by Ni-Ni Simone
“I don’t care what you tell Cousin Shake!”
“Cousin Shake?” He looked at me like I was crazy. “I’m not gon’ tell Cousin Shake, I’ma tell the real Big Homie, Mommy!”
And before I could threaten his life he raced out of the room and down the stairs and that’s when my thoughts suddenly switched from cutting Malik’s time on Earth short to wondering when the heck did he start calling Ms. Grier “Mommy”. . . .
17
“Deep breath in. Deep breath out. And focus,” Ny’eem said, as we stood in the school’s parking lot. We’d been kicking it straight and strong for a week and a half. The best week and a half of my life. And not just with Ny’eem, with everything.
Home.
School.
Friends.
True story, this new side of sixteen was the bomb. And I wasn’t sure the exact day, time, or hour things had changed or when I’d dropped my hesitation. I just knew that my life felt different. My only worry now was that things really were what they seemed and I wasn’t slippin’.
“Just chill and claim your zone,” Ny’eem continued on with his pep speech. “Go in there and kill ’em! Don’t be nervous at all. ’Cause you got this, Pretty Girl. It’s our world—”
“Okay, Mr. Hype-man, can you stop?”
“Why?” he said, taken aback. “I’m just getting warmed up. I didn’t practice basketball with you all week for nothing. We ’bout to take it all the way, baby! Go hard or sit down. And we don’t sit down.” He made an invisible three-point play. “’Cause we’re too busy flying through the air. Swish . . . And the crowd goes wild!” he said excited. “Can’t you just see it?”
“Yeah, umm hmm,” I said, with as much sincerity as I could.
“Yo, what’s that about?” Ny’eem leaned against the trunk of his car. “Talk to me.”
I walked up close to Ny’eem and he placed his hands on my hips. I tilted my forehead into his hard chest and he placed his chin in the center of my head.
I wished I could share his excitement. But I was still a little iffy. Scratch that, I was hella iffy. And yeah, this was something that I wanted to do. And yeah, for the last week tryouts had been on my mind like crazy. But still, that didn’t stop me from being nervous. “I’m just a little—” I said.
“Nervous,” he said, finishing my sentence.
I shrugged. “Yeah.”
“Look.” Ny’eem kissed me in the center of my head. “You gon’ have to man-up and dead the nerves.”
“What?” I held my head up. I couldn’t believe he said that.
“Real talk,” he continued on. “I can’t baby you right now and talk to you like Ny’eem the boyfriend. I have to kick it to you like Ny’eem the player. And I know that if you don’t murder those nerves and start feelin’ like you’re the best player out there, you won’t even get close to making the cut.”
“Why would you say that? Dang, can I get some sympathy here?”
“Nah, sympathy is for the stands, not the court. So check it, you gon’ have to shake the nerves so that you can go in there and prove yourself. Trust, even though those chicks will turn out to be your teammates, and they might come around and be nice eventually, they will be gunnin’ for you initially. Especially the one who thinks you’re going in there to jock her spot.”
“I’m not trying to jock anybody’s spot. I just wanna be a part of the team.”
“Then pick your chest up and let’s get it.”
“You really think it’s that simple?”
“It’s gon’ have to be.”
Silence. Like what was I supposed to say? And maybe he was right, because the only thing being nervous did for me was make me sweat. And I hated to sweat unnecessarily.
I looked at my purple G-Shock sports watch. “Well, I guess I start gettin’ it by being on time.” I gave him a kiss good-bye and as I turned to walk away Ny’eem said, “Hol’ up, ma. I have something for you. I almost forgot.”
I glanced at my watch again; I had fifteen minutes to be on the court.
“It’ll only take a minute,” Ny’eem assured me.
“Okay, what is it?”
Ny’eem smiled as he opened his trunk and pulled out a Foot Locker bag. He handed it to me. “Thought you might like these.”
I did all I could to control the squeal I felt bursting inside of me. But I couldn’t, I had to let it out. So I squealed as I pulled a sneaker box from the bag, opened the box, and kaboom! There was a pair of black and white Nike Hyperdunks!
POW!
It was official, I was straight fly now. These kicks were just what I needed to send my confidence into overdrive. I quickly changed my sneakers and said, “Thank you, poo.” I hugged him tightly.
“Thank me by making the team.” He gave me a fist bump and I hurried across the lot.
Showtime . . . I thought as I approached the double doors that led to the gym. I took a deep breath as I stepped in. The buzzing sound of anxious players and the screeching sounds of their rubber soles filled my ears.
I spotted Pop immediately. She was suited up in orange basketball shorts, a white tank top, and black Nikes. We were almost dressed alike except my shorts were black and her Nikes were Jordans. I wondered what Pop would think once she saw me, especially since I didn’t tell her that I’d be here. I walked carefully toward her. Her back was to me, her hands were on her hips, and her neck was doing what it did best—snaking from left to right. “This season is ’bout to be fiyah!”
“Yup.” I bounced my way in front of her. “Especially since I’m here!”
“GEM!” she screamed, and jumped up and down, hugging me. “O.M.G.! I’m sooooo happy you’re here! Girl, it’s on fa’sho! Kamani, Janay, she came! Told y’all she wouldn’t be able to resist staying away ’cause at the end of the day she’s a what? A ball player.” Pop twirled around and made an invisible layup. “Bam!”
After her celebration dance Pop introduced me to a few teammates as well as some of the other girls who were trying out. “The Rich Girlz ’bout to make it happen, boop!” Pop said excited.
For some reason Pop’s comment about the Rich Girlz made me look directly in Kamani’s face, who of all people had the nerve to have on the same sneakers as me. It took everything in me—or out of me, depending on how you looked at it—not to roll my eyes. “Nice sneakers, Kamani.”
“Yeah.” She gave me a tight smile. “My boo gave ’em to me. How you get yours? Donation?”
A few of the girls who stood around snickered, which made me really want to cuss Kamani out, but since I wasn’t on the team and hadn’t even officially tried out, I figured it was best not to bring the drama. So I decided to let Kamani’s comment go. This time.
The coach, who could’ve easily passed for Lisa Leslie, walked over to me and said, “I’m Coach Rays and you are?” She tapped her pen on her pad as she waited for me to answer.
“Gem. Gem Scott.”
She scribbled my name down and nodded. “All right. Well next time, be on time,” she said.
“I thought tryouts started at four o’clock. It’s four o’clock now.” I pointed to the clock.
“Listen, if you wanna be on this team then you’ll learn quickly that being on time means being here early.”
I hoped this wasn’t a bad sign. I tried to shake the thought. “My fault,” I said. “Now I know.”
She nodded again, sized me up, and looked over at Pop. “Is this the young lady you were telling me about, Cameron?”
“Yop,” Pop said proudly.
Coach shot Pop a loaded eye and Pop quickly said, “I meant yes, Coach. This is Gem.”
“What position are you aiming for, Gem?” Coach asked.
“Point guard.”
“Well, best of luck,” the coach said as she walked away and over to the assistant coach.
“She hates me,” I said to Pop, shaking my head. “It took her two point five seconds to size me up and hate me.”
“She doesn’t hate you,” Pop sa
id. “She hates everybody. So don’t worry about it. Just know that we ’bout to turn the heat up, baby!”
“Slow down, Pop,” Kamani said. “Because first Gem needs to make the team.”
Oule, I can’t stand this chick. “I will,” I said with confidence.
“Maybe,” Kamani said. “But just so you know, the point guard position is sewed up. But there just might be a spot on the sidelines where you can be my cheerleader.”
I snickered, mostly because if I didn’t chop this chick up to being a joke I would steal on her. But don’t get it twisted, although I laughed I had to say something because she’d already said something slick and got away with it. I couldn’t let her get that off again. “Yeah, I know the point guard position is sewed up, ’cause I’m ’bout to take it.”
“Umph,” came from a few of the girls standing around.
“Girl, please,” Kamani rolled her eyes at me. “You gon’ be so far down on the bench that you gon’ need a walkie-talkie to even say hello to Coach.”
“Oule . . .” Rang like a musical note from a few of the girls who’d been listening. And just as I went to put everybody in their places Coach blew her whistle and yelled, “Everybody on the line! It’s time for suicides!”
18
I think I died every day after school.
Seriously.
Either that or Coach turned each of us into freaks for a week. She made us run from the front of the court to the back, from left to right, race to the center, jump twice, make a layup, and then start the death sprints all over again.
Can you say mad crazy?
Hellafied nutz.
I wasn’t trying to be a track star. I just wanted to dribble a little bit, take it to the hoop, get the crowd hyped over a few unexpected three pointers, and then slam, bam, be a basketball star and go home—alive. Not murdered.
But obviously Coach Rays had other plans.
All I knew is that the list of who made the cut was to be posted on the gym’s bulletin board in about—I looked at my watch—ten minutes and if I didn’t make the team it was gon’ be a problem. And no, I wasn’t exactly sure how I was gon’ bring it—being that Coach was 6’ 3” and pretty much made two of me. All I knew is that somehow I was gon’ lay it down.
Trust.
“My stomach has been in knots all day,” Pop leaned over and whispered. “I need to know if you made the team.”
Before I said anything I looked up at my English teacher, who on most days thought he was Shakespeare—and he was too busy putting on a fake British accent and reciting his favorite lines from Romeo and Juliet to pay us any attention. Needless to say the coast was clear for me to say, “My stomach has been in knots, too, Pop. That’s all I keep thinking about. ’Cause fa’real, fa’real, I can’t do another day of these tryouts—”
“Oh my God, Coach is going extra hard. Ever since one of the seniors got recruited last year and went straight to the WNBA, Coach has lost her mind.”
“So she is crazy? I knew it.”
“Crazy ain’t the word. That’s why, when my uncle brought her home last year and said she was his new boo, I flatlined.”
“Whaaaat?!” I said a little too loud, which caused Mr. Simmons to look my way and shoot me the evil eye. He only shot me daggers for a few seconds though and then he returned to his British accent. “Pop,” I whispered. “Coach Rays is your uncle’s boo?”
“Yes, girl.” Pop shook her head. “Family reunions will never be the same,” she sniffed.
“I think we need a moment of silence for that one.”
“Yeah,” she sniffed again. “Let’s bow our heads. ’Cause I really need to mourn this. And I don’t even know how they hooked up, my uncle is only five-foot-six.”
“What? That’s like Kevin Hart dating Precious.” I shook my head. “That’s just wrong.”
“Can you imagine what their kids will look like?” Pop said, disgusted.
“Yeah, we need an emergency moment of silence.” We held our heads down for a second and I did my best to erase the visual of Coach Rays and her too-short boo.
Pop took a deep breath and I took that as a signal our moment of silence had ended.
“Any chance Coach is going to hang up the list early?” I whispered to Pop.
“Girl, please. She does everything by the book.”
I looked at my watch and only five minutes had gone by. I swear time was dragging. “I wish this class would end already,” I huffed.
“Me too,” Pop agreed.
“I just want to know so bad if I made the team,” I said. “But, for-real-for-real I’m glad tryouts are done because all I’ve been able to do this week when I got home was finish my homework and go to sleep.”
“Word,” Pop agreed.
“I haven’t even had a chance to say more than hello and good-bye to my boo.”
“Screetch!” Pop stood up, snapped her fingers, and said loud as ever, “Hold up, wait a minute—”
“Pop,” I whispered, hoping to get her to calm down before the teacher turned around. “Would you sit down, you’re too loud.”
I’m thinking that the words “my boo” must’ve put Pop in a trance because instead of calming down she got louder. “Hold up. Wait. A. Minute. Cameron ‘Popcorn’ Hunter is ’bout to put some push up in it!” She dropped to the floor and snaked back up. “Now wassup? When did you get a boo? And bigger than that when did you start keeping secrets from me?”
“That’s a very good question, Ms. Hunter.” Mr. Simmons cut his fake British accent short and returned to his American one. “Since you are obviously more invested in Ms. Scott’s secrets than you are in what you’ll be tested on, then why don’t you tell us all about Ms. Scott’s boo.”
All I could do was shake my head.
“Okay, okay.” Pop smacked her lips and said, “See, what had happened was I was comparing her to Shakespeare’s Janette—”
“It’s Juliet,” I whispered.
“Yeah, Juliet and Raheem—”
“Romeo.”
“Yeah him and—”
Bringgggggg.
“Ups there’s the bell,” Pop said and we hurriedly tossed our books in our backpacks, shot Mr. Simmons a two-finger peace sign, and flew out the door. “Gotta go!”
“Whew, that was close,” Pop giggled as we ran down the stairs and toward the gym. “But right after we find out if we have to run up on Coach or not we’ll be getting back to your mysterious boo.”
“Okay.” I blushed as Pop and I hurried down the hall. There was a massive crowd standing around the glass-encased bulletin board. There were so many kids hovered around that for a moment it felt like teen night at the club, instead of an afternoon of “who made the cut.” A few people bum rushed their way to the front of the crowd and others stood back and waited.
Me and Pop didn’t have the patience to wait so we pushed our way to the front and shot looks that clearly dared anyone to say anything out of the way to us.
Sweat gathered on my forehead and ran down my temples. The list had to be typed in the tiniest font I’d ever seen, ’cause dang, I couldn’t find my name anywhere. I tapped my index finger alongside of every name on the list and nothing. My name was nowhere. As a matter of fact I didn’t recognize any of these names. My heart sank and I looked at Pop. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. “I know my daddy said that violence was never acceptable,” Pop sniffed. “But we gon’ have to jump that heifer now and repent later. Only thing is we might have to beat my uncle down, too.”
“It’s cool, Pop. It’s no need to cause family drama ’cause I didn’t make the team.”
I bit the corner of my lip. I was doing all I could to fight back tears.
Pop draped her arm over my shoulders and said, “I don’t care what you say, we three o’clockin’ that trick.”
“Excuse me, excuse me.” Coach Rays cut through the crowd.
“You wanna jump her now?” Pop whispered.
I didn’t answer, because a
lthough I knew it was wrong I was seriously thinking about laying Coach Rays down.
Coach Rays opened the bulletin board’s glass case and pinned another typed list in the center, next to the one that was already there.
“Coach,” Pop said. “You’re posting two different lists of who made the cut? Is that something new?”
Coach looked at Pop, and I swear I don’t think this woman ever blinked. “Cameron, the list I just posted is the basketball list. The other list,” Coach pointed toward the bulletin board, “is for field hockey. I sure hope you two play better than you read,” she said as she walked away.
Can you say duh?
Immediately my eyes scanned the basketball list and there it was—my name practically in lights! “Gem Scott—Point Guard.” Pop must’ve spotted it at the same time, because she shouted and we hugged tightly.
Hands down, along with the day I became Mrs. Ny’eem, this was the best day of my life!
Pop and I walked into the crowded and chatter-filled cafeteria like we owned the spot. Four-inch stilettos that stepped heel to toe and hips that swayed from one end of the clock to the other. No one would ever know that my body was sore as heck from weeklong tryouts—and besides, I was on a diva’s high and divas always rolled in stride.
We grabbed two lunch trays of turkey sandwiches, curly fries, and blond brownies. Afterward, we took a seat at our daily lunch table, next to the vending machines and the water fountain.
Not even two seconds after we sat down and I peeled the crust off of my sandwich did Pop start going in, “You gon’ have to put the sandwich on pause, because I have to know now, who’s the boo? And by the way, should we review the bestie rules? That I am to know everything. Let me rewind that er’thang. Like don’t leave me out on nothing. If you sneeze I need to know what triggered it. Feel me? I’ma give you a Paris Hilton pass on that mishap, but the next time you will receive twenty-four hour bestie probation,” Pop said, all in one breath. “Okay.”
“Okay,” I said, amazed that she didn’t pause, not once. “My fault.”
“Umm hmm.” She shoved a curly fry into her mouth. “Now, let’s start with his name, his crew, his age, how tall, his race, religion, j-o-b, what grade he’s in. Where does he rate on the cuteness scale, and did he tell you he loved you yet?”
