by Randy Ribay
That was how it used to be, though. Now I’m always making this walk alone, putting my moves on ghost defenders. Wondering if I made a mistake.
After a few blocks, I reach the park. It’s behind the community center on the other side of the soccer and baseball fields, far enough away from any houses that I don’t feel bad dribbling once my feet hit the blacktop.
There’s an empty forty at center court. At least whoever left it didn’t bust it and leave the blacktop littered with shards of glass like they sometimes do. I go over and pick up the bottle with my right while dribbling with my left. Toss it into a trash can and then turn back to the hoops.
It’s not as nice as St. Sebastian’s gym, but this is my home court. This is where I started really playing ball with Nasir once we graduated from the low-hanging crate nailed to a telephone pole on our block. I know every crack and dip like the back of my hand. I know if the shot’s going to drop by the sound of the clang when it hits the steel rim. I know the lights click off at ten but you can still see enough to keep shooting if the moon is bright.
This is where I’ve lost and won a thousand games. Where I drained that half-court shot as a sixth-grader to beat the high school kids. Where I broke my nose catching an elbow on a drive and didn’t get the foul shots. Where I dunked for the first time and nobody was around to see—except for Nasir.
This is my home court. Our home court.
I toss up a rainbow, which sails through the netless hoop.
But I’m not here for three-pointers. I’m here for fadeaway, midrange jumpers—the shot I blew three times during tonight’s game. If I’m going to lead St. Sebastian’s to another state title, I can’t be missing that action every time.
After grabbing the rebound, I reset at the top of the key. Lower my dribble and visualize my man crouching low, hands up like they teach in basketball camp. I start counting down from ten. At five, I fake right and then cross over to the left. At four, I turn and back the dude down, and at three, we’re a few feet inside the arc. At two, I pivot and leap. At one, I release the shot at the peak of my vertical. At zero, I fall backwards . . .
The shot falls short and glances off the front of the rim.
I chase it down, return to the top of the key, and restart. Dribble, cross over, back down, pivot, fade away, and release. Another brick. Another rebound.
I keep repeating the motions. Each dribble echoes across the night. The soles of my sneaks scrape over the concrete with each motion. The wind picks up, frigid and stinging. My fingers and toes start to feel numb again, begging me to quit, to save it for practice tomorrow.
But I don’t.
I dribble, cross over, back down, pivot, fade away, release.
Rebound.
Reset.
4
Nasir
I finish Of Mice and Men, and I’m sitting there with my legs up on my bed, turning it over in my mind, when my phone starts buzzing. I try to ignore it since I’m still lost in the story, but I don’t know if there’s anything more irritating than that thing buzzing over and over again. For some reason, instead of silencing it, I take a deep breath, set down the book, and pick up my phone from the nightstand to find several texts from Wallace.
The first five or six messages are him carrying on about how the Sixers are playing like ass tonight. I don’t watch basketball too often, but even I know that’s nothing new. Then there’s a couple asking about if I did the chemistry homework and if I’d send him a pic so he can copy it. Then there’s a picture of him flashing me the middle finger. A blurry shot of a dark, hairy body part that I don’t even want to try to identify. And then a few messages about how bored he is and if I want to go over to some girl’s apartment with him.
It’s pretty late, and I don’t have the energy to figure out how to respond to all the disparate threads of conversation he’s laying down. So I set my phone back on my nightstand.
But a second later, it buzzes with another insightful message from Wallace.
Where u at? Stp touching yrself.
I sigh. My cousin, the next Steinbeck. Technically, he’s like a second or third cousin. I don’t really know how that terminology works past a certain point. He’s the son of one of my dad’s cousins, so whatever that makes us.
Yo we got 2 talk, Wallace’s next message says. Got a prob.
Just one? I finally text back, ignoring his scattershot slew of previous messages. Good thing he’s got the memory of a goldfish.
There’s nothing from Wallace for a minute and then he shoots back, Shut up miget for real.
Sorry, I text, you have a problem. This is a special occasion. What’s up?
I read his next message, and my breath catches: Me and g gettin evicted.
G’s his grandma. Now I feel like a dick for joking a second ago. You serious?
Yeah letter says we got till the end of next month.
I’m feeling so bad for Wallace that I don’t even know how to reply. He’s the kind of kid who’s had to deal with more than anyone should have to deal with. Dad’s in prison. Mom’s a drug addict lost in the wind. He was mostly brought up by his grandma. She’s a nice enough lady and does what she can, but she was already old when she first took him in years ago. You wish the world would throw him a break. Instead it keeps on trying to break him.
Why? I ask.
They raised the rent awhile back, he texts. We fell behind.
Why? I ask again.
Why you think? $$$!
Wallace and his grandma live in downtown Whitman right between the university and the main hospital. Seems like it would be a great place to live, what with the view of the Philly skyline right on the other side of the Delaware, but prices keep going up along with the new dorms or parking structures or whatever.
By how much? I text.
To much. lol.
Maybe my parents can help you out, I reply.
Nah i got this.
I know he doesn’t. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have texted me about it in the first place. Still, I feel like I should offer something, so I message back, I’m sure it’d be cool if you two stayed here if worse comes to worst.
After my phone remains quiet for a couple minutes, I set it down and sit on the edge of the bed contemplating Wallace’s situation. Would my parents be willing to let them stay with us if they couldn’t come up with the rent or find another place to live? My dad grew up right here in the city, and even though his family always had enough to eat, he knows what it can be like for some. And from all the stories I’ve heard, my mom was living real poor in the Philippines before she met my dad while he was stationed there with the air force. She still sends money back to aunts and uncles I’ve never met.
I remember when I was, like, eight or nine, I walked into the kitchen to find her and my dad talking about how much to send that month. One of her nephews was sick, so they were trying to figure out how much extra they could afford to give.
“Why do we give them anything?” I remember asking, angry that earlier that day they had refused to buy me the newest Halo game. “It’s our money.”
I remember she had turned to me. Sad, like I was a disappointment. She said, “Matibay ang walis, palibhasa’y magkabigkis.” Then she translated it for me, since I can’t speak Tagalog: “A broom is sturdy because its strands are tightly bound.” Wouldn’t be the last time I heard that.
The only reason I think they might say no to the whole Wallace thing is on account of the fact they don’t like Wallace. Think he’s a bad influence on me, and all that. True, my grades have slipped since we started hanging again, but I’m still pulling A’s and B’s. Mostly. But given Wallace and his grandma’s situation, maybe they’d understand.
I go ahead and send Wallace a pic of my chem homework, then I start hearing this steady thumping outside. It’s a familiar beat—the dribbling of a ball against concrete. Even before I peek out the window, I know who I’m going to see.
Just as I thought—it’s Bunny.
> Probably back from the courts. I mean, I know he’s got playoffs starting in a few days, but as if he needed more practice. As if he didn’t drop thirty-something points on us on last night without breaking a sweat.
I watch him make his lonely way down the block. Past the sleepy row homes, their doors and windows shut like teeth clenched against the night. Past the first empty lot where people dump their trash. Past the second empty lot, which is used as a community garden in the summer but is a patch of frozen dirt right now. Past my door.
And I know he’ll be up in a few hours making this same walk in the opposite direction. On his way to his bus or train or whatever carries him off to fancy-ass St. Sebastian’s. Off to his shiny new friends.
Speaking of loose strands.
I think I see him glance toward my window, but I’m not sure because his hood’s up so his face is lost in shadow. Either way, I let the curtain fall back and drop my head onto my pillow. I try to fall asleep, but an unsettled feeling has seeped into my bones, keeping me wide awake. Maybe it’s because I’ve been thinking about Bunny, or maybe it’s because I’m racking my brain trying to figure out how to help Wallace avoid his impending eviction, or maybe it’s because of the ending of that book, which was, like, the saddest goddamn thing in the world.
5
Bunny
I scan the dining hall, tray in hand, for a place to sit. Took me a few weeks to figure out that even though the kids here at St. S look different from the ones at Whitman, they pretty much split themselves up in the same ways. The popular crew, the nerds, the athletes, the theater kids, and so on. It really is like a cliché from a teen movie, but I guess there’s a reason something becomes a cliché.
Same as most days, I sit with Drew, our team’s center, and Eric, our point guard. They’re talking about this monster dunk Drew had against Whitman. I don’t say anything, because even though it was a win, it didn’t feel like one to me. Besides, it’s Tuesday. We’ve got sectional quarterfinals coming up on Friday and should be thinking ahead to that, not looking back.
Noticing my silence, Drew runs a hand through his shaggy brown hair. “You feeling okay, Bunny?”
But before I can answer, Eric’s pale blue eyes shift to the hamburger on my plate. “That’s not going to help.” He pokes a finger into the top bun. “Ugh. Looks like a ratburger.”
I know Eric’s playing, so I shrug it off. The girls giggle. At the other end of the table, I notice Clay, our second-string power forward, smirk. Dude’s been salty all season, since it was his starting spot I took. Whatever. I take a bite. You ask me, it’s decent. At Whitman they do things like put liquid cheese, greasy ground beef, and stringy lettuce on top of some Fritos and call it a “taco salad.” So, yeah, I go ahead and take a second bite of my hamburger, even though Eric poked his finger through the middle.
“Let’s go get some real food,” Eric says, standing up along with Drew. A couple of the girls rise to follow them, a bubbly blonde named Brooke and a brunette with a lot of freckles named Stacy who’s always asking questions in my history class.
“Bunny, you coming?” Drew asks, gesturing for me to follow.
“Nah, I’m cool with my ratburger,” I say, because my wallet’s empty. One of the assistant coaches might hook me up if I asked, but I’m not trying to get in trouble for a few bucks. There’s this rule that you can’t accept money or anything to be on the team—you lose your amateur status and can’t play in the NCAA. It’s what happened to LeBron when he accepted some expensive jerseys from some store in a mall, except he was skipping straight to the NBA, so it didn’t matter to him. But I want that college degree, and I want to make sure my parents don’t have to pay a dime for it. If that means I’m hungry every now and then, so be it.
Brooke starts tugging me by the wrist. “Please?” she says like she’s purring. Stacy joins her.
I look at my burger. Look at Brooke. I notice everyone else around the table watching. “All right,” I say, giving in. But it’s not like that. I got a girl. Mostly I want everyone to stop looking at me.
I grab my burger and toss everything else. I eat it as the five of us walk right outside, because St. Sebastian’s is an open campus and students can leave in the middle of the day. Not that the kids at Whitman don’t do the same, but here it’s allowed.
The weather’s warmed up pretty nice, and as we make our way through the parking lot, I hang back and let the others lead the way past the rows of student cars gleaming in the sunlight. I’m thinking about how there’s no student parking lot at Whitman, which gets me wondering if I’ll ever be able to stop comparing everything here to how it is back home. If I’ll ever stop feeling like someone’s going to call me down to the office to say they made a mistake and I really don’t belong here.
Eric’s black SUV—which he calls the Ballermobile—chirps as he unlocks it with his keychain remote. The vanity plate reads 1BALLR. I laugh a little, remembering how one time Drew cracked on Eric, saying that it probably made people think he was a testicular cancer survivor.
Drew takes shotgun, because even though I’m tall, he’s a giant. Closer to seven feet than six. A little slow, but overall a decent center. Could probably play D-II ball somewhere, but he’s a senior and already committed to going to school out in the Midwest. He won’t be on their team, but I guess that’s where his boyfriend’s going, so that’s where he wants to go.
I climb in the back behind Eric because he’s short, so my legs can have at least some space. The car smells like leather until Brooke and Stacy slide in, filling the air with that clean and sweet girl smell.
Before starting the engine, Eric pulls out a joint. I’m not even sure where it comes from. It’s like a magic trick. POOF: Weed!
“Want some?” he asks, looking at me first for some reason, even though I’ve never smoked with him. I decided a long time ago that if I wanted to make it, then I couldn’t be putting junk in my body.
“Nah, I’m cool,” I say.
Eric shrugs, offers it to Drew, who takes a deep hit, and then passes it behind his head to Stacy.
The dank, sour smell fills the car. I slide down my window expecting a teacher or the dean to start chasing us like the Terminator. My anxiety only fades a little as we pull away from the school.
My stomach rumbles. “So where we going?”
Brooke shakes her head when Stacy tries to hand her the joint, so she passes it back to Eric. “Burritos,” he says.
Drew nods like Eric laid down some deep truth. “Nice.”
Eric turns on the stereo and rock music blasts from the speakers. But then he hits a button and old-school hip-hop comes on. “Mo’ Money” by Biggie. Eric’s got a nice system, so the bass thumps for real, not all rattling the car like it does in most rides.
Eric and the girls start rapping along, probably feeling real gangster, rolling with a blunt and a Black guy. Drew looks out the window and bobs his head with the beat. And I get this feeling that I get a lot, like I’m here but I’m not. Like I’m watching all of this from outer space or something.
We pull up to the burrito place a few minutes later. Stacy takes one more hit and then passes the joint back to Eric. He licks his fingers, snuffs it out, and tucks it away in the center console. We step out of his car and join the line, which stretches out the door.
“I’m starving,” Eric says, rubbing his belly as he checks out some girls ahead of us in line. They look young, but they’re all dressed up like they’re on lunch break from some corporate job. “What are you guys getting?”
“Steak and potato,” Drew says, without thinking about it.
“Cheese quesadilla!” says Stacy, with more excitement than seems necessary.
Brooke brushes a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Oh, I’m not hungry.”
“What about you, B?” Eric says. I don’t like that he calls me B, since we don’t know each other like that. But I let it go. Chalk it up to his high.
I shrug. “I’m good.”
Eric peels his eyes away from the girls to look at me. “Really?”
“Real rap,” I say. “I had that burger.”
He laughs, and I realize my mistake too late. I usually try to keep my talk kind of white around these guys, but sometimes words slip out.
“Real rap,” Eric echoes, testing it out. “I like that. I’ll have to start using it.”
The line shuffles forward, and we enter the restaurant proper. Drew’s still looking at me like I’ve got a second head on my shoulders. “You’re really not hungry, man?”
I laugh for some reason. “Yeah, I’m cool.” But the aroma of all that sizzling spiced meat hits my nose and sets my stomach rumbling again like it’s ready to eat itself. When you’re tall as I am, your body needs more food, I guess. “I’ll wait outside.”
“If you say so,” Drew says.
Brooke sidles up next to me, all smelling like shampoo. “I’ll keep you company.”
“Um, thanks.”
We head outside and then sit down on a bench out front of the place. The metal feels nice, since it’s warmed by the sunlight. Brooke extends her legs out in front of her. She smoothes the front of her plaid skirt and tugs up her white knee-high socks. She looks from her legs to mine.
“You’re so big,” she says.
“Um, I guess.” I straighten my tie and adjust my blazer, more out of the need to do something than because they need to be fixed.
“Still not used to wearing a school uniform?” Brooke asks.
“We had uniforms at Whitman.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, khakis and these butt-ugly, purple polo shirts.”
