LITMIR.BIZ

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doctor nods. Then he frowns a little and scans a chart in front of him. He flips a page. Then another. It’s like he’s on the beach, browsing some summer read while I’m in deep water in need of saving.

      He looks up at me again. He smiles, but I can tell there’s something lurking behind it—the way a parent might smile right before they drop the hammer on you, like I hate to do this to you, but your ass is grounded.

      “What you’re experiencing is normal,” he says. “I could count on one hand the number of athletes I’ve had who felt they had the same power. For most of them, it takes at least a full year from their injury. And yours was in”—he double-checks his chart—“late January. So, like I said, totally normal. You’ll get that power back as your knee returns to form.” Then he taps his temple with his finger a few times. “But some of it’s in here, too. Tearing your ACL isn’t like stubbing a toe, Derrick. Sometimes our mind holds us back a little longer until we feel safe.” I stare at him, still waiting on the verdict. I didn’t come to the doctor for some psychology lesson. He must sense it because he waves his hand in the air, as if to say Forget all that nonsense. “You’re good to go, Derrick.”

      “For real?” As badly as I want to believe it, the thought almost scares me somehow. Like any second, a camera crew’s going to pop out and let me know the doc was punking me.

      “You check out,” he says. “Every test up and down the line. We’re going to want a brace on you for a good while longer, but you can resume full basketball activities.”

      “Right away?”

      “Derrick, as far as I’m concerned, if there’s a court on the other side of that door, you can start a pick-up game.”

       3.

      First, the kicks. Fresh out of the box. I went to Ty’s Tower to buy them this weekend. My mom forked over the cash, but this time—more than all the times in the past—it seemed to cause her physical pain to hand that stack to me just so I could put something on my feet. But you don’t tell a musical phenom to go buy a used instrument, and you don’t tell a baller to skimp on kicks.

      Now I have to deal with Wes at Ty’s Tower. We don’t hang too much anymore. Last year, he got himself tangled up with some for real bad people. He’s still paying off some debt he owes those guys, scrubbing floors at the same seedy bar where Uncle Kid works. It’s not the kind of place that puts him in contact with good influences. Hell, it’s illegal for him to even be working there, but they can just give him some cash off the books and he works cheap. So after all that, I keep pretty clear of my boy, even if he does still live right up the street. Still, the guy’s the biggest sneakerhead I know. It would just feel like a betrayal if I bought my senior kicks without him as wing man.

      First thing I do is point to the LeBron XIIIs. Used to be I’d rock the D Roses, but after his sexual assault case my mom said she’d cut off my feet if I put his shoes on. But here, I get all told from Wes instead. “Gotta step up your sneaker game for senior year,” he says. He practically begs me until I try on some Hyperdunks and some Melos. Even some funky Brandblack Raptors. “That’s what I’m talking about,” he says. “Some real flavor.” As he points to the shoes, I see fresh ink on his arms—namely a dollar sign on the inside of his wrist. Tats don’t come cheap, I know, and I shudder to think about where he’s getting that extra flow. But I don’t press it. Not now.

      In the end I come right back to the LeBrons. “Come on, D,” Wes pleads. But I’m not here for anything new, other than a jump in size for proper fit.

      Wes knows it too. The whole time he was pointing out other shoes, he knew it. Him changing my mind isn’t the point. The two of us hanging a little is. It’ll never be like when we were pups again. Too much has changed. And it’ll be a long time before I can trust him again. When it all went down last year, I had to put myself on the line for him—and I damn near got popped doing it.

      We head out to the street. Wes immediately digs a pack of smokes from his pocket and starts packing them. Then he sees me watching him and tucks them back away. Not that I care. He’s smoked a lot more than a few Marlboros in his day. But anything like that is just this little reminder that we’ve hit different paths in our lives.

      “How’s work?” I ask.

      He laughs. There’s no joy in it—it’s the laugh of someone bitter. “I mop puke off the floor three days a week,” he says. “And every dime I get goes to JaQuentin Peggs.”

      JaQuentin. That was the guy. I still seem him around now and then, and every time he just looks more dangerous. “Well,” I say, but I just let it trail off.

      “Yeah, I know,” Wes says. “Nobody’s fault but mine.” But the way he says it sounds like he’s accusing someone else.

      “Wanna grab a Coke somewhere?” I ask. For some reason, I don’t want my time with Wes to be over yet. Truth is, I miss the kid, even if I know I’m better off without him dragging me down.

      “Nah,” he says. “I’m tired. I think I’m gonna hit it.”

      Around me, the locker room’s humming. Every last player in Marion East is full of themselves. Talking trash. Yapping about dropping twenty a game. Going undefeated. It’s this way in every locker room in the state right now. Soon enough, the season will come along and knock some woof out of people. But today? Everyone’s still perfect.

      Across from me, Darryl Gibson sits in his locker, headphones on. He bobs his head in silence, the only guy in the locker room not running game. He feels me checking him and looks up. He lowers the headphones down around his neck. “’Sup, Derrick,” he says.

      I shrug. “What’s up with you?”

      He shakes his head. Nothing. That’s been the sum total of our exchanges in school. But what is there to say? We both want the same thing and only one can have it. I check him now. He keeps a sneer on his face like he’s some banger ready to tear it up. Even has a little ink—a “D” on fire on the inside of his right forearm. “I know you’re not used to seeing white point guards around here,” he says, “but you don’t have to eye me like I’m some animal in the zoo.”

      Around us, a few guys quiet down. Of course, everybody has been wondering about it to themselves—how it’s going to go down between me and Gibson.

      “Ain’t about white, black, or green,” I tell him. “It’s about who’s got the orange in their hands and what they do with it. And you’re the back-up point guard.”

      That gets a reaction from guys. The underclassmen all laugh—a little too hard maybe, trying to get on my good side. But Jones, my fellow senior, bellows across the room. “Know the truth when you hear it, Gibson.” It’s the first thing I’ve heard come out of his mouth since our meeting with Murphy.

      Then Josh Reynolds, a wiry junior who’s set as our two-guard, bounces over. He sways and struts, then tells us, “Don’t matter who’s bringing the rock up the court. Just find me when I pop open.” Then he goes through an elaborate, slow-motion charade of his jumper. He fades back as he does it, then nods his head as if he’s seen the rock find bottom. “Wet,” he says. “All day every day.” Then he cups his hands by his mouth and mimics a crowd roar, like he’s just sunk a game-winner. It’s all play. The stuff that kids do from the first time they touch leather. Gibson and I both laugh, then check each other and serious up again.

      I’ve got my eye on Reynolds though. He’s always been flaky. He bailed on us halfway through the first practice his freshman year, then had to beg forgiveness to get back on the team. And even last year when he slid into the rotation he was the kind of guy you had to keep calm. Quick to take a shot. Quick to panic. And already this year he seems even jumpier, like there’s an itch all over his skin. I’ll have to manage that mania, I can tell. I’ve learned that a point guard’s job is more than just driving and dishing—it’s also massaging egos and

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