LITMIR.BIZ

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      After that she starts telling me about things she’s learning in her Honors English class. Stuff about the Harlem Renaissance, stuff about W.E.B. DuBois, things I know I should care about. But I can’t get worked up about what happened to poets a century ago, no matter how much she insists it’s still important today. I don’t let on though. I ask questions, nod along, be a good boyfriend. When she’s done, she starts window shopping, making a huge deal out of some vintage handmade scarf she sees across the street. I want to get on her for liking white people things, but I know better. Besides, I also know she’ll look good in that scarf if she ever gets it.

      Later, we’re parked down the street from my house. I don’t want to go in—not because it’ll be the same noise of Dad and Jayson arguing, but because this is as close as I’ve been to Jasmine all night. I lean over and kiss her, and she doesn’t pull away. That’s all it takes to set me racing. I lean in closer and take her hand in mine, feel the heat flowing from her. When I kiss her again, our bodies press together, and I can feel her heart pounding. I slide my free hand along her knee and up to her thigh. I pull back for just a second and look at her—her eyes are half-open, and her lips are still formed into a kiss. She shifts her hand in mine, then places her other one over it. Looking at our hands, her skin tone a couple shades lighter than mine, I think about more of our skin touching. I imagine rolling back to her house, sneaking up into her room—maybe her parents are out—and getting down to it for real.

      But just as I go in for another kiss, images of where this could go zipping through my head, Jasmine squeezes my hand and pushes it back against my chest.

      “You have to go,” she says. She sounds out of breath and distracted, like she’s afraid of what will happen if I don’t get out of the car.

      “Jasmine,” I say and lean back in.

      She stiffens and turns her head away. “No, Derrick. You’ve got to go. It’s late and I need to get home.” There’s no sense in trying for more. It feels like someone just elbowed me in the stomach and my breath comes out fast as I sink back in my seat. “Don’t be that way,” she snaps. “Don’t make me feel guilty, Derrick.”

      “I’m not, I just—” but I don’t know where that’s going. We look at each other for a while longer. We’ve been down this road before, and she’s made it pretty clear that we’re not going further any time soon. Still, I could feel how hot she was getting. Up the walk, the porch light at my house snaps on. If there was any chance before, it’s gone now.

      Jasmine leans over and kisses me on the cheek, like some aunt telling a child how sweet they are. “I had a great night, Derrick. Let’s not mess it up. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

      “Okay,” I say, and I try to sound upbeat about it. “I’ll see you at school.”

      Then it’s up the walk to home, the crisp night air hitting me like a splash of cold water.

      5.

      Moose goes first. He’s a coin toss from the stripe, so it’s one of Reynolds’ best chances. Moose takes a few slow dribbles, then lets fly with his awkward form. The free throw comes out flat, but zips through cleanly.

      “That’s one,” Bolden says. Reynolds nods at him.

      Devin’s next and there’s no doubt on his. It sings through the net and Bolden raises two fingers to Reynolds. He nods again. No choice, really, because he’s got no room to complain. Coach Bolden let him back on, just two nights before our first game, but the deal is Reynolds has to run for it. And he’s got to do the stairs in the gym while we practice below him. A set of stairs isn’t that bad, but Bolden lined the rest of us up at the stripe—for each one we knock down it’s a set for Reynolds.

      Maybe Reynolds thought we’d take it easy on him, try to miss a few without being too obvious about it. No way. I want Reynolds back for his sake, but we’ve been busting it for weeks while he’s been coasting. Personally, after the way he turned me down at the park and then strolled in now? I’d like to see him run until his feet bleed.

      Stanford’s up now and even he knocks one down, thanks to a friendly roll. After that one falls, you can feel this little ripple pass through us all—everyone’s gonna knock theirs down, one after the other. Jones knocks down his, then I bury one. A couple more and we’re into the freshmen. I figure if anyone gets the yips and breaks the string, it’ll be one of them, but they toe the line—one after the other—and it’s bucket, bucket, bucket. When the last one falls, a few of us clap. Murphy whistles in approval and retrieves the ball. He pops it to Coach Bolden who catches it and tucks it under his elbow. “That’s eleven,” he says to Reynolds.

      This time Reynolds does hang his head, but only for a second. When he looks back up, he has a sheepish little grin. His eyes are wide and glassy again, but he just looks fearful about the running in front of him, not like he’s going to break down. “I figure I deserve that,” he says.

      We laugh then, even Bolden, and that’s the first step toward Reynolds becoming part of the team again—a bigger step than all those he’s about to take on the arena stairs. It means something that he’s going to take his punishment with a smile. Well, we’ll see if that lasts.

      “All right,” Bolden shouts. “Enough fun and games. Reynolds, you hit the stairs, and the rest of you hit the baseline.”

      We stand there, stunned.

      “What?” Bolden shouts. “You thought I was just gonna run Reynolds? That’s eleven down-and-backs for the rest of you. Now move!”

      We’re working half-court sets, ones against twos. With just two days before our first game, we look a little rough. It’s that three spot that’s killing us.

      The twos just sag back in, with one guy chasing Devin. I feed Moose down low and it’s like the whole damn world collapses on him. He fires it back out to me. When my man runs to recover, I leave him chasing a ghost. But I hit all that traffic in the lane, and there’s no look. Maybe a pull-up from fifteen, but that’s still not flowing for me. I look to kick, and the one with the look is J.J. Fuller. His eyes widen, almost filling up that blockish face. But then he does it again—lowers his head and drives. Head down so that Coach Bolden could jump in from out of bounds, and he wouldn’t see it. He settles for a tough baseline fade that barely grazes rim.

      “Reset!” Bolden shouts. “We can get a better look than that for God’s sake!”

      “Come on, guys,” Murphy encourages, “look alive now.”

      We run another possession, but it’s more of the same. No looks to be had. Finally, instead of driving, I decide to do what I’ve been working on all off-season. I catch a reversal pass and rip it into the lane. I know I could get to the rim, but that’s easy against our twos. Instead, I rise for the pull-up. Feels good coming off, but it’s juuust a millimeter shy.

      “That’s okay,” Bolden says. “Good look. That’s what we want out of our offense. Just get good looks. The rest will take care of itself.”

      Murphy chimes in with more encouragement. “Keep firing, D. They’ll fall, baby.” But a look around at my other starters reveals some doubt that we’ll ever score again. It seems like the only buckets we’ve had all practice have been put-backs by Moose and Stanford. Stanford’s starting to talk more trash than he can back up. He gets this tough squint to his face, like something he’s practiced after watching too many gang movies. It doesn’t work for him. He’s got those high cheekbones in his thin face, making him look almost feminine no matter how much he scowls. But when Bowman Academy gets here Friday night, it will be good to have Stanford thinking he’s a bad-ass.

      Bolden tries Chris Jones at the three now. Jones is basically our first man off the pine for Moose or Stanford, but things are getting so bleak at the three it’s worth a shot. Of course, first touch Jones gets, he freezes up. He dribbles once, then gets in a tangle in the lane, and the ball gets slapped loose. A few bodies hit the floor, but the rock gets knocked into Stanford’s hands. He’s off-balance, but hears the sharp “Ball! Ball!”

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