“You know it’s not like that,” I say.
“Oh, really?” Moose gets a smirk on his face like I’m being naïve. “Look, D, I know your parents are straight shooters. And I know Coach Bolden was old school. But this is you, man. Ain’t none of them ballin’ out. This is you. And I’m telling you, you got to get paid while you can. Squeeze those schools for all they’ll give.”
“All right, Moose,” I say. I reach out to give him a fist bump. Instead, he grabs my hand. He gives me this meaningful look like I best listen to him. So I tell him I’ll think about it. Then another text sounds on my phone—a nice excuse to make an exit. As I head out, we both promise to get together over Christmas break.
When I walk out the door, I feel torn. If that’s the line Moose is running, I don’t want to hear it. But I also know he might be putting some truth on me.
Mom’s feeling it tonight. She’s on the couch, exhausted and uncomfortable, when I come in. Jayson’s already holed himself up in our room with the excuse that he’s got to rehearse lines. That leaves me in the firing line. “Derrick!” she snaps as soon as she hears me. “Get me a drink of water. There’s a pitcher on the table.”
I do it before I even set my bags down. But when I hand it to her, she takes one sip and scowls at me. “Ice, Derrick. Ice.”
So I hustle back to the kitchen. Get the ice. This time Mom thanks me and lays on the praise, telling me I’m sweet to take care of her. But just as I start to set down my bags, she’s got another request. “I haven’t even had a chance to read the newspaper,” she says. She points back to the kitchen table. “Your dad always hogs it.” So I get that for her. Then it’s the remote, which Dad left in his chair before he left. Then it’s a bowl of potato chips. Then more water. I swear I’ve run more sprints in the first fifteen minutes back home than I have in a month of Murphy’s practices. But I don’t mind. I mean, it’s my mom. And every time I feel that little twinge—like, poor me having to do everything—I remind myself how much she does for me. I’m not even talking back when I was in diapers. I mean even now. Trips to the doctor. Summer leagues. Late nights consoling me after losses. What’s a few trips to the kitchen?
“Any day now,” she says.
“Any day what?”
For all her exhaustion, she about leaps off the couch. “My due date!” she yells. “What the hell else is coming that’s so important?”
“Sorry,” I mumble. She just shakes her head at me and reaches for the newspaper. I look at her then. Really look. She’s immensely pregnant, and I don’t know how this feels like a surprise to me, but it does. I mean, I’ve known that we’ve got a baby coming. That’s been pretty clear since the summer. But somehow it’s always been this vague thing off in the hazy future. Something to look forward to down the road a ways. Not, like, a baby. Right now. In my head I start to compare it to how when you’re in a game, crunch time can sneak up on you—bam, out of nowhere it’s a tie game with a minute left. Then I think for a second about how Mom might react to my comparing her pregnancy to a basketball game. Probably not the best way to think about the baby.
Then I hear her sigh. Well, not a sigh exactly. It’s this sound Mom makes that starts as a sigh and then descends into an angry grumble. I’ve heard it for years, but since she’s been pregnant it’s become a more common part of the soundtrack at our house. Usually it’s because of something Jayson or I do. Or she just walks into the living room and sees Kid on the couch. But this time it’s the newspaper. More violence on the near East side. Two teenage boys dead. Two more in custody. “I’m supposed to raise another child in this?” She backhands the newspaper so hard it flies out of her hands and flutters to the floor. She stares up at the ceiling, maybe waiting for God to answer her question.
“It’ll be okay,” I say. It’s the kind of thing people say to you when you’re upset. And it doesn’t work any better on Mom than it would on me.
“Lord, Derrick, you know Wes is headed in that direction. What saved you? Luck? What’s going to save Jayson? What’s going to save this baby?” She places a hand gingerly on her belly. But she’s just getting started. “Three kids. What were your Dad and I thinking? We should have been more careful. I mean, three kids? Who has three kids? Poor people, that’s who. And we’re gonna be poor for the rest of our lives.”
She stops herself then, like she remembers suddenly that I’m standing there. She apologizes for talking that way in front of me. She insists that Jayson and I are the best things that have ever happened to her and that the new baby will be a miracle, too. But I can see the worry still lingering like a shadow over her face.
Money. I know it’s not everything, but that’s a lot harder to believe when you don’t have enough paper to go around. The math is easy. If I played it right, I could score $50,000 to ink a commitment. With Kid needing a place, Wes needing cover for his debts, and my parents needing some scratch for the baby, I can’t pretend that kind of cash isn’t sorely needed around here.
“Mom,” I say. “You know there are ways to get ourselves in better shape, right?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Boy,” is all she says.
Immediately, I rush to the defensive. “I’m not saying we should, Mom. I’m just saying we could. Just to get us over the hump.”
Rage flares in her eyes, but then her hands shoot down to her belly. Maybe the baby kicked. Or maybe she’s just trying to keep her emotions in control for its sake. With a great effort, she props herself up with one arm. Then she inches up until she’s sitting. “Look, Derrick. I’m not going to lie. We could always use more money. Who couldn’t? But we’re not going to sell you to get it.”
“It’s not really like that,” I say. “It’s just getting a little payday.” I realize how I sound. Just like Moose—get the money while you can. Or like any talking head on T.V. who insists that “getting paid” is the greatest thing on earth, no matter the cost.
Mom squinches up her face. It’s the look she used to get when she had bad bouts with morning sickness. “So you’re saying that shopping my son around to the highest bidder isn’t selling you? And, what, we’re supposed to trust a coach whose first move is to break the most basic rule there is?”
Somehow, I’ve been put in the position of defending something I didn’t even really believe. Or maybe I do. I mean, why shouldn’t I get paid? If I go somewhere and we make a run to the Final Four, you bet that coach is getting a bonus. And you bet that school is raking in the T.V. money. And you bet enrollment jumps the next year. How am I not due a little more than a scholarship and some meal money? But I don’t dare say any of that. Not if I want to live through the night. “I know,” I say. “It just seems like money’s the one thing that could solve a lot of problems around here.”
My mom softens. “It wouldn’t hurt. But some college educations and some dignity would go a lot further in this neighborhood than any payout will.”
And that’s that. End of story. For now at least.
I head back to my room. Jayson’s waiting on me. Big grin on his face.
“What?” I say.
“You a fool, D.”
“You heard?” I ask.
He nods. I sling down my stuff and rifle through the mail Jayson’s stacked on the dresser. More clutter from schools that I thought might back off.
“You’re not a fool for wanting to get paid,” Jayson says. I turn around so I can look him in the eye. He doesn’t even flinch. “You’re a fool for talking to Mom about it. You want to get some green, just get yourself some green. Don’t ask permission.”
10.
Jasmine has never looked better. And here’s the thing—I know she prettied herself up for me. No doubt, she can look fine rolling in a ratty t-shirt and jeans, but when she puts on the real deal—a black dress that’s cut a little lower than I’m used to seeing on her, some earrings that pop a little, even heels—she just floors me. Yeah, she’s overdressed for a coffee shop near the Butler campus, but that’s how she rolls. So when
I walk toward her table—one near the window with the afternoon light streaming in—I feel like I’m about to fall over.
I’m glad we’re here. Not because I think Butler’s anything special. Oh, they act like it. And I guess you’ve got to give them credit for all their March runs. But it’s not my style at all. No, I’m glad we’re here because I know Lia Stone won’t come within five miles of this place. Probably doesn’t even know it exists. Around us, the place swims with white people. I mean, really white. There are a few scraggly-looking souls, college kids trying out their hippie phase. Then it’s all button down and khakis. Or girls in oversized sorority sweatshirts. When Jasmine and I were together, this made me crazy. Like she wanted to be white. Or thought she was better than other people at our school. Now I’m just happy to be here—anywhere with her.
“Well?” Jasmine asks as I sit down.
“Well what?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes and smiles. “How have you been, Derrick? It’s been forever.” Instinctively, the hoops talk pours out of me. For so long now, when someone asks me how I am, what they really want to know is how basketball’s going.
About halfway through my explanation of where the recruiting process is, Jasmine’s waves me off with both hands. “No,” she says. “I mean how are you? I always figure basketball takes care of itself with you. I want to know if you’re happy. How your family is. You know”—and here she gestures to the coffee shop around us—“the things people actually talk about.”
I slump back in my chair and offer a big grin. “You know, girl, if I stood up right now and announced I was going to Indiana, I bet people in this place would start yapping about hoops pretty quick.”
She smiles, shakes her head at me. She bats those eyes, her long eyelashes doing a number. “You know what I mean, Derrick.”
So I get into all the non-hoops business of my life. The house packed to bursting. My mom flat worn out. Wes into more nonsense.
When I’m done she just looks at me and calmly says, “I miss you, Derrick.” She makes it sound like it’s a natural response to everything I just said, even though it’s really out of the blue. And she says it matter-of-factly, like she just told me what she had for breakfast earlier or something. So even though it’s a loaded comment, it doesn’t come off like some declaration of love.
“You too,” I say. It’s a lame response, but it’s all I can think of. Truth is, if someone set me down with pictures of Lia and Jasmine and said choose, I’d choose Lia. At least I think I would. I mean, Jasmine and I tried and tried and there was always something that got in our way.
Our words seem to charge the air. Around us there’s the hiss of a cappuccino maker, a forlorn sigh from a student staring at their laptop, an overly loud laugh between two men just coming into the place. Part of me wants to run to Lia. Part of me wants to get down on my knees and beg for Jasmine back.
Instead, I simply say “What about you? How’s school?”
Jasmine wound up at Louisville. She said it was about staying close to home, but I know that was an excuse. And, look, it’s not like Louisville’s a lousy school. Hell, most Marion East grads wouldn’t even get a look from a school like that. But Jasmine was talking the Vanderbilts and Dukes and Stanfords of the world. She had the smarts. So for her to land just a couple hours down I-65 is kind of like me settling to play at some D-II school.
And now, when I put the question to her, she looks down at her hands folded on the table. “Good,” she says. “School is good.” But she still won’t look at me.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says, annoyed. “I said it’s good.”
I reach across and touch her wrist. She jerks back like I’ve electrocuted her. “Easy, Jasmine,” I say. “This is me you’re talking to.”
She relaxes then and starts to talk. Or, really, she tries to. I can see her start to explain, but she stops herself short a few times—she opens her mouth and it’s like the words are stuck there. She looks away again. She shakes her head. Then she looks back again, squaring me up with her eyes. “College is hard, Derrick,” she says.
“Aw, come on. You always rocked straight As. I know you got this.”
She shakes her head again. Angrily this time. “Straight As at Marion East doesn’t mean much, it turns out. It didn’t exactly translate to the test scores I was hoping for last year. And at school I feel like everyone else came from a different planet. Like they’ve got all this knowledge I’m still scrambling to pick up.”
I stare at Jasmine, trying to detect just how bad things are. Is this her just venting a little about some hard work? Or is she really getting swallowed up? If Jasmine were to fail, it would somehow kill a part of me. It’s like everyone who leaves Marion East with a little velocity just crashes back to earth. Kid’s playing career flamed out. Moose’s didn’t go much further. Now Jasmine? Maybe if you grow up here, it’s just fate working against you.
“It’s nothing,” Jasmine says. “I’ll be fine.”
Somehow that makes me believe her less. My mom talks about it all the time—kids who do well at city schools have a big wake-up call waiting. Just because you’re the best student out of a bunch of bad ones doesn’t mean you’re going to crush it in college. I just thought Jasmine would be different. Maybe it will be the same with me next year. Maybe for all the popping stats at Marion East I’m going to find out I’m not really cut out for big-time ball.
“So what kind of grades are you talking?” I ask.
She stiffens on the spot. Her lips pinch down like she’s tasted something bitter. “I said I’ll be fine,” she says. “Let’s just talk about something else.” She pauses, then raises an eyebrow. “Like, you know, you and Lia.” An icy feeling runs through my veins. Like when you’re between the lines and you suddenly realize you’ve been caught flatfooted on a back-door play. Jasmine bringing up Lia? I don’t know how to handle that. Of course, Jasmine can see that all over my face. She laughs, loving that she can put me on the defensive that easily. “Derrick, come on. It’s okay. I’m your friend. You can tell me about the girl you’ve been seeing for, what, a year now?”
Somehow, her saying that we’re friends makes it seem like we’re still something more than that. Jasmine’s always had this ability to tell me one thing and make me think another. But I play it straight and talk to her about Lia. Things are smooth enough, I explain, but when I start to say how there’s a little static about me taking off somewhere far away for college ball, Jasmine perks up. It’s like she senses an opening.
“Do you remember that party where you met her?” she asks.
Again, she gets me racing. She’s talking about me and Lia, but it’s really a comment about me and Jasmine. At that party last year, I chatted up Lia for a second, but I left with Jasmine. We were still hooking up now and then, and that was the night we came as close as we ever did to sealing the deal. Do I remember that night? Lord, what I remember is Jasmine’s breath hot in my ear and the feel of her body pressing against mine.
“Uh huh,” I say.
“Those were good times,” Jasmine says.
Then we stare at each other in silence for a while. She brings her coffee mug up for a sip, but she never breaks eye contact. Damn. Even the way she drinks coffee is sexy. And officially, right at that moment, I feel pretty sure I’m breaking some unwritten rule with Lia.
“I miss those times, to tell you the truth,” Jasmine says.
“You mean you miss being with me?” I ask. Just asking that feels like swimming further out into murky waters.
Now Jasmine leans back and folds her arms. She cocks her head and inspects me. I realize she’s finally got me where she wants me. I blinked first, said something that could only be interpreted one way. “But you’re with Lia,” she says. “I don’t want to get in the way of that. It’s just…” and then she trails off, letting me fill in that blank with my imagination.
I want to just run off with Jasmine. Grab her hand, head to
the car, and do about 150 miles per hour down to her dorm room in Louisville. But even as I imagine that, I know what would happen—somewhere along the way, she’d cool down, re-think things. She’d let me get only so far. And there it is—that’s what she wants. That control. Of me. For the first time ever, Jasmine has something in common with a baller. She just wants to get back to the good old days when she was on top of the game. I hate thinking it about her, but I know in my heart it’s true. She doesn’t want me back because of me. She wants me back just to feel like her old self again. I’m just here for her ego, now that it doesn’t get stroked by an A on every single paper she writes.
“Well, you’re right,” I say. “I got Lia now.”
It’s not what she was expecting. In fact, she leans forward like she expects me to say more. And when I don’t, she wilts a little. She’s too tough to break down or beg, but I see her shoulders slump ever so slightly. I hear the distance in her voice when she changes the subject.
All that energy sparking the air between us? Gone. Our conversation gets cold faster than her coffee.
Lia can sense it, I swear. The texts say it all.
Good luck.
Oh, we gonna get after it. We owe these kids.
Yep.
That’s it?
Yep.
Biggest game of my life and that’s it?
Yep.
You just messin with me?
And then silence. The only thing happening on my screen is the clock changing minute by minute. Like a chump, I check the bars. Power it off and on. Like there’s got to be something—anything—the matter other than my girl Lia suspecting me. I’m sitting on the bus, wondering if anyone could have seen me with Jasmine and reported to Lia.
Quicks Page 7
