LITMIR.BIZ

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the place an even mix of churchgoers and neighborhood folks and hungover college kids. At the next table, a white hipster with his hair mashed up sighs over the crossword. Recently, my friend Wes has started to complain about the invasion of white people into what he calls “our blocks.” Who knows where he’s getting that put in his head, but he talks like he’s the first person on earth to notice. But to me, if it’s just diners and second-hand stores, they’ve got just as much reason to drop their dollars as anyone else. But our basketball courts? That’s a different story. It’s just not right. And what I keep turning over in my head is this—Why? Why is Darryl Gibson even enrolled at Marion East? Why would a white family have moved to our district?

      “You want to catch a movie later?” Lia finally asks.

      “Sure,” I say. “What’s playing?” She pulls out her phone to check some listings, but then I remember that tonight’s a sit-down with Coach Murphy and my folks. “Ah, forget it,” I say. “I can’t tonight.”

      Lia’s thumb freezes over her phone. We’ve been here before. She doesn’t want to act all fragile, but she’s not thrilled about coming second to basketball. “What is it this time?” she asks.

      “I’ve got to figure out when to make official visits,” I say. I try to sound tired out by the whole thing, letting her know that if I had my way I’d be with her instead. “Most guys have already made all their visits. And, I mean, I can make it down to Indiana any time. But Alabama? Clemson? Those are some hauls.”

      Lia nods. But she’s not buying the poor-me act. “Then why don’t you choose places closer to home? There are plenty of schools in Indiana and Kentucky, you know.” She starts to scoop up another bite of waffle, then puts it down. She shoves her plate away. “I think I’m done,” she says. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she meant done with more than breakfast.

      “Lia, I know it sucks, but…”

      She places her hands palm-down on the table. Leans toward me and smiles. “I’m not mad, Derrick. I get it. This is your life, you know? I don’t even want you to go to a stupid movie instead of doing this. It’s not that at all.”

      We get up to leave. That hipster looks up from his crossword to inspect us. He gives a little laugh to himself, like he just knows all about everything. I can’t help it—I bump his chair with my hip. He practically jumps in alarm. “Sorry, man,” I say, but I grumble it like I’d just as soon crack his skull as look at him. It puts him on the defensive, and he mutters something. I can’t quite make it out because he’s staring down at his table. But the tone is pretty apologetic—like he’s sorry for looking at us, for coming to this diner, for even having the nerve to breathe.

      When we get to Lia’s car, she sighs before she starts the engine. It’s a cool but bright morning, and the sun has baked some heat into her car. It’s uncomfortable without the air on.

      “You’re not even going to say anything, are you?” she says.

      “I thought you said you weren’t mad.” Now I’m the one sounding pissed. And I kind of am. I mean, if something’s bothering her, she might as well come out and say it instead of making me guess. That’s something I never had to worry about with Jasmine—that girl didn’t hold back.

      “I said I’m not mad about you bailing on a movie,” she says. Then she fires up the car, angrily, like she’s ready to rip out into traffic and play chicken with the next truck she sees. “But have you ever thought about where I’ll be next year? Does it even cross your mind? Have you ever thought about staying closer to me or letting me visit a campus with you?”

      “Lia,” I say again, but I don’t have an answer. Or, really, it’s not the answer she’d want to hear.

      Problem is, my not saying a word is the same as giving that answer. At least Lia takes it that way. She squeals from the parking spot and accelerates as fast as she can. She runs up on the bumper of some old bucket and whips out into the next lane. That earns a long honk from a car she cuts off. She just flips him off in the rearview mirror. “Fucking asshole,” she says. But she’s not looking at that other driver.

      It’s supposed to be fun. For other guys, it’s a wave of cash and girls. Like the universe is rising up to meet every desire you’ve ever had just because you can ball a little. Even last year, Coach Murphy got offered a load of cash to steer me to a particular school.

      But that road is for other players. What basketball recruiting means for me is my family sitting at the kitchen table with Coach Murphy—going over brochures, talking academics, even discussing campus life. It’s almost like I’m any other prospective college student. Last time I talked to Wes he told me I was straight up crazy for not taking what was out there. “Grab what you can get when you can get it,” he said. “Guys from our neighborhood don’t get ahead by just playing it straight, D. You’re the one guy who’s got a chance to tilt the game in his direction and you pass? Crazy, man.”

      I don’t dare bring that up now. Truth is, Jayson and Uncle Kid lean a little more toward Wes’ way of thinking, but they know better than to breathe a word of it in front of Mom and Dad.

      Mom has a list of school rankings in front of her with my five options—Indiana, Clemson, Michigan, Marquette, and Alabama—all highlighted. She just goes right down the rows. “Michigan’s the top-ranked school by quite a bit,” she says. “Then Indiana and Marquette are really close.” For her, it’s all about education. And she’s got a point—the scar on my knee is a pretty good reminder that you better have some schooling to fall back on.

      Dad leans over and points to a school she missed. She glares at him, but then acknowledges that Clemson isn’t ranked too far behind Michigan. I know why she conveniently skipped that—she’s been pretty up front about not wanting me to play in the South. “Okay, Kaylene, but they’re all top 100 schools,” Dad says. “Can we at least admit that where Derrick fits as a basketball player matters too?”

      “And location,” Jayson says. “I mean, we’re gonna be heading to D’s games so we might as well go someplace good. I say Alabama in the winter’s where it’s at.” Jayson’s as transparent as Mom—all he cares about is the girls he sees on T.V. during football games, and he’s been pretty outspoken that Alabama wins in that category. So this earns another glare from Mom. It’s a withering look, seeming to say that if she weren’t so heavy with baby she’s lean over and smack some sense into him.

      Dad starts in about some research he’s done on quality of life in the various places. I try not to roll my eyes. They mean well, all of them. But I’m not going to make the biggest decision of my life based on a cost of living index, or a magazine’s rankings, or how hot co-eds are.

      Finally, Uncle Kid clears his throat. Everyone stops and looks at him. He treads lightly—after all, he’s crashing here because he lost his old place due to sheer stupidity, so he’s still a little suspect in Mom and Dad’s eyes. He glances over at Murphy, who just nods at him. It’s this little gesture that suggests they’ve talked some things over beforehand. “All this stuff”—he motions toward the print-outs Mom and Dad have made—“it matters, but you’re trying to make this decision on paper. What we have to do is get Derrick on these campuses and let him feel his way around.”

      Now it’s Murphy’s turn. “All of his schools have offered official visits, and we need to get rolling on them,” he says. “We need to think schedules instead of rankings right now.”

      All the schools want me to come when they have big games. And that’s what I want too. I want to see what Indiana’s like when they’re gearing up for a top ten throwdown. What the vibe at Alabama’s like when Kentucky’s rolling into town. Of course, I’ve got my schedule too, so we start picking out weekends where we’ve just got one game, and then coming up with some times I could make mid-week trips.

      Mom and Dad dutifully fold up all their papers and we get down to business. We nail down the Indiana trip right away, since that’s just an hour down the

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