LITMIR.BIZ

      “For the love of God, just clean up your room!”

      I hear that all the way from the other side of the front door. Makes me want to turn right around and speed back to Lia’s. We called it a night after her dad came home, but still—ten o’clock is late to be arguing about cleaning the house.

      I turn my key and go on in. Mom—her finger in mid-air while she hollers at Jayson—freezes and then points that finger at me instead. “There he is,” she says.

      I run a quick inventory of things that could have made her mad. I’ve steered clear of real trouble since last year with Wes. I bombed a history quiz, but it didn’t kill my mid-term. There’s what Lia and I just finished up an hour ago, but it’s not like that would be some shocker to my mom. “What?” I finally ask.

      “The deal was you had the kitchen this week and Jayson had the room,” Mom snaps.

      A quick glance at the kitchen reveals that all the dishes are cleaned and put away. All the pots scrubbed spotless. I open my mouth to point this out, but Dad leaps in. “Son, you’ll want to clean the counters like you promised,” he says. He loops his arm around my shoulder and leads me to the kitchen. Behind us, I hear Jayson’s footsteps thump toward our room as he finally obeys Mom.

      When she turns the television volume up, I lean toward Dad. “How long is she gonna be so crazy?” I ask.

      Dad leaps back like I just rolled a grenade at his feet. “Son, how stupid are you? Your mom’s pregnant. There are rules to follow.” He starts clicking them off on his fingers. “First, whatever she asks, do it. She wants an ice cream sundae at three in the morning, make it. She wants the kitchen cleaned, do it. Second, we do not complain. Any man who complains about a pregnant woman isn’t a real man. And finally—most importantly—you never ever refer to a pregnant woman as crazy. You might think she’s crazy, but really she’s just been made acutely aware of all of our shortcomings. She’s saner than she’s ever been, okay?”

      I nod, then laugh a little, but even that gets the spooky eye from my dad. I mean, he’s right. As I scrub down those counters, I think that it can’t be an easy draw—pushing forty and pregnant, crowded into a house with Dad and me and Jayson and Kid? I guess Mom can be however she wants to be.

      In my room, Jayson hasn’t even started on the mess. He’s sitting on his bed, thumbing through a script for a school play. He looks up for a second, offers me a ‘Sup, and then goes back to his thing.

      Truth is, I can’t blame him. Since Uncle Kid had to move in with us, Jayson and I have been crammed into what used to be just my room. And with the baby coming, nothing’s going to change—except for Kid getting booted to the couch or, maybe, finding his own place—until I split for college. We’ve got the beds pushed against two walls, our clothes spilling out of drawers, our school books and papers fighting for room in the corner. That leaves a few feet for Jayson’s X-Box, its wires snaking up to a little hand-me-down T.V. on the dresser. We could clean, but first we’d need twice the space. I step over Jayson’s book bag and go toward the closet so I can peel off my clothes and get into something clean for night-time. Even there, I’ve got no room. Jayson’s got a lifetime’s worth of dirty socks and underwear piled in the center. And scattered around that is my recruiting mail. When it first started rolling in I kept it in organized boxes, but somewhere along the way it just spilled into an avalanche. You can see the school logos on the envelopes—Purdue, Georgetown, UAB, Dayton. Thing is, there are a few names that aren’t adding themselves to that stack anymore. When I tore up my knee last year, the flood of letters—and texts and tweets and calls—diminished to a stream. I still have an offer from Indiana, but the other elites have cooled on me. I’m damaged goods.

      I kick at Jayson’s pile until there’s some free floor space to set down my bag. I scan the room. We’ve got to at least make a dent, or Mom’s going to come in here in the morning and blow the place up. But first, I plop down next to Jayson. He scoots over, annoyed.

      “It’s not like we’ve got privacy anymore,” I say. “Might as well just tell me what you’re checking.”

      He sneers. “Man, they’re making us do A Raisin in the Sun. Like there hasn’t been a black play written in the last fifty years or something.” He acts too tough for it, but here he is memorizing lines. He doesn’t want to think of himself as an actor, but he can make you a believer the minute he steps on the boards. “What about you?” he asks. “Hook it up with Lia?”

      “Shut up,” I say, but he laughs. Like I said, no privacy. I can’t keep track of how many times I’ve caught him snooping through my texts.

      He sets his script down. “How’s hoops?”

      “All good,” I say. Only I’m not as good an actor as Jayson.

      “For real?” he asks. “You been sighing around this place like you’re about to cry.”

      “Nobody’s gonna cry,” I say. I scan the room again. “Unless Mom sees this room and whips both our hides.”

      That spurs him into action. We do what we can—cram clothing into drawers, combine our dirty laundry into one pile, stack our books on the shelves, tuck his X-Box to the side of the dresser. But as we do it, all I can think about is that stream of recruiting letters. And what I wonder is how much of it would dry up—even from my main schools like Indiana and Clemson—if they knew I was getting turned inside-out by some scrub white boy in pre-season practices.

      It’s 2:00 in the morning when I hear it. The ka-thunk of a basketball being dunked—the sound of an incoming text on my phone. I fumble for my phone in the dark.

       You up?

      I smile at the message, though I probably shouldn’t. I yawn, then tuck the phone under the sheet so the light won’t wake Jayson. Am now, I hit back.

      The text comes back quick, and I try to muffle the sound by shoving the phone under my pillow. Too late. “Who the hell is that?” Jayson asks, his voice annoyed and raspy with sleep.

      “None of your business,” I whisper.

      “Good luck with that,” he says.

      I take a quick peek at my phone: Just up. Thinking about you. Want to get together soon? It might be the middle of the night, but that’s all it takes to get my pulse racing.

      Jayson keeps after me. “It’s

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