LITMIR.BIZ

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about Reynolds. “I mean, you should have seen Bolden the other day. Just made some freshman quit.”

      “No shit,” Kid says. He swipes the ball out of my hands and chucks up a quick jumper.

      I realize I’ve touched a sore spot. Nobody besides Kid really knows all the details of why Bolden ran him off all those years ago, but that’s because nobody talks about it. I chase down his rebound and figure I better change the subject quick. “Game of Horse?” I ask. I’m deep in the corner, one foot out of bounds, so when Kid nods Yes, I say, “This starts it.” I fire, a rainbow to clear the backboard, and it just scrapes off the iron.

      Kid chases it down. “Ahh, little nephew,” he says, “you should know better than to give me a freebie. That’s all I need.” He squares up from the shallow wing. “Bank,” he says, then kisses one home. Just like that, it’s all good again.

      We match each other shot-for-shot, getting a letter here and there. Soon we revert back to trick shots, over-the-shoulder flips and long hooks, the kind of things you’d try when you were a kid. And that’s what a session at the Fall Creek park with my uncle does—takes me right back to being ten, working up a sweat with him while he teaches me the game.

      My mom’s wary of me hanging with Kid. Always has been. But she squints just a little more after the whole drama with Hamilton Academy last year and how Kid tried to squeeze a job out of it. I don’t care. Kid’s my man, and he hasn’t said squat about Hamilton since last year.

      “Now tell me, D,” he says while knocking home a twenty-footer, “how come a baller like you is hanging with your uncle. You don’t have some honey hanging on you? Where’s that girl? What’s her name? Jayden?”

      “Jasmine,” I say. “She’s busy.” I square up from Kid’s spot, but just the thought of Jasmine rattles me. I miss to the left, bad.

      Kid senses my weak spot and stays after it. “Man, when I was your age I was drowning in girls. And, remember, girls were tighter with it back then. Not like now.”

      I try not to let it get to me, but it does. I know Kid’s talking nonsense like every other guy who’s ever yapped about how much he’s getting. Same as Wes talking noise about him and Iesha. My next shot still rattles out, and Kid has me at S.

      He scoops up the board, steps to the deep corner, buries a J. He doesn’t say anything this time, not while I dribble over to the spot, not while I take a rhythm dribble, not while I set my feet. But just as I’m about to release, he leans over. “Don’t think about the girl,” he says.

      I barely scrape iron. I wheel toward Kid to protest—it’s just wrong to heckle a guy like that—but he’s too busy laughing to even hear me if I did. “Ah, D,” he says. “You can’t let a girl in your head that easy.”

      It makes me mad at first, but when Kid sees that, he starts laughing even harder. I have no choice, I guess, but to let it go. I relax, let him have his fun. “Two out of three,” I say.

      “You’re on,” he says, then sprints over to scoop up the rock.

      As he does, out of the corner of my eye I see a figure approaching the court. When I turn, I see it’s someone on a bike, a basketball pinned in one elbow. Reynolds. On his bike, he seems oversized, like he’s stolen it from a younger kid. His elbows and knees stick out awkwardly, and he looks every second like he’s about to fall. He recognizes me too and hangs a quick u-turn. I’m almost offended. First I think, Let him go. Let him just ride his sorry ass right back across Fall Creek Parkway if he’s gonna be that way. I turn back to see Kid bank home a J from the wing, and I chase down the rock and head to his spot. Then I stop. I check back toward Reynolds, who’s waiting for traffic to clear so he can make his getaway, and I remember what Murphy said to me after that first practice.

      I bounce the ball back to Kid. “Reynolds,” I holler. “Come on, man.”

      He doesn’t even turn around, just keeps swiveling his head to check traffic. I sprint to catch him before he has a chance to cross. I grab onto the back of his seat just before he starts to move. He pedals a couple times, dragging me forward with him, but at last he gives in. He gets off the bike and turns to me. “What?!” he shouts.

      “I just want to talk to you, man.”

      He refuses to meet my eyes, looking down at his shoes. That amber face of his looks almost tender, like a little kid’s or a girl’s. “Nothin’ to talk about.”

      The kid makes it hard. But I stick with it. “You gotta come back to practice,” I say. “You had a rough start, but you can’t just quit.”

      He gives this expression like he just tasted something rotten. “Come on, Derrick! I don’t even want back at this point.”

      “That’s not true,” I tell him. I’ve seen him at this court enough to know he wants to suit up for Marion East.

      “Well, it doesn’t matter. Bolden won’t ever take me back now,” he says.

      “Look, man, I’m trying to be solid with you. Bolden will take you back. I swear it.” I steal a peek back at Uncle Kid who buries a twenty-footer, easy as waking up, and I wonder how true my promise is. I mean, if Bolden didn’t make any exceptions for Kid back in the day, he’s not cutting slack for Reynolds.

      He snorts at that, aware that I’m laying it on a little thick. “Whatever,” he says. He turns to go again. He’s still not going to share the court with me, not even here. Something about that whatever makes me burn.

      “Fine,” I shout at him. “If you’re such a baby, we don’t need you anyway.”

      He doesn’t turn around, but his shoulders sink just for a second. I know in my heart I shouldn’t have said it, that it was the opposite of what I wanted to do. Then again, some people are hell to help.

      He busts across Fall Creek, his back tire spitting up some loose dirt. I head back to Kid, who has questions written all over his face. “Don’t ask,” I say.

      “Fine,” Kid says. He bounces the ball back to me. “Quit messing around and step up to take another beating.”

      “Kid, I’m gonna run you off this time.”

      He laughs, acting like that’s an impossibility, and we’re right back in our groove.

      When I get home, Jayson’s got my parents in a fit. He’s been testing them more and more lately, like he wants to see just how much he can get away with before Dad truly goes all old school and cracks him good. Of course, Dad will never do that. But when I walk in, he’s standing over Jayson—who’s stretched out on the couch like he’s just relaxing at the beach—pointing to Jayson’s room.

      “I know you have homework.”

      Jayson doesn’t budge. “I can finish it later,” he says.

      “Listen to your father,” Mom shouts. She’s in her chair, trying in vain to read a magazine. When she sees me she shakes her head, just tired of the static with Jayson.

      The house has been more tense than ever for the last couple months. Dad lost hours again when one of the places he works security decided they could get by with one guard after hours. So now he’s trying to make up for it by working late shifts at a convenience store on Central. It cuts into his sleep. But more than that, he knows it’s beneath him to be ringing people up like some teenager. All of it makes me second-guess my decision not to transfer to Hamilton Academy—it would have been like treason to transfer to Vasco’s team, but they would’ve given my dad a full-time job. I try not to think about that. What’s done is done.

      I side-step the whole scene. I walk into my room and flop on my bed, stare up at my poster of LeBron. The League seems a long way off, but I just keep focusing on it. Work, work, work. Get better, get better, get better. And someday I’ll be the poster on some other kid’s wall, and I sure won’t be dealing with an uptight girlfriend or stress from my folks.

      That’s

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