by Kobe Bryant
“I gained three pounds,” he said at last.
He regretted the words instantly. They’d sounded ridiculous even on the way out. It was just the first thing that had come to mind, and in fairness, he had worked hard to gain even that. Big meals, weight lifting, buckets of avocados, carbohydrate gainers. Alfie had tried everything, and at least three pounds was some progress. But now it sounded so . . . pathetic. What a surprise.
Big John started to laugh. “Three pounds? What, in acne?”
Alfie looked at his shoes, trying to keep his hands busy in his lap so they wouldn’t scratch anymore. So Big John had noticed his skin. Of course he had. The pimples practically covered his whole face. He wanted to rip them all off, and then he felt sick at the thought.
“Boy says he put on three pounds. This man kills me!”
Alfie wanted to leave. He wanted to go home and never come back.
“Three pounds!” Big John said. “I put on three pounds this morning!”
Alfie sank lower, willing himself not to cry. His shoulders stretched for his knees. He thought of Freddy telling his dad he had cried at practice. The shame made his eyes burn worse.
“You need thirty to play down low,” Big John continued. “I’m not even sure why you’re back. How much your dad pay Freddy to keep you on this team, huh? The rich boy out the burbs—we know how you got on the team.”
Alfie’s eyes started to well up. He knew he was in trouble.
“You gon cry now—” Big John said.
Alfie ran to the locker room without thinking. Laughter followed him all the way there.
The room was filthy, which was why the team always changed on the benches. Wedged in the back were a couple of bathroom stalls, one of which had a cracked sink with a tap that dripped constantly. Alfie faced the mirror, watching as the first tears slipped down his pockmarked cheeks. He put his hands under the tepid stream and ran them through his hair. Water leaked down his face, and he wiped it away, letting his fingers linger on his cheek. His eyes fell on the newest zit. Big and swollen and right on the cheekbone like a red button.
He was picking before he knew it. He saw a red bubble rise and quickly wiped the spot with some toilet paper. Tears filled his eyes again.
“You really are pathetic,” he whispered to the skinny boy in the mirror.
The boy said it back.
Alfie stood there, hands on the sink, staring at himself.
Just get through today, he thought.
Alfie shuffled out and saw that most of the team was warming up now, sharing one or two balls. He grabbed his and went to the far side of the court alone.
A-Wall and Vin came into the gym soon after, and Freddy with the new kid last of all. He’d mentioned him when he had phoned Alfie about the training camp, but Freddy hadn’t said what position the recruit would play. It was pretty obvious now.
The boy was tall and muscular—he had a grown man’s body. Alfie stared at him jealously. He would almost definitely take Alfie’s starting position at center. Alfie couldn’t compete with someone who looked like that. He slumped and looked away, ball forgotten.
His dad would be so disappointed.
“My boys!” Freddy called. “All here? Come on over. Let me introduce Devon.”
Alfie walked over, letting everyone else gather first and then joining at the edge of the circle. He could look right over everyone’s heads, so it didn’t really matter. As he watched the introduction, he grew confused. He could see Devon’s toes twisting on the hardwood, his eyes cast down, his shoulders bent. Alfie knew those signs. But could someone so strong really be shy? It seemed impossible. This guy had everything Twig wanted. Mainly, muscles.
Freddy slung an arm over Devon. “He ain’t here to read poetry, boys. Devon is a power forward and a great defender. Well. He will be when we’re done with him. He’s going to play well with Twig.”
Alfie tried to hide his surprise. Was Freddy still planning on keeping him on the starting lineup, even after his disastrous rookie season? Dad will be happy, he thought numbly. If Alfie didn’t lose his spot before the season started.
“Where’s this new coach?” Rain asked. “Rolobo, or whatever you said his name was?”
As soon as he said it, the fluorescent lights overhead began to flicker. They sputtered, blinked out, and then went back to normal—a pale gray color like sun through storm clouds. Alfie stared up at them, grimacing at the inch-thick layer of dust.
The doors suddenly burst open, and he jumped, nearly toppling over. Wind roared inside.
“Dust tsunami!” Peño shouted. “Run!”
Alfie squinted against the gale and made out a shape in the doorway. A man. He was huge—bigger than Alfie’s dad, even. He must have been at least seven feet tall, since he had to duck to get inside. He was dressed immaculately: crisp suit, leather bag—he dressed like Alfie’s grandpa, and he was somehow even taller. He drew out a pocket watch as he approached them.
His eyes fell on Alfie for just a moment, and Alfie felt a curious tingle on the back of his neck. The pocket watch seemed to grow louder, ticking very slowly, and Alfie caught a glimpse of something in the glass. A tall man with watery eyes. He frowned, and the image vanished.
The pocket watch was tucked back into his jacket, only the chain visible.
“Oh,” Freddy said, sounding surprised. “You’re early—”
“Being late or early is simply a matter of perspective,” he answered calmly.
Alfie looked at him curiously. Was he a university professor? And why was he dressed like that? It was already hot both outside and inside the gym, and it would only get hotter. But Rolabi didn’t even seem to be sweating, nor did he look remotely uncomfortable. He just stared at the team with bright green eyes, as though measuring each one of them, probing them.
When his gaze came to Alfie, Alfie took a step back.
How can a tree grow when the soil is poisoned?
Alfie whirled around. There was nobody behind him. Yet he’d a heard a voice there.
“Hello?” he whispered.
Reggie, who was standing near Alfie, glanced at him. “Hey.”
Alfie forced a smile, humiliated. Was he losing his mind?
Rolabi dismissed Freddy, and when the doors crashed shut, silence fell over the gym. Everyone looked at Rolabi. His gaze darted from one player to another, and Alfie instinctively turned away when it fell on him, unnerved. He had never heard such a deep, thoughtful silence in Fairwood before. He imagined it was like floating in space.
Then, as if they had just gone around and introduced themselves, Rolabi pulled out a folded piece of paper from an inner pocket in his suit jacket, along with a magnificent gold pen.
“I will need everyone to sign this before we can proceed,” Rolabi said.
They went one after another, all signing the same contract. There seemed to be some confusion, but Alfie couldn’t hear what it was. He was last, and he took the sheet from Reggie.
Alfie read it again. There was something familiar about . . . something tugging at his memory . . . The word granity in particular: where had he seen that before? He felt the stares of the others, though, and signed it, still trying to place that word. How did he know the word granity?
Rolabi took the contract back, read it over carefully, and nodded. Before Alfie could even step away, the contract disappeared with a watery pop, like a bubble bursting.
“What . . . Where did . . . How . . . ?” Alfie murmured.
The professor opened his medicine bag and stuck his arm in up to the shoulder. Alfie stared, bewildered—the bag was only a foot deep. Stranger still, he heard sliding, crashing, and a growl, low and unhappy. I really am losing it, he thought.
Losing what? the deep voice asked. He realized it sounded an awful lot like Rolabi.
Then, without any warning whatsoever, Rolabi
took out a basketball and passed it to Big John. It collided with one of Big John’s round cheeks, and Alfie had to bite back a laugh.
“That hurt,” Big John complained.
Alfie caught a glimpse of something orange and just barely managed to catch the pass.
And then the gym changed. The team was gone.
Instead, he was surrounded by a dizzying collection of strange mirrors, as though he had been transported to a carnival fun house. Some of the reflections were short and squat and fat, others so tall and painfully thin that Alfie thought he might slip through the cracks in the hardwood. In one, his face was completely covered with acne, red and angry. He ran his fingers down it and saw that his nails were long, hooked, and razor sharp. Panic flooded through him.
Alfie whirled away, trying to find a way out, and then stopped.
There was another mirror. In this one, his shoulders and arms were lined with muscle, his face clear, his hair full and thick instead of hanging down in its usual greasy mop. The scars were gone. Alfie’s gaunt face was handsome and stolid. He stepped toward the reflection, reaching out for that boy. That Alfie. Then he noticed Rolabi was standing among the mirrors, watching him.
“Hmm,” Rolabi said. “Interesting. That will be all today. I will see you here tomorrow.”
The mirrors were instantly replaced by the team, all of them looking uneasy. Rolabi was walking toward the doors. Alfie barely noticed them. He spun around, looking for the mirror that had shown him a better Alfie. The one his father wanted. His team wanted. The one he wanted.
“What time?” Peño asked.
Rolabi didn’t answer. The doors swung shut, and Peño ran after him.
“Do we keep the balls?” Peño called, opening the doors. “What . . . Professor?”
Rolabi had vanished.
THE NEXT MORNING, Alfie stared at the old double doors, wondering if he could really bring himself to go inside. His father had been no help. He told Alfie that nervous minds could sometimes hallucinate, and that he just had to “man up.” Alfie wasn’t sure if that was true, or what it meant to man up, but he kept that to himself. He didn’t question his dad . . . ever. That could only result in a lecture about respect, a grounding, or mostly just flat-out screaming.
His mom didn’t believe him either, though she at least felt his forehead for a fever. He was almost hoping for one to explain his visions, but no such luck. She reminded him, as she always did, that he could quit ball if he wanted to. She said he shouldn’t be on the team for another season just to please his father. But she didn’t understand. Alfie wanted to play ball.
And that was why he was back today, despite the visions, despite the bullies.
Alfie opened the doors and went inside. As usual, Reggie was the only one there.
That was a relief, at least, even if it was only temporary. Alfie had left the teasing out of his recap of practice to his parents. His mom would have said she needed to contact Big John’s mother. His dad would have said that real men weren’t affected by words. Toughen up. Man up. That was his father’s answer for everything. Real men were strong. Real men never got upset. Real men were made of stone and iron.
If that was true, then Alfie was even further from a real man than he thought.
“Morning,” Alfie said, dropping his bag by the away bench.
“Morning, Alfie,” Reggie replied. “Ready to try this again?”
Alfie forced a smile and started for the locker room. “Not really.”
He locked the door of the biggest bathroom stall and stared in the mirror, taking deep breaths. His sallow chest rose and fell beneath his T-shirt. His eyes fell on his slender fingers. His thin neck. Hollowed cheeks. His dad said he had to get stronger, but his body wasn’t built for it. He was overstretched, like a piece of gum being pulled off the bottom of a chair. Maybe that alone would have been fine. He could have dealt with that. But his skin was also beleaguered by acne—it was so unfair. Even that was bordered by scars and pockmarks from his constant picking.
He ran his hand over a new pimple on his cheek, wondering if Big John would say anything about it. Sometimes when he got a pimple, he felt like it took over his whole head. It was all that anyone could see, like a spotlight had fallen there. He was scratching before he knew it, and then holding scraps of toilet paper to the cut and wondering if anyone else could possibly be as broken as he was. He doubted it. He fought the urge to cry and flushed the red toilet paper.
“You can do this,” he said, gripping the sink. “Today is going to be a better day.”
When he felt like he could face the team, he walked out again and sat down.
“Hey, Twig,” Lab said, blinking sleepily as he glanced over at him.
“Hi,” Alfie replied.
Peño stood up and stretched, eyeing Alfie. “You sweating already?”
Alfie flushed. “No, just water. You know . . . to wake up a little.”
“I hear you,” Lab said.
“Well, I hope you got some rest,” Peño said. “Who knows what this Rolabi dude has got going on today.” He paused and then turned to Alfie. “Say, what did you think of him?”
Alfie wanted to talk about what he’d seen, but there was no way he was going to risk sounding like a weirdo. He had enough problems fitting into the team already. He shrugged.
“I don’t know. A bit . . . odd, I guess.”
Peño nodded, though it didn’t seem like he’d gotten the answer he wanted.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Odd is one word for it.”
Reggie was working on turnaround jumpers on the far end of the court. Alfie joined him and went to his familiar warm-up spot. He began to shoot one free throw after another, always promptly gathering his rebound and heading back to the line again, whether he scored or not.
Reggie stopped shooting for a moment, watching him.
“Really working on that free-throw game, huh?” Reggie said.
Alfie nodded. “Yeah. My dad said it was good for the mechanics.”
“Yeah,” Reggie said. “How many times you get to the line last year?”
“Once or twice a game . . .”
“Exactly. You can work on your free-throw shots, but you also got to get there.”
“I know that,” Alfie said defensively.
Reggie smiled. “I ain’t getting on you, Twig. I’m just rooting for you.”
“You . . . you are?”
“Of course.”
He turned around and drained a jumper.
“Your shot looks good,” Alfie said.
“Been practicing,” Reggie said simply. “I guess that tire rim worked.”
Alfie hesitated, and then he went down low to work on his back-to-the-basket moves. Pivot to layup, turnaround hooks, bank shots. When there was no defense around, no pressure, no eyes on him, he could hit them easily. Fake left, go right. Step back, fade out. Up, down, up.
He whispered the moves to himself, hearing his dad’s voice.
“Fake the shot, drop the shoulder down, power up. Go!”
“There it is,” Reggie said.
But the rest of the team arrived soon after, and when Alfie saw Big John sneering at him from the bench, he returned to the free-throw line. It was safer there. Easy shots. No judgment.
Reggie sighed and shook his head.
“Maybe he isn’t coming,” Lab said, his voice carrying from the far side of the court.
“Or maybe he’s already here.”
Alfie spun to the source of the voice. Rolabi Wizenard was sitting on the bleachers eating an apple. He climbed to his feet, took a final bite, and flicked the core aside. It sailed some twenty yards across the gym and plunked into the sole garbage can. Alfie stared in amazement. Rolabi hadn’t even been looking.
“Nice shot,” Reggie murmured.
Rolabi scooped up his
bag and walked to the center of the court.
“Put the balls away.”
Alfie ran back to the bench and stuffed his ball into his duffel bag. He noticed that everyone else was running too, which was odd because they’d never rushed to do anything in practice last year. Big John usually strutted around the gym like a peacock, and Rain listened only when he felt like it. But today even Rain was running. He was one of the first ones back to Rolabi.
The team formed a circle in front of the giant professor.
Alfie had never seen anything quite like Rolabi’s eyes: a shifting shade of green, from electric to deep and dark. He wondered how Rolabi had gotten the thin white scars on his face—who would be crazy enough to try to fight him? Alfie bet not even his father would stand up to Rolabi, and Alfie had never seen his dad avoid an argument with anybody.
Alfie tried to summon his meager courage. His dad had been very specific: He wanted to meet Rolabi. Soon.
“Umm . . . Professor Rolabi?” Alfie said meekly.
He turned to him. “Yes?”
Alfie tried to clear his throat and made a strange, guttural noise like a sick cat.
“My . . . uh . . . my dad was wondering when the parents can come meet you?”
“Following the tryout, I will meet with parents.”
Alfie opened his mouth, and then closed it again, confused. Did he just say tryout? Alfie could still be cut? His eyes went right to Devon. Was the new kid going to be his replacement?
“Did you say tryout?” Peño said, clearly having similar thoughts. “This is the team.”
“This was the team. Everyone earns a place on my team.”
Twig gulped. He was definitely going to be cut. Great. His dad would be furious.
He scratched his arm without thinking, then flinched when he saw the lines.
“So our parents have to wait ten days to talk to you?” Vin asked.
“If there is pressing business, they can call 76522494936273.”
Twig patted his shorts, then frowned. Why would he have a pen? His shorts didn’t even have pockets. He considered running to his bag for his cell phone, but he had already missed the number.
