by Randy Ribay
“Why?”
“I guess they want to make sure nobody’s wearing gang colors at school or something.”
She laughs like that was a joke and brushes her hair out of her eyes again. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Why do they call you Bunny?”
I lift my feet off the ground. “Because I got hops.”
She looks confused for a moment, then it clicks. “Oh. Like you can jump?”
“Yeah,” I say, putting my feet back down. “My friend Nasir came up with it when we were kids. Just kind of stuck.”
“I like it,” she says, and bumps her shoulder against me. “It’s cute. How’d he get his nickname—Nasir, right?”
“Um,” I say. “That’s his real name.”
“Oh.”
Something buzzes in my pants. My phone. I slide it out to see that I’ve got a new text.
“Nice phone.” She pulls hers out of her back pocket. The case is covered in diamond-looking stickers that catch the sunlight and nearly blind me. “I have the same one.”
“Oh, really?” I say, as if ten million other people don’t.
Brooke peers over at my screen and bumps me again with her shoulder. “That your girlfriend?” She says the word all singsongy like people used to back in grade school.
I hesitate for a moment. “Yeah.”
She nods, and suddenly things feel weird. I text Keyona and then slide my phone back into my pocket.
“Are you nervous?” she asks.
“Huh?” I ask.
“For Friday?”
“Right. The playoffs,” I say, looking at my hands. “Not really.”
“Really?” she says, smiling like she doesn’t believe me. “Even with all those people talking about how good you are and how you’re definitely going to help us win another state title? God, I’d be so nervous. That’s so much pressure, you know? Like, you’ll be letting so many people down if you fail. Not that I’m saying you’re going to fail—it’s just . . .”
But she doesn’t even know the half of it. She’s probably thinking about the game.
“Nah,” I say. “I don’t get nervous when I play.”
“Shut up,” she says in that playful way girls say it. “I don’t believe you.”
“Truth. The court’s the only place where I feel like I’ve got control over everything.”
“Hmm,” she says. “I think I know what you mean. I feel that way when I dance.”
“You mean when you cheer?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “It’s separate. I joined the cheer team at school for fun. I dance outside of school with a company. We put on recitals and stuff. They’re usually really good. We’ve got a show coming up in April—you should totally come.”
Like I have no control over them, my eyes slide down to her dancer’s legs. But I’m not trying to be sketchy, so I force myself to look up at some clouds as if they’re the most interesting thing in the world.
“Maybe,” I say. Then my stomach growls real loud again. Traitor.
Brooke is nice enough to pretend not to notice. But not nice enough to offer to hook me up with a burrito.
6
Nasir
Kim Kardashian’s skilled hands rub the sunblock into my shoulders. I close my eyes, enjoying the tickle of her fingers against my skin. The warmth of the sun. The infinite crashing of the rolling waves. My shoulders relax. I lean back before she’s finished and feel her boobs press against me. She laughs, kisses the side of my head, rests her chin on my shoulder.
“Want to go back to the room?” I mumble.
“What room, Mr. Blake?”
My eyes fly open.
Instead of the beach and a beautiful woman and the sun, I remember it’s Tuesday in the middle of the winter and I’m in chemistry. Ms. Martinez stands over me, arms folded over her chest, giving me that teacher death glare.
With everyone’s eyes on me, I wipe the drool from the corner of my mouth and sit up. “Sorry.”
“Forgive him, miss,” some senior says from the other side of the room. “Being a loser’s probably real tiring.”
Yeah, everyone’s got jokes now that our season’s over. But whatever. At least I’m not trying to pass chem for a third time like that kid is.
Ms. Martinez rolls her eyes and turns back to writing on the board. As her words dissolve into white noise, I turn to Keyona a few seats over to see if she’s laughing. She’s not. Just copying the notes.
I start doing the same, but a couple minutes later, the bell rings. Ms. Martinez shouts the pages for the equations we have to balance for homework, but I can’t hear her over the noise of everyone trying to get the hell out of there as if they were going somewhere cool instead of to another class.
I’m almost finished getting down the last of the notes when someone swats at my writing hand, making my pen drag down the page. Wallace, of course. He’s standing next to my desk, towering over me with his big-for-nothing self and his lopsided fade. Speaking of kids trying to pass this class for a third time. He flashes a grin and slaps down his homework from a couple nights ago, which I also let him copy off me. There’s a check plus at the top.
“You’re welcome,” I say.
He crumples his homework into a ball and tosses it toward the trash can as if he were putting up a three. Misses by about a mile. “It’s windy,” he says by way of excuse, and doesn’t bother to pick it up.
“So what’d your grandma say about . . .” I hesitate, not wanting to put his business out there for everyone to hear. “About that letter?”
But boundaries aren’t really Wallace’s thing. “G shouldn’t be paying the landlord all that money for some broke-down apartment. You know the roaches are back?”
“What are you all going to do, then?” I ask, packing up my stuff. “Find another place somewhere in Whitman?”
Wallace is dancing in place like he’s listening to some song in his head, as if we aren’t talking about him getting evicted. “We’ve got people all over, man. Philly. Baltimore. New York. I’ll find a place for G somewhere in one of those spots with one of my uncles.”
“They could take care of her?” I ask, because I know it’s a lot of work. Wallace hardly ever complains about it, but since we’ve been tight these last few months, I’ve seen all he does for her. Cleaning up around their apartment. Running all kinds of errands. Reminding her about her meds. Hanging and watching TV with her. Small stuff like that.
“I’d make sure they’d know how,” he says.
“And what about you?”
Wallace shrugs. Doesn’t meet my eyes as he answers, “I’m a grown-ass man, man. I don’t need to be living with my grandma or anyone else anymore. I’ll figure something out. Maybe get a place over by Broadway or something. Worst comes to worst, I’ve got Nisha.”
Nisha is his car.
“Really?” I ask. “What about school? You’re almost finished.”
He laughs. “Man, I’m not worried about school. Need to get a job. Start making money.”
“Maybe you could stay with us until June. I’ll talk to my parents tonight,” I say, because I know if he doesn’t finish this year, he probably won’t ever get his high school degree.
“You going to the game on Friday?” he asks.
I know he’s changing the subject, but I don’t want to fight him on this. Arguing with Wallace usually makes him more stubborn, no matter how stupid the idea is. I slip on my backpack and start walking out of the classroom, and he follows. “What game?”
“You know what game.”
Of course I do. I just don’t want to say his name aloud. “Why would I?” I ask.
“To cheer against his Oreo ass. See him cry when they lose.”
“Nah, I’m good,” I say as we step into the hallway. Obviously, I’m not happy about Bunny switching schools, but I don’t actively seek out ways to make his life miserable. I prefer to pretend he doesn’t exist.
He shrugs. “Let me know
if you change your mind. I’ll holla later—looks like someone’s waiting for you.”
Sure enough, Keyona’s in the hallway, her books pressed to her chest. Her athletic body is poised with perfect posture, looking real good. If this were one of those teen movies, there’d be a heavenly light shining behind her as her hair wafted gently in the breeze. Except this is real life. She’s wearing her tight curls in an updo, and the lighting is those forever-flickering fluorescents in the ceiling. She’s not even smiling. Just glaring at me with her intelligent, deep brown eyes, like I’m a collection of data points for her to analyze.
“Take care of my man.” Wallace winks at her, doinks my head, and then peaces out down the hallway in the opposite direction of us, the opposite direction of his next class.
“Did you let him copy off you again?” she asks.
“Huh?”
“Be straight with me, Nas.”
I shrug. “Trying to help my man.”
“You’re not doing him any favors,” she says. We begin walking together toward our next class, which we haven’t done in months. She and I used to hang out a lot with Bunny, but turns out he was the glue that held the three of us together.
“Not your problem,” I say. And I realize I’m being kind of a dick, but I don’t even know why she’s sweating one small assignment like that.
She sighs, like I’m a lost cause.
We turn the corner, walk in silence past a couple making out against the lockers. Keyona rolls her eyes and mutters, “Have some self-respect.” Then she turns to me. “You know why you’re not actually being helpful, right?”
I hate it when she does this. Creates arguments by asking questions until I have to say it myself like I’m some big fool for not seeing the Truth in the first place. But whatever. I play along.
“Right,” I say. “That whole give-a-man-a-fish rap.”
She nods. “Does Wallace know chemistry any better after you giving him all the answers? Is he any smarter?”
“No,” I mumble.
“That’s what I thought. And you know what else he didn’t learn?”
“No. What?”
“That he needs to work hard to accomplish something. I bet Wallace is going to drop out or barely graduate and become another lazy fool hanging out on the corner.”
She’s not wrong, but if this were anyone but Keyona, I’d walk away, because I hate it when people talk about Wallace that way. Instead, I hook my thumbs under my shoulder straps and mentally weigh the benefit of her talking to me against the subject of our conversation. I mean, she doesn’t have any idea what’s going on in Wallace’s life. People always assume they know what others are going through, that they know what’s best for them. But they almost never do.
“It’s not so simple,” I say.
“It is. My father grew up with nothing,” she says. “He started his own business and made something out of himself. So, yeah, it kind of is.”
I don’t want to make her angrier, so I hold my tongue. She neglected to mention that her father did have a family to support him along the way. It’s not like he crawled out of some shantytown alone wearing a soiled burlap sack. She also neglects to mention that his business—an auto body shop—isn’t doing so hot. But lockers slam closed up and down the hall, so I know the late bell’s probably about to ring. No point in continuing this argument.
“I mean, look at Bunny—” she starts to say, but I interrupt her.
“How’d y’all do last night?” I ask, referring to the girls’ basketball team. She’s a point guard like me. Unlike me, she’s good and has a starting spot.
Keyona hesitates for a moment, probably deciding if she’s going to let me change subjects like that. I know she knows that’s what I’m doing. Finally, she says, “We won.”
“Nice,” I say. “The school should make some announcement about that.”
“They did.”
“Oh.”
The bell blares. Keyona looks at me for a second like there’s something else she wants to say about Wallace or Bunny or hard work, but she shakes her head and dips into class without waiting for me.
Yeah, I’m smooth like that.
7
Bunny
School lets out at noon on Wednesdays at St. S so teachers can have meetings, so I’m out of practice by four. Drew gives me a ride to the train, and I take it all the way downtown and head to Word Up, the bookstore my dad owns with his friend Zaire.
The bell above the door jingles as I step inside, and the scent that hits me is the smell of my childhood: old books and incense. Eartha Kitt’s singing quietly in French from the speakers mounted in the ceiling, but there’s nobody in sight except for Zaire’s black cat, Damba, lounging on top of one of the bookshelves. I don’t even see my dad in his usual place behind the register.
“Hello?” I call as I drop my bags and step farther inside. “Dad?”
Damba meows at me from his place on high, but that’s the only response I get.
“Nice to see you, too, Your Majesty,” I say.
I’ve been so busy with school and basketball that I haven’t stopped by in a minute. The place looks exactly the same as always, though. Shelves crammed with books as well as lots stacked in piles on the floor. There’s a small stage near the front with a few café tables and old couches around it. The walls are covered in words in all different handwritings, favorite quotes written by the customers.
Coming up, Nasir and I used to spend some time here after school and on the weekends when the weather kept us off the courts, but Jess basically lived here.
Back then, it seemed like there were always people wandering these aisles. Older folks, college students, younger kids—you name it. There’d be some event or another nearly every night like an open mic, a book launch, or a community meeting. Word Up even put out their own neighborhood newsletter for a long time that you could pick up by the register for fifty cents.
But nowadays it’s real quiet every time I come by here.
“Dad?” I call again as I pass the end of the African history section.
This time I hear some movement from the back. There’s the muffled sound of the toilet flushing behind the bathroom door, and then Dad walks out, drying his hands on his pants. He smiles when he sees me, though I know he’s probably disappointed I’m not a paying customer.
“Bunny!” he says, wrapping me in a hug.
“What’s up, Dad?” I say.
We separate, and he pushes his glasses up on his nose and looks me up and down like he hasn’t seen me in a few years. Which, between my late practices and his evening shifts, doesn’t feel far from the truth. I try to remember if he’s always had that many gray hairs in his dreadlocks, if the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes have always been this deep.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah, I’m good,” I say.
“Cool, cool,” he says, and then we kind of stand there not saying anything for a few moments. “Any particular reason you stopped by?”
I shrug. Take a seat. “Not really.”
He sits across from me. “How’s school?”
“School is school,” I say. “How’s business?”
He sighs. “It is what it is.”
I feel like there’s a lot more to say about these things, but neither of us knows how to say it. We sit there listening to Eartha Kitt, and it’s like we’re on opposite sides of a river with no idea how to cross.
“You coming to my game Friday?” I ask after some time.
Dad rubs his forehead. “I’m trying to get Zaire to switch up with me that day, but you know how that fool is about working nights.”
“Yeah, I know,” I say, all quiet. Zaire got robbed when he was working a closing shift in the first few months after they opened the store. After that, he demanded the day shift as his permanent responsibility. They couldn’t afford to hire any other employees, so my dad agreed. It’s all right during the summer since it means we get to spend all day
with him, but during the school year, it’s rough, since we barely ever see him unless we drop by the store. It also means he hardly makes it to any of my games. He always watches the video my mom or whoever records, but it’s not the same.
He’s not saying anything, and I don’t know what else to say, so eventually I make up some excuse for needing to leave, and say goodbye.
8
Nasir
It’s Wednesday night. My mom’s leaning back in her recliner reading. My dad’s in the kitchen, drinking a beer while he cooks dinner, filling the house with the scent of sautéed onions as he plays some Tupac from his phone’s speaker. I’m standing in front of the table in the dining room, which is between the kitchen and the living room. We’ve got a small enough place that it’s basically like we’re all in the same room.
I tell them I need to talk, then I explain Wallace and his grandma’s situation. When I finish, my mom lowers her book and marks her page. My dad takes a sip from his beer and pulls this face like it’s gone bad.
He says, “I thought she owned the place.”
“Guess not,” my mom says.
“You think there’s anything we can do for them?” I ask.
My dad gives the frying pan a shake, and the onions sizzle in the hot oil. “We don’t have that kind of extra money lying around right now, Nasir.”
“But he’s family,” I say. “I thought we help family.”
He sets the pan back down on the burner. “We do. When we can. But we’ve got a lot of family, and we can’t help all of them. His grandma’s survived this long—she’ll figure something out. You know she marched in Selma with Dr. King?”
I’m not trying to hear about Selma right now. “Wallace said his grandma might move in with some other family, but he doesn’t know where he’ll go.” I shift my weight. “What if he stays with us?”
My mom and dad exchange a look.
Then my mom says, “I wish we could, honey. But where would he sleep?”
I know this is an excuse. We have three bedrooms in our row house. Mine, theirs, and a smaller one my mom uses as a studio for her painting. I know she’d say no to him using the studio, since that’s her space, but there’s always the couch or the floor of my room. I offer these two as possibilities.
