Love and Basketball Page #15

MONICA:

I thought a torn ACL was ten to twelve.

QUINCY:

Not for Quincy McCall.

MONICA:

I forgot, "Q-man."

An awkward beat.

QUINCY:

So, how's pro-ball, Europe?

MONICA:

We won the championship.

QUINCY:

Still working on being the first girl in

the NBA?

MONICA:

Well, I tried sneaking in after college,

but they found breasts during my

physical.

QUINCY:

Funny. I never did.

MONICA:

Kiss my ass.

Monica cracks up. Quincy laughs with her.

MONICA (cont'd)

I can't believe it's been five years.

Quincy nods.

QUINCY:

Tried calling you a couple times.

MONICA:

Oh yeah?

QUINCY:

Wanted to give you props on making First

Team All-American. And then when Magic

retired, I tried calling you again.

MONICA:

(lying)

Must have been my cheap-ass answering

machine. It was always messing up.

QUINCY:

Figured it was something like that.

They look at each other. The moment is building.

QUINCY (cont'd)

So, when do you go back?

MONICA:

Actually, I don't...

QUINCY:

What do you mean?

MONICA:

I'm tired of playing overseas. Thinking

about giving it a rest for awhile.

QUINCY:

(completely thrown)

A rest?

MONICA:

Yeah. Basketball just, isn't fun

anymore. You know?

QUINCY:

No.

He stares at her. Into her.

FEMALE VOICE (O.S.)

Quincy!

Quincy and Monica turn, as KYRA KESSLER, black, 26 and

beautiful, rushes into the room. She wears a flight

attendant's uniform. She goes to Quincy, gives him a kiss.

Monica reacts.

KYRA:

I'm so sorry. No one would switch

flights with me.

QUINCY:

It's okay.

KYRA:

Why are you up? Get in bed.

She takes Quincy's arm, moves him to the bed. Monica

watches.

KYRA (cont'd)

Tell me you're going to be okay.

QUINCY:

I'm gonna be okay.

Kyra relaxes. Then she glances over at Monica.

KYRA:

Hello.

QUINCY:

Kyra, this is Monica. She, uh...

KYRA:

(recognizing)

Monica. You grew up together, right?

Quincy's told me about you.

Monica smiles awkwardly.

QUINCY:

This is Kyra. My fiance.

The shock hits too quick to cover. But Monica tries.

MONICA:

Fiance. Wow. Congratulations.

KYRA:

Thank you.

MONICA:

I didn't know. Wow. That's great.

(then)

Well...I should go.

QUINCY:

It means a lot that you came by.

KYRA:

Yes, we appreciate that.

MONICA:

Yeah, and Quincy, good luck with your

knee, and everything.

QUINCY:

Thanks.

Monica forces one last smile, pulls open the door and leaves.

INT. HALLWAY - MOMENTS LATER

Monica walks down the hall, shell-shocked.

INT. WRIGHT HOUSE - KITCHEN - LATE DAY

Camille moves between the counter and the stove, whipping up

a couple pecan pies. Monica enters.

MONICA:

Hey.

CAMILLE:

Hi.

MONICA:

Need any help?

CAMILLE:

I can manage.

Monica nods and moves to the barstool.

CAMILLE (cont'd)

Your sister's bringing the baby over.

You should try to be here.

MONICA:

Yeah. Can't wait to see him

(she falls silent, then)

I just saw Quincy.

CAMILLE:

How is he?

MONICA:

Engaged.

CAMILLE:

To that stewardess?

MONICA:

Yeah, you met her?

CAMILLE:

His mother had a cookout a few weeks ago.

He could do a lot better if you ask me.

MONICA:

Maybe she is.

Camille looks up, studies Monica for a moment.

CAMILLE:

I thought you were over him.

Monica shrugs.

MONICA:

So what do I do?

CAMILLE:

Find out where they're registered and

send them a gift.

MONICA:

(disgusted)

Whatever.

CAMILLE:

You didn't want my opinion in the first

place, so why even ask?

MONICA:

I asked but why does it always have to be

so damn prissy.

CAMILLE:

Don't curse.

MONICA:

There you go.

CAMILLE:

What do you want me to tell you, Monica,

to go beat that girl up? To go have sex

with him? I'm not going to do that.

Yes, I believe thinking of other people

is important and yes I'd rather bake a

pie than shoot a dumb jump shot. If that

makes me too "prissy" for you, too bad.

Monica stares at her mother. There's no going back.

MONICA:

So that's why we can't get along?

Because I'd rather shoot a "dumb" jump

shot?

CAMILLE:

You're the one always turning your nose

up at me.

MONICA:

No I don't.

CAMILLE:

Child, please. Ever since you were

little you thought you were too good for

anything I had to say.

MONICA:

I wasn't Lena. I didn't care about nail

polish or lip gloss or sneaking a spray

of your perfume.

CAMILLE:

What was so wrong with wanting to teach

you the things I knew could help you?

MONICA:

Because you're pushing me to be something

I'm not.

CAMILLE:

So you're angry with me because you're

standing here with your hair combed and

wearing perfume?

Monica is busted. It takes her a moment to come back.

MONICA:

I'm angry because I want a mother, not

Martha Stewart.

CAMILLE:

Oh, yes. The superstar female athlete

whose mother is nothing but a housewife.

MONICA:

That's not it.

CAMILLE:

Don't tell me you aren't ashamed of that

because I know.

Monica stares at her mother.

MONICA:

I remember when I was eight years old,

you spent like four hours cooking up this

fancy meal. All you'd let me and Lena do

was set the table. And I guess you and

Dad got your wires crossed or something

because he walks in with a couple of

pizzas. And you didn't say anything.

You just threw the whole meal into some

tupper-ware and tossed it in the fridge.

CAMILLE:

I don't remember that.

MONICA:

I do. You never stood up for yourself.

Ever. If I was ashamed, it was because

of that.

CAMILLE:

That's ridiculous.

MONICA:

What's ridiculous is not being a caterer

so your husband can feel like a man

knowing his woman's home cooking and

ironing his drawers.

WHAP! Camille's humiliation is immediate and she cuts off

Monica with a SLAP. Camille curses herself for losing it.

CAMILLE:

Dammitt, Monica!

Monica is stunned, hurt.

MONICA:

I'm sorry.

Camille stares at her daughter, devastated.

CAMILLE:

Is that really all you think of me?

Monica can't answer.

CAMILLE (cont'd)

When I married your father, all I wanted

was a nice house with a big kitchen so I

could start my catering business. And

then I got pregnant with Lena, and then I

got pregnant with you. And I put it out

of my mind because that's what you did.

Monica stares at her mother.

CAMILLE (cont'd)

But you want to know what day I remember?

In high school, you getting ready for the

Spring Dance. I put my pearls around

your neck, told you you were beautiful

and you looked like you were going to

cry. That day I was happy I didn't have

a catering business to run off to. My

family had three meals a day, had someone

to pick up after them, and when my

daughters went to a dance, I helped them

get ready. That's what I came to care

about.

MONICA:

(softly)

That's all you cared about. I must have

played in a thousand games and I can only

remember you being to two.

CAMILLE:

You had your coaches and your father for

that stuff. It never mattered one way or

the other if I went to your games.

MONICA:

It mattered, Mom.

Camille looks at her daughter and is struck by the need in

her eyes. Monica moves off the barstool and leaves.

INT. WRIGHT HOUSE - MONICA'S ROOM - DAY

The room looks exactly the same. Trophies, medals, plaques.

Basketball posters and her "strong women" wall.

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