The Necessary Hunger

by Nina Revoyr

  We didn't plan to. As I sat through Trig, Courts and Law, Photography, and Chemistry, I drew little diagrams of all our offensive plays. I kept looking at the clock every few seconds, and I could have sworn that the hands weren't moving; now that I actually wanted time to speed up, it seemed to have stopped completely.

  When we had away games, as we did that afternoon, we were let out early to catch our bus; I was released first and went around with passes for everyone else. These were the times I loved high school the most—walking around those empty hallways with my teammates, feeling the thrill of being free while the rest of the school sat trapped in classrooms, but having that freedom for a purpose. We boarded the bus in front of the school, and the starting five sat way in the rear, each of the varsity players getting a seat to herself, and the JVs doubling up. Anita Baker's new album had just come out, and when "Sweet Love" came on over our team's portable radio we sang along and exchanged solemn high fives. For the rest of the season we knew we'd win if that song came on. It was good luck, like spotting a Laker.

  Still, to make sure, we had our pregame victory-assurance rituals. Telisa wore her mismatching socks, one green, one purple. Q offered a prayer in Vietnamese. I'd eaten half my Twix bar at 10:38, in Photography, and the other half just before we got on the bus. Q passed around the pack of four gum balls she bought before every game, and, as always, I ate the red one, Telisa ate the green one, and Q ate the blue one, which matched the elastic band on her goggles. Then Q popped the yellow one in her mouth, took it out again, and handed it to Celine, who bit half of it off and gave the other half to Pam. The five of us chomped silently for a while. Then we all touched Clyde, our game ball, and passed him around so that the reserves could touch him too—even though we'd be using the other team's ball that day, this way we knew that Clyde's spirit would be with us.

  When we got to Santa Monica, we walked into the gym without speaking. It was badly lit, and there was little ventilation. A strange, musty odor mingled with the normal smell of sweat, and Telisa joked that it was caused by a dead body hidden somewhere in the building. Their team was already warming up. They were small, not one of them over 5'10", and no one seemed to have much of a shot. Occasionally they'd glance over at us, and we could see the fear in their eyes. "Dogmeat," Q said as we walked to our bench, adjusting her goggles and grinning.

  Unlike a week before at the alumni game, this time we'd come ready to play. Q tipped the jump ball to me, and I hit a streaking Pam, who put our first points on the scoreboard before five seconds had passed. We played with the other team at will, doing whatever we wanted on offense, shutting them down on defense. Coach Fontaine had us run all our new plays, in order to work out the kinks in them before we unleashed them against tougher competition. We did several different things on the defensive end too—person-to-person, a two-three zone, and a full-court press, which he called off out of pity within a matter of minutes because the other team couldn't get the ball past their own free throw line. We were like a machine, and we did not let up—we wanted to win big in our opening game so all those other teams out there would take notice. Q was awesome, making easy work of the Santa Monica center—facing up to the hoop and shooting over her, or muscling by her when she got too close. Telisa played her usual levelheaded game, directing the offense and hitting jumpers from way outside if their guards were dumb enough to leave her alone. And I was hot too, hitting shots from the corner, driving baseline, setting up Q when her defender was out of position. Santa Monica tried to double-team me, but that only meant that another of our weapons was left unchecked. And when one of my duo went to cover the open player, my teammates quickly got me the ball, and then it was just me against a solitary, quaking defender who had no chance in the world of stopping me. It was beautiful. It seemed, that day, like our opponents were playing a completely different game than we were, a game they were just learning, and all of their reactions were half a second too slow. I felt, also, the joy of watching my body respond perfectly to all I asked it to do. The yards of wooden floor passed beneath me in a blur; the floor-boards seemed to rise up and push me along. I felt the strength and adrenaline move through my legs. Each time the ball was dead I'd run my hands along my arms, which were slippery and shiny with sweat. My lungs were burning, and it felt good: my body's endurance would increase the more I pushed it. My heart was beating quickly, but not hard, not straining; it clipped along like a healthy young horse. I felt intensely present that day, like I inhabited every part of my body—I lived in my fingertips, which touched the ball; in the soles of my feet; in my hips when I clashed with another player for a rebound; in my shoulders; in my thighs; in my kneecaps when I kneeled to tie my shoe; in my throat and mouth and lips when I spoke to my teammates, when I yelled out in exhilaration. All five of us moved as if directed by one mind. By the time Coach Fontaine finally took out the seniors a few minutes into the fourth quarter, I had twenty-three points—a good three-quarter total—and we were up by twenty-five.

  "Don't mess with us," Telisa chanted as we left the court, "'cos Q and Nancy gonna bust!"

  With the three seniors on the bench, Santa Monica started to make up some of the point differential, but it was as if they were chipping pebbles off a mountain. We cheered our teammates on and splashed water on each other. At one point, Pam got fouled on her way up to shoot, and she went to the line for two free throws. She missed the first one, and as she turned away in disgust, her gum flew out of her mouth and landed on the floor just in front of the foul line. We laughed and Pam looked sheepish. I guess the referee didn't see it happen, though, because as soon as Pam turned toward the basket again, he handed her the ball. She positioned herself at the line, bounced the ball a couple of times, and looked up at the basket. Then she leaned over, picked the gum up and put it back in her mouth, and shot the ball so quickly that it all seemed like part of the same motion. The ball went in and we all laughed so hard we almost fell off the bench. Even our coach had to shake his head and smile.

  After the final buzzer, Coach Fontaine herded us into the visitors' locker room.

  "Good game," he said, as we threw towels around and tried to sit still. "Good way to start out the season." Then he cleared his throat and assumed the even tone of voice he always used when reciting one of his practiced talks, in this case Standard Fontaine Postgame Speech No. 12. "We went hard today, and executed well, and didn't sink down to the other team's level of play. That's what we've got to do all season long—make the opponents adjust to our game and not let ourselves adjust to theirs."

  ". . . not let ourselves adjust to theirs," Telisa mumbled along with him, under her breath. After a few more minutes of postgame dissection, we got up and put on our sweatsuits. I rubbed and stretched my cramp-prone calves. Clyde, who went home every day with someone on our team, was given to Celine for the night. We boarded the bus, and Telisa moved around and sat next to different people, joking with them or congratulating them or attempting to loosen them up.

  "Get your face out your shoes, girl," she said to Bonita, the sophomore, who hadn't played much that day. "We won."

  Q snorted. "If I had your face," she said, "I'd just keep it in my shoes."

  "Yeah?" Telisa said. "Well your face is so ugly that when you was born, they had to put tinted windows on your incubator."

  Q grinned. "Yeah? Well you so stupid that when you passed Taco Bell, you thought it was the Mexican phone company."

  Telisa thrust her chin out. "Yeah? Well you so stupid that you had to call information to get the number for 911."

  They high-fived each other while the rest of us laughed. Then Telisa came back and sat next to me. "We own motherfuckin league this year, girl," she said. "We own it."

  Celine nodded. "I bet we go undefeated."

  "Nancy's gonna be MVP of the league," Pam said.

  Telisa nodded. "Shit. Nancy's gonna be MVP of the universe."

  And it went on like this, people throwing out cheerful insults and rash predictions, for th
e rest of our drive back to school. I did not want the ride to end. I was glad our season had finally begun—this was the happiest time of the year for me, the time I felt most like my life had a meaning—but there was some loss in the feeling too. This had been the first game of my final year of high school, the beginning of the end.

  CHAPTER 8

  After the bus dropped us off at school, Telisa gave me a ride home. I walked up the driveway, still hearing my friend's car as it rattled up the street, and finally wondered how Raina's game had gone. Her team had played at home that day, so she should have been back already, which she was—I found her stretched out on the living room floor in a clean white T-shirt and the light USC sweatpants she always slept in. The television was on to some movie from the seventies; all the women wore flowery bell-bottoms and all the men had huge, triangular collars.

  "Hey," Raina said, sitting up. "How'd y'all do?"

  "We killed 'em," I said, grinning. "It was ugly. My coach took me out about three minutes into the fourth quarter."

  "That's exactly how our game went," said Raina, pressing the mute button on the remote. "I didn't play at all in the fourth."

  I set my backpack on the floor and petted the dog. Then I walked over and sat down on the love seat, my feet resting just inches from Raina's leg. "But Fairfax is supposed to be good this year, aren't they?"

  "Maybe," she said, shrugging. "But not today."

  "Oooh," I said, "I'm scared of you."

  "Naw, it ain't like that," she said. "I mean, we played well and everything, but they were really off. Terry Davis usually gets like twenty or something, but she couldn't score shit today." She scratched her leg. "So what did you score, Miss Thang?"

  I kept my eyes on the dog and said, "Twenty-three," trying not to look too pleased about what I knew was an impressive total for a little more than three quarters of work.

  "All right, " said Raina, smiling, and I had to hold back a grin.

  "Yeah, well, you know," I said. "The other team played bad defense. It was mostly just layups and shit."

  "Still," Raina said, "that's great."

  "Thanks," I said, and I finally looked at her now. "Well, what about you? What you hit for today?"

  "Oh," Raina said, as if she were bored with the topic, "twenty-five."

  I felt something turn over in my stomach. Raina had played fewer minutes than me, but had still managed to score more points. On top of that, she'd sounded glad about my point production, and I wondered, now, if this was because it had been less than hers.

  "Great," I said, and my voice sounded like it had been forced through a meat grinder.

  Raina seemed not to notice. She leaned over and hit me on the foot. "Hey, you wanna order a pizza or something? I'm hungry. The parents went to the store, but by the time they come back and cook dinner, I'm probably gonna die of starvation."

  "Uh, actually, no," I said, standing. "Sorry. I ain't that hungry, so I guess I can wait." This was true, but even if it hadn't been, I would have done anything, at that moment, to get out of the room.

  She stuck her bottom lip out, trying to look cute, which suddenly, violently, annoyed me. "All right," she said. "But if you find me dead down here, I'm gonna hold you responsible."

  I couldn't answer her, and turned away before she saw the look on my face. I picked up my bag, trudged up the stairs, and stripped off my dirty uniform. In the shower, my annoyance got washed away and I saw what lay beneath it—frustration. I had played a good game, done just about as well as anyone could in that space of time—but Raina, somehow, had done better. Worse, she'd seemed so casual about the whole thing—casually pleased to learn of my statistics, then nonchalant about disclosing her own. Maybe she just expected to outscore me—but if so I resented that expectation, and I resented what I thought was her pleasure at living up to it. I didn't know how I was going to make it through dinner that night. Fortunately, though, Raina really couldn't wait until the parents got home, and she went out, I learned later, with Stacy, to a pizza place in Torrance. By the time she got home, I was already in bed, reading; she didn't bother me, and went straight to her room.

  The next morning, at breakfast, the parents asked about her game; they'd heard about mine over dinner. Raina recounted it dutifully, underplaying her own achievements. My father refilled her coffee mug as she finished talking.

  "One of the refs at your game," he said, "Tom Ikeda, is a buddy of mine from high school. He called yesterday, after you won. He told me that at one point, when you were tied up, you bounced the ball off the other ref, and then grabbed it and went in for the basket."

  "I didn't do it on purpose," said Raina, sheepishly. "I was trying to pass it to Keisha, but he got in the way."

  "Yeah, right," my father said. "I heard it was like the Globetrotters. I heard you ran a perfect give-and-go off the poor guy's hip, that the defense all went in the wrong direction, and that the crowd was just rolling in the aisles." He sounded pleased beyond end, and I wanted to throttle him. It was one thing for Raina's friends to adore her, or even Claudia's, but this was too much. Everyone was so impressed with Raina, so amused by her, and I just didn't want to hear it anymore. Sure, she was a great player, but she was no greater than anyone else, and I was suddenly tired of people finding her so wonderful. Even the play that my father described seemed infuriatingly silly. I believed that it was a mistake; that she had hit the ref by accident and had set herself up by chance for an easy basket. She had been the recipient of some good luck—I saw no reason to be impressed by this, and was annoyed that my father admired her.

  I was annoyed, that day, by a lot of things. Suddenly I found it unbearable that Raina stayed in the bathroom for so long, primping for school, especially since, by the time she was done, her hair was all over the sink. She played her music too loud—New Edition, for God's sake—and sang along with it, off-key. She'd left a pair of shoes in the hallway, where I tripped over them on my way downstairs, and once I got to the living room, I found a dirty plate she had left there the day before. I took this into the kitchen, fuming, and then went off to school. There, my mood lifted a bit—I was glad to see my friends, and people kept congratulating us for our win. We had a good practice that afternoon, still high from our first game, and got excited about game two, which would be the next day.

  When I got home, the mail was overflowing from the mailbox. I gathered it all in, and then went into the house, where I heard Raina on the phone in the kitchen. Q was expecting me to call with our assignment for Courts and Law—she'd ditched, and spent the period listening to music in some boy's car—but it didn't sound like Raina's conversation would be ending anytime soon. Her voice was low and tender, and when I peeked in at her, I saw her head bent sideways, the phone on her shoulder, the bottom of it cradled in her raised right hand. She often talked to Toni right after she got home from school, and Toni usually called again later, in the evening. Between Toni, her friends, and all the coaches who called, it seemed like Raina was always on the phone. I continued on into the living room, getting annoyed with her all over again. Why the hell didn't she just get her own line? The big pile of mail was starting to fall out of my arms, like a cat who doesn't want to be held, and I reached the coffee table just in time to dump it. Most of it was recruiting mail for Raina and me—several 9x12 envelopes, three medium-sized envelopes that held media guides, and a handful's worth of letters. I divided the recruiting mail into two separate piles. Raina's pile was considerably bigger. This was not a constant thing—my pile could be bigger than hers on any given day, and in the end, our mail probably evened out—but it seemed particularly painful that day that she had more mail than me.

  To my surprise, Raina got off the phone quickly, so I put in my call to Q. When I went back out to the living room, Raina was sitting on the couch where I had just been, and looking through her mail. We said hi to each other. She'd just finished a glass of milk—the glass was on the coffee table—and I wondered if I'd have to clean up after her again. I
sat down on the love seat and ripped open one of the 9x12 envelopes, which was from UConn.

  "That's a press release about their tournament," Raina informed me. "I just got the same thing yesterday."

  I put the envelope back down without removing the contents, and picked up another.

  "And that's the Wyoming media guide," said Raina. "Kinda weird that they send it out so late in the year, don't you think? I mean, the rest of 'em came in the fall."

  I closed my eyes for a moment and didn't say anything.

  "Hey, don't y'all have another game tomorrow?" she asked, as I picked up the next envelope.

  "Yeah," I said. "Against Dorsey."

  "We play tomorrow too," said Raina cheerfully. Some of the opened letters she put back on the coffee table, and some she tossed to the floor, to throw away. "We're playin Compton, at their place, so we probably gonna get killed."

  I nodded. "They're tough." My team had played twice at Compton, and had lost both times. The only reasons I found this bearable were that Compton was always ranked higher than us, and that I'd outscored my friend Natalie in each of the games.

  "The place is probably gonna be crawlin with scouts too," Raina said. "Shit. Natalie Green signed early with Ohio State, right? But Penny Sayers hasn't signed yet, and I don't know where she's gonna go."

  "You're both gonna have a hard time," I said, and they would. Penny Sayers was another All-State guard, and she and Raina would almost certainly be guarding each other. This matchup could result in brilliance on both of their parts, but it could also mean they'd shut each other down.

  "Yeah, I know," said Raina. "But it'll be fun." She smiled. "Last year when we played Compton, the assistant coach from Texas—you know, that real skinny guy with the silver hair?—he fell asleep in the middle of the game. He'd already come to see me play a couple times, so all my teammates knew who he was. Anyway, it's the start of the fourth quarter. We look over at the Texas guy, and he's just out—he's leaning sideways, and snoring real loud. So Stacy goes right up to him—he's sittin in the front row—and yells, 'Wake up, man! Is this siesta time in Texas?'" Raina chuckled to herself. "That poor coach jumped about halfway up the bleachers, and even the refs cracked up. Shit, it's a good thing I don't wanna go to Texas." She paused. "But you know, that guy always looks sleepy at games. Have you noticed?"