. . . Would You Tell Me A Lie?

by K-Nice

Scott faked left, then right, the basketball making sharp bounces between his hand and the ground as his legs slid from side to side. His free hand twitched with a desire to wipe his sweaty face but instead floated out at his side, trying to draw attention away from the ball. His throat ached with a desire to finish the six pack of Bud he had stashed under the bench. He only had two to go.

Despite the fact that he had decided not to join the Air Force, Scott was appreciative for the outdoor basketball courts they provided. Between 12 and 2 the Base's recreation facilities were open to the live-in families of servicemen. There were other kids scattered around, but none seemed to want to join this game. It was getting a little intense as time went on.

Swaying on the balls of his feet, Alex Summers was guarding his brother to the best of his ability. His blond hair was pasted to his head with sweat, as the near tropical New Orleans' morning became a hellish afternoon. He swung his arms in from of Scott, every so often darting closer to swipe at the ball. .

"Shoot the ball, man, shoot it.What's the matter, can't see the basket?" Alex patience was wearing thin and he let his irritation show in his trash talk.

"Pass 'er, pass 'er, I'm open." Jeremy was in front of him to the right, pratically bouncing on his toes. He was being guarded by one of Alex' friends, Jamie Maddrox, who seemed to be everywhere at once. It was risky, but Scott considered a chest pass. 'Remy was quick, he might be able to get past Jamie and into position in time.

Scott swung his eyes to his left. Rachel was standing forlornly at the edge of the paint. Her hands at her sides.

"Hey, you guys, I'm playing too. You guuuys!" She managed to whine and stomp her foot at the same time, causing her red-gold hair to bounce a little in it's pageboy cut. She was tall for her age but she was still only 10. There was no way she could play with the big boys.

"No way, Rach. Your too little." Scott smiled at her and bounce the ball behind his back.

Then the ball was gone. He spun, a stared first at his empty hands, then at the hands of man with his bastetball.

"Off the court, Brats. This area is for Air Force Personnel only." Smirking down from his 6 month head start on life was Warren Worthington, third generation rich boy who considered the AFB his own personal hanger.

"Hey, Wings, give me back my ball." Jamie stayed off to the side, but Alex, Remy and Rachel slid in right behind Scott, ready to face down Worthington and his gang of newbie pilots.

"Yes, Warren, we can get a ball from the Rec Room." Henry McCoy was as broad as he was tall and Scott always wondered how he forced his body into those tiny little cockpits. He was also a college grad and the voice of reason among the Top-Gun-wannabes.

"No, Hank, I want this one. And little Summers here can't do a thing about it." Warren finished with another superior grin. Scott could hear Guthrie and Hodge snickering and even McCoy had a challenging smile on his face.

Remy's face fixed itself into a tight scowl and he darted out and stole the ball while Worthington was busy posturing. Scott tried to grab him, stop him but the damage was done.

"You little son of a--"

Warren never finished the sentence, in fact, he probably didn't say much for several days after Scott punched him square in the mouth. Strandling his prone body, Scott pounded his head into the asphalt pavement, screaming "What did you say? What did you call my mother? You don't know jack about my mother so shut the--" Alex and Hank yanked him from the ground, Alex holding one hand over his mouth so he couldn't get in anymore trouble.

Warren jumped from the ground--with considerable, though unwanted, help from his friends--and brought his hands up into fists. "C'mon ya little mama's boy. Let's see who's tough enough!" His boxing stance was a bit lopsided and his mouth was bloody but his eyes burned with anger.

Scott stopped struggling against his restrainers and seemed to deflate. He didn't know what had come over him. He hadn't been in a fight since grade school. His mother didn't like for him to fight.

Scott backed away, nearly tripping over Rachel in the process. He shook his head and turned to walk back towards their house. Rachel stumbled, but caught up with him. She leaned up against him, and he swung an arm around her shoulder.

Alex and Remy walked slowly, their eyes on Worthington and his friends. When they were certain they weren't about to be stomped, they turned and sprinted to their street.

There was a car in the driveway, with the familiar U.S. Government plates. Their father was home.

Scott heard Alex and Remy thump up the walkway as he hesitently knocked on the door.

It opened promptly. "Well, well, I was wondering where you kids made off to. Didn't you know your dad was coming home today!"

"Hey, Daddy, did you bring me something?" Rachel still asked, everytime, even when the answer had been "No." for as longs as she could remember. Scott stiffened. He always brought presents, even just small things, when Mom was alive.

"No, sweetie, I'm sorry--"

""I didn't have the time."" Remy and Alex chimed in, already uncomfortable in their father's presence. They didn't hug him any longer than they had to, and moved on into the house.

Scott stayed on the porch, starring at him coldly. "Hello, Major. Welcome back. How was Latveria? Did you kill anyone?"

Christopher Summers sighed. He stood aside from the door to let his eighteen-year old son access. "Wow, that was a wonderful welcome there Scottie. Who taught you those manners?"

Scott was silent, sething. His anger resurfaced quickly. "It's not like you're ever around to teach us any different." Scott slammed the door behind him. "It's not like you even care about anyone, not us. Not Mom."

"Scott, your mother's been dead for six years. Sure, I miss her, but I don't let it consume be day and night. You still have a parent who loves you: ME!""

"Yeah, right. Then why aren't you ever here, with us?" He stalked up into his father's face.

Christopher's eyes darted to Rachel's fire-red hair, Alex' sky-blue eyes, Jeremy's wide, smiling mouth. Before him stood a young man with all the passion and strength that should have died with his wife. Chris couldn't tell his children that he couldn't stand the sight of them, that their every movement or word drove knives into the aching loss in his heart.

He turned back to Scott, his expression properly stern. "Have you been drinking, Scott?" It could be the sour aroma of sweat mixed with cologne that stung his nose, but it smelled very much so like beer.

"No." Scott looked him dead in the eye, his short brown hair nearly bristling with hate.

Christopher looked at each of his children in turn. Surely, one of them would being willing, if not eager, to rat their brother out. Each covered surprise before they locked gazes with their father, silently intimating that they had no more information to give.

"Well, then, go clean up and come back down ready to go out to dinner." They slunk out of the room, trudging up the stairs as if they were walking the last hall to the gas chamber. Their father collapsed onto the couch, lighting a cigar and watching the empty fireplace

Major Christopher Nathan Summers was willing to over look the lie his children had presented to him. But he couldn't ignore the hurt in their eyes. Katherine was gone. They had all drawn apart, dealing with it as individuals, to varying degrees of success. The three youngest could put it behind them, but Scott . . . Chris didn't know how he would have handled it if he had been the one to watch his wife die. He couldn't even imagine it. But he would have to or there was no way they could be a family instead of some people who usually slept in the same house.

Scott lingered on the steps and listened to his father weep.

He sunk onto a step, finding his own tears again.

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