LITMIR.BIZ

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cars on 34th, like he’s giving directions to a lost driver. “He got called to cover for someone at the last minute.”

      I shrug it off. No sense in acting hurt, but it’s the first time my dad’s ever missed a game. He doesn’t get as juiced as the rest of my family, but since I started in youth leagues he’s always been there, at least ten minutes before tip, every single time.

      “Don’t get upset at him,” Kid says. “He’s doing all a man can.”

      The thing Kid doesn’t say is that he wouldn’t be pulling these hours if I’d have bolted to Hamilton Academy. Damn. I know they wouldn’t have had to fight tooth and nail to eke one out against Bowman. Things would be a whole lot easier up there. But there’s no sense in wondering about what if. My mom tells us that all the time—You get too busy worrying about what ifs, and you forget to take care of what is.

      And what is is that we’re gonna have to scratch every night out. At least until Devin gets back.

      We reach our walk and Kid pops me on the back. “Gonna be a lot better nights than this one, D. Maybe some worse ones too, but a lot better. Bank on it.”

      “Thanks, Kid,” I say. Then I nod toward the door. “You coming in?”

      “Nah,” he says. “I got plans.” He looks away, that anxious, antsy expression he gets when he’s up to something he doesn’t want us to know about. I don’t bother asking, just tell him Later and head for my door.

      Inside, Dad’s racked out on the couch again. It’s not even late, but my mom and Jayson have beat it back to their rooms. I see slivers of light under each of their doors. A quick stop at the fridge to pull out some leftover pizza, and I head for my room too.

      On my dresser sits a stack of camp brochures, team logos on each one. Indiana, Purdue, Michigan, Illinois. They can’t start sending me letters yet, so this is how the big boys let me know they’re interested. I wonder how jacked they’d be about signing me if they saw my line for tonight: nine points and four assists, 4-13 from the field. I did get eight rips, but these people aren’t sending me mailers because I can get some boards.

      There’s a rustling in the living room as Dad wakes from the couch. The floorboards give a few creaks under his weight and then there’s the sound of the fridge opening. I think about going out to join him, but somehow it’s just comforting hearing him move about the house, listening to him turn on the TV and then quickly squelch the volume to a low murmur because he thinks he might wake someone.

      I flip through the latest mail. Wisconsin, Cincinnati, Louisville. When I first started playing, the dream was to go to some powerhouse—Indiana or UCLA or Carolina. But now, as the mailbox fills up again each day, I consider how many options there are. Maybe a dark horse like Mississippi State or Clemson. Maybe a smaller school like Gonzaga or Wichita State. The dream at this point is to make it to the League—and you can do that from anywhere. I mean, George Hill went to IUPUI, and now he’s running point for the Pacers and just tearing it up. If you’re good enough, the NBA scouts will find you.

      Then again, maybe I ought to just cool it. A good first step would be scoring double figures at Marion East.

      6.

      Tomorrow night we head to Gary to play King, a Chicago team. It’s a chance for cross-state bragging rights. The game after us is Hamilton versus another legendary Chicago team, Simeon. Which means another chance for Vasco and company to steal the show. I’ve got to stay focused on King though. Always gotta remember—the only team you can beat is the next one on your schedule.

      Uncle Kid has drilled into me all the famous King names from back in the day—Marcus Liberty, Jamie Brandon, Rashard Griffith. I let Kid tell his old war stories, but I know those guys aren’t walking through the door. The guy who is hitting the hardwood tomorrow night is Martin Randle-El, the best player we’ll see until Vasco. He’s 6’11” and just a load down low. Got a little range to keep guys honest too. If you could still jump straight to the League, he’d be a lottery pick with that size, but instead he’ll spend a year at Kansas before bolting.

      “Where’s your head at, Derrick?”

      “Right here,” I say.

      We’re upstairs in Jasmine’s room, working through some geometry problems. She’s got this stuff down from last year, so she helps me out some. It’s not like I’m some dumb jock getting his honey to write his papers for him, but this stuff is no joke. Besides, it’s a good excuse to get close to Jasmine without her pushing me away.

      We’re sitting on her bed, the book between us like a little border. Even her room just seems so perfect. Always clean, never a stray sock on the floor, books all ordered on the shelves just so. But it’s more than the order. It’s her plush comforter on her big bed, her framed posters behind glass, her bookshelf—made of thick, solid wood instead of one of those throw-together things that break if you bump it hard. Her parents are dropping coin for stuff instead of scouring thrift stores. I know her folks well enough to know they have the same ongoing fight as mine—whether to keep on keeping on or save up to jump to some nicer neighborhood. From the looks of this place, I’d say Jasmine’s folks have the money to leap if they want to.

      “You’ve been staring at that problem for five minutes,” she says. “You sure you’re still working on it?”

      “I’m concentrating,” I say, but my smile gives me away.

      She laughs at me. “I swear, Derrick, you can’t keep your head clear of hoops for even ten minutes. You’re obsessed!”

      “Look, Coach Bolden always tells us it’s a game of angles, so maybe it’ll help me with geometry.”

      She rolls her eyes. “You go on thinking that. See how it works out for you.” She sighs and rolls away from me, leaving me sitting up by her pillows while she stretches on her back across the bottom part of her bed. Her sweater rides up from her jeans, showing a little sliver of skin. My eyes trace from there up her body to those fine curves. Her parents are gone, and it’s almost dusk outside.

      I put the textbook over on her nightstand, then lean down to her. I behave, keeping my hand on her stomach and not trying for too much too fast, but when I kiss her she rises up to me. It’s like somehow I turned on a switch in her. Jasmine pulls herself up by my shoulders and presses against me. Her tongue pushes into my mouth, and then she pulls back to kiss me down along my neck, peeling back my shirt a little to bite my shoulder. I try not to lose my cool. I know rushing things could kill it but as I hear her breaths get heavier and faster, all I can think is, This is finally happening.

      Jasmine backs me up so my shoulders are against her headboard. Then she swings her right leg across me so she’s straddling me. I can’t take it. She’s practically begging me. So I lower my head to kiss her neck. Then lower. Then lower again. I can’t stop my hands.

      “Derrick,” she sighs. “What are you doing?”

      I don’t answer. Just keep moving my hands wherever they want to go.

      “Derrick,” she says again. “Don’t.”

      My hands move away from her chest, but slide down to her waist to pull her tighter to me. She pulls her arms from around my shoulders and squeezes them in between us like two bars along my chest. “Derrick,” she says one more time, her voice full of warning.

      I know to stop. Anyone who’s listened to my mother preach for years about the right way to treat women knows to stop. So I do. But I don’t know how not to act upset. “Shit,” I say. It’s under my breath—same way I’d say it when I miss a free throw in practice—but Jasmine’s right next to me.

      “Don’t be that way,” she says.

      I lace my fingers behind my head, like that’s the one way to keep my hands still. “I know,” I say. “But…”

      Jasmine stares hard at me, the heat in her eyes that was lust just a minute ago turning quickly to anger. “What?” She cocks her head at an angle. “What,

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