LITMIR.BIZ

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a little noise at him.”

      She rises up a few inches from the cushions. “Don’t you tell me to let it go. Not in my house. Not about my son.” Then her focus snaps to me. “And don’t you go listening to some garbage about white-boy-this or white-boy-that. Racist nonsense.”

      Kid can’t take this. “Oh, come on. It’s not racist. I’m not saying he’s evil. Just saying Darryl Gibson can’t be much of a baller.”

      Mom stops him with another look. “You think I’ve lived a black woman’s life in Indianapolis and don’t know racism? But I am not letting my son think turning that kind thing around on white people helps him one single bit.”

      And that’s the word in this living room, true as if it’s chiseled in stone. One, because it’s my mom’s living room, and it’s best not to mess with Kaylene Bowen. Two, because she’s nearing the end of her second trimester. And she’s thirty-eight. And it’s swamp-ass August outside. She gives a little humph then settles back into the couch, wincing with the effort.

      Thing is, it makes a difference. Gibson being white, that is. I know my mom’s right. I mean, we’ve talked about this since I was a kid. There are plenty of things to be bitter about—the way the city lets our schools drown and our streets break into a million potholes. Or the way they press on a kid from the neighborhood who steps out of line while teenagers up in Hamilton County run pharmacies out of their bedrooms. Or how they stitched the Monon Trail right over our neighborhood, so rich people could bike or walk their dogs across our patch of land without actually having to see us. But resenting white people won’t change a thing. Makes it worse, my dad says, but I still only halfway believe him on that.

      Still. It matters. Getting pushed by a new kid would hurt no matter what. But when a white person shows up at Marion East they’re either lost or logging community service hours. So I can’t lose minutes to a white kid. I just can’t.

      “Dinner’s almost ready!” Jayson calls. And for the first time I snap out of my train of thought and take in the chaos behind Mom.

      Dad and Jayson are whipping together dinner, but that means a circus of water boiling over and dirty spoons scattered on the counter and strands of spilled spaghetti squashed on the floor. Meanwhile, my girl Lia is setting the table, as serene as my dad and little brother are chaotic. She glances up at me and smiles, quickly blows a little kiss before anyone else can see. Then she goes back to smoothing out napkins and arranging glasses. My head swims at the sight. Mainly because she’s as fine as a girl can be, and she’s cool to hang with, and she’s been there for me every step of the way on my rehab. But it’s that last part that has a troubling little undercurrent—she’s been there all the time. When I met her she made me chase a little, kept me off balance. Now she hovers like we’re married. But what am I supposed to tell her? Stop being so nice to me?

      Everyone crowds in. Reaching. Grabbing. Slopping pasta on plates. Mom clears her throat, just once, and then everyone settles down while she says a quick prayer. She’s never been real religious. She hits up church out of habit but doesn’t Jesus you to death. But she’s been insisting on prayers before meals lately. Mostly, I think she’s hoping for divine intervention so she can feed the extra mouth that’s coming in a few months.

      “Amen,” she says at last. Then there’s the briefest pause before everyone dives into their food. It’s a flurry. And with six of us squeezed around our little table, I can barely get enough elbow room to grab a fork.

      “You okay, Derrick?” It’s Lia, her eyebrows pinching down at me like I just spit on the salad.

      “Fine.”

      “You’re quiet,” she says. “You sure you’re okay? Workout go all right?”

      “Good,” I say.

      “Okay,” she says, clearly not believing me. In terms of couple drama, this isn’t even a blip. I just start to dig in, but my right elbow keeps bumping Dad every time I take a bite. We go through a few rounds of Sorry and No problem, before I sigh and let my fork clank down on my plate.

      “You sure you’re okay?” Lia asks again.

      “I’m fine,” I snap. Lia looks away, simmering. Mom stares at me like she’s about to climb across the table—belly and all—and smack some manners into me. “I’m sorry,” I say, trying to undo as much damage as I can. “I didn’t mean to be a jerk.” I look back at my plate. “I just can’t get any room.”

       2.

      Already you can feel the heat easing up. The cool is coming. And with it, hoops. First practice in three weeks.

      I’m in senior study hall, killing time. At Marion East, if you keep your head down and plug away—don’t show up high, don’t get arrested—you’re golden. Sure, I’ve got to keep cranking in trigonometry and English and on and on, but I’ve got this game down. Hell, at this point they basically tell you exactly what’s going to be on the tests, so I’m not sweating it. So I use this time to get my head right.

      Except Darryl Gibson keeps intruding on my thoughts. He’s a surly guy. Doesn’t say much. But his legend grows daily. He’s still wrecking it at the Fall Creek court, to the point that he’s earned an obnoxious nickname—D-Train, after the way he barrels to the rim. And at school, he’s earned a rep of someone not to be messed with. Word is a couple thugged-out guys tried to jump him the first week and he put them both on their asses in the bathroom. Probably just a story, but people believe it.

      Just this morning, he came cruising down the hall while I was kicking it with my teammates and he barely nodded at us. Like he’s too good or something. It makes me think back to when I was a newcomer. I used to walk these halls thinking I had something to swagger about, too. I remember how I resented Nick Starks—he was the senior point I was trying to uproot from the lineup—and maybe that’s how Gibson sees me. Whatever. That’s his problem, not mine.

      “Bowen,” a voice calls. I come out of my daydream. There’s Mr. Mason, in front of me. He’s holding up a hall pass with one hand, his other propping up his head like it weighs a hundred pounds. “Looks like you got a get out of jail card.” He’s got retirement in his eyes, and he gives no shits at all. Doesn’t even look at me while I walk up and pluck the pass from his hand. First couple weeks of study hall, kids would try to get a rise out of him. They’d pull out phones and play games at full volume. They’d drop f-bombs in casual conversation. They’d stretch out on the floor, plop down their bookbag for a pillow, and nap. Mason never blinked.

      Now some people actually study. What’s the point of acting out if you can’t get a teacher to notice?

      I check the clock, see there’s only twenty minutes left in the period. “Do I need to come back here before next bell?” I ask.

      Mason shrugs. He opens his desk and pulls out a bag of chips, opens them with a loud crinkle. “No point, I guess.”

      Then I’m gone. As I walk down the hall, I check all the slogans.

       Belief Efficiency Schoolwork Tenacity = B.E.S.T.

       We Are the Hornets. Our Strength is in the Hive.

       Always Aiming Upward!

      They’ve been there forever. Same slogans and signs since the first day I set foot in Marion East. Every school has them—constant attempts to keep kids motivated. When you’re young, they seem to mean something. Like a little life instruction manual written on the walls. Then you hit junior year. Senior year. Things change. You see kids who had promise spiral down. You see kids who graduated full of hope stuck in their parents’ house, no better prospects than minimum wage jobs. Over and over and over.

      Then again, what’s the choice? To not believe in possibilities? To just give up? No way. And whenever I get that kind of feeling, I’ve got something to save me—hoops. There the rules make sense.

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