesn't take much for Leila, Gina." The corners of Regina's mouth twitch as she struggles to keep her smile from dropping. "Remember that time she threw her bike at Keenan for mumbling something?"

"Yeah, I remember," she flatly answers. I crease my forehead from scrunching my face.

I can't see myself doing that because one: bikes are heavy, and two: I'm not violent; especially toward Keenan. So, I lick my lips, then I ask, "When was this?"

"It was last month, Hercules," Michelle says and in her voice, I can tell she's smiling. "You said he was running his mouth, so y'all argued, and because he walked away mumbling, you took your bike and threw it at him."

"Um, so, like, why'd you speak to my principal again?" His warm, dark brown eyes flick onto mine. It's the only feature that confuses those who don't know him. On the outside, he looks like he could be violent or aggressive, but when he speaks, he sounds soft. Not soft in a feminine way, obviously. "Not that I forgot what happened, but," I drone again, and he lets out another breathy snicker.

"Funny," he says, "You try'na distract me." I open my mouth to deny it, but he slaps a card on the table. Without breaking eye contact, he tells me, "For that, draw four."

I smile, but on the inside, I have so many questions that it feels like there are multiple people trapped in my head.

I won't push him for an answer to any of them, because I know I'll seem suspicious, but when Trey or Amir get home, I'll find a way to get the answers out of them. I'd hate to get to school tomorrow and find out the hard way that I'm beefing with someone. 

Especially if it's Sara.

***

Hours passed, and one by one, everyone returned home. Mom made Amir and Trey lug in Walmart bags of groceries and other things she picked up while shopping.

It's one of her bad habits—getting sidetracked—and Dad hates it as much as we do. She used to take me to run errands with her. At the store, I'd stand between her and the buggy with my feet on the flatbed's rail and the handles in my fists.

It was fun cruising through stores like that even after I'd turned twelve, but after a while, I hated running errands.

It started when she ran into her high-school classmate and had me standing near the freezers for hours while they reminisced.

Eddie Noel died.

Loretta Wilkins remarried after her divorce.

Rita Anderson had her third child.

It sounds interesting until your fingers feel like foreign objects attached to your skin, and your body is vibrating under leggings and a thin jacket.

I stand at my sister Jodi's bedroom door. It's wide open because Mom and Dad don't allow it closed when a boy's over.

Ironically, Shane wouldn't be interested in Jodi if he was a dog and she was a chew toy. Dad knows it just as much as Mom, but rules are rules.

She's sitting on the floor with him, their slouched backs against the foot of her bed. A large textbook is laid open in front of them alongside papers and notebooks.

Shane stares at the calculator in his grasp, his hands shaking as he punches in numbers.

Jodi watches him, her dark brown eyes trailing over his navy blue polo shirt, khaki shorts, and black Sperrys.

"Alright, I have twenty-three," he says, flicking his hazel-brown eyes onto hers. He looks at her lips, and I clear my throat.

Jodi flinches, and they turn their heads to me.

"Leila, what're you doing standin' at my door like a weirdo? Was you gon' speak or nah," she asks, her voice high and aggressive. "What do you want?"

"Which question should I answer first?" Her raised eyebrows lower as her eyes dim. Shane glances at her out of the corner of his eye.

"Leila, don't play with me." I pull my lips into my mouth and look toward the carpet. "What do you want?"

"I was just," I pause, not knowing what to say. I went to Amir and Trey's room with a million and one questions, but the questions were like paper in the wind when the stench of socks hit me.

It's one thing I don't miss about them. That and their attitudes.

They were sitting on bean bags, so close to their fifty-inch TV that their faces glowed blue and red while they played GTA: San Andreas.

I called for Amir, he told me to kick rocks. Trey just ignored me.

I'm hoping Jodi will at least give me an idea of what happened with the other Leila.

"Why'd I get in trouble, again?" She raises an eyebrow, her expression still sour. "Like, at school."

"What're you talkin' about?" She lowers her head with it turned at an angle, staring at me out of the corner of her eye.

"Dad said he spoke to the principal." Shane runs his skinny fingers through his sandy brown wet mop haircut. "Was I fighting someone or something?"

Jodi scrunches up her face like I said something stupid, then asks, "Shouldn't you know that," but as I open my mouth to answer, she relaxes her face, and says, "Let me guess, you wanna brag to your little friend?"

"I-well, yeah." I drag the last word with narrowed eyes. I have no idea who she's talking about.

"You smacked a girl with a book and almost got suspended until Dad threatened to sue or something," she answers in a flat tone, and my eyes flash wide. "He said you was getting bullied and none of the teachers did anything while she was throwing stuff at you in class."

My heart sinks. I just know it was Sara that was teasing the other Leila. She's been my worst enemy since we met in fifth grade. I was one of the only brown-skinned girls in class with an afro, and she picked on us for having sheep hair.

The other girls somehow made her leave them alone, so I was the only one she continued to harass into middle school.

"Was you recordin'?" I furrow my eyebrows at her question, and she nods her head toward me. "Are you recordin' all this on your phone or something?"

Phone?

"Um, no," I stammer, my eyes trailing onto her hamper near the door.

Jodi makes a sound like she's about to ask what's the point in me asking, and then she flicks her hand back and forth to fan me off.

"Leila, get away from my door," she says, turning her body toward Shane.