by Randy Ribay
“I’ll find something you can use,” I say, gazing out my window and watching the city lights slide past.
25
Bunny
It’s Monday, the day before the first round of the Tournament of Champions, and practice is about over. Each squad’s at a hoop, taking turns at the line. I’m with Eric, Drew, and the other starters. Each time someone sinks a free throw, the rest of us call out our group total, clap once, and get the ball back to the shooter. He stays on the line until he misses, and we stay on the court until we drop a hundred combined.
Eric’s up now, and he’s made a bunch in a row, so we’re almost done. He hits one more, and the five of us call out, “Ninety-four,” then clap. Drew grabs the rebound and bounces it lazily back to Eric, and he lines up his next shot.
Nobody talks or plays around during this routine. It’s kind of relaxing, like we’re meditating. The repetition, the count, the simple goal. When you’re on the line, that’s how it is. Time stops, and it’s all on you. You take a deep breath, go through the same motions as always, and hope it goes in.
Eric sinks another one.
“Ninety-five.”
Clap.
Tonight, though, there’s an extra quiet beneath the normal quiet. Nerves, I guess. This is the first year in a few St. Sebastian’s has made it this far, so most of them are new to the playoff pressure. Plus, most of the guys are seniors, so this is their last shot. Nobody says it, but I bet all of them are thinking about how this could be their final practice.
“Ninety-six.”
Clap.
But my own thoughts aren’t on the game. Instead, Nas’s words keep bouncing around my brain.
You’re looking out for yourself so hard you forget that everyone else exists. So it’s nothing to you to just leave us behind.
I tell myself over and over again that he’s wrong. I’m doing this for my family. So my mom doesn’t have to work herself to death. So my sisters can be whatever they want and not have to worry about student loans hanging over their heads forever. So my dad’s bookstore doesn’t close its doors.
“Ninety-seven.”
Clap.
Nas will be all right. He’s smart enough. He’ll get into a decent college and won’t have to worry about tuition, thanks to Uncle Sam. When we were kids, he always used to talk about wanting to become a doctor, and I don’t know if that’s still what he’s all about, but it’s not hard visualizing him in one of those white coats with a stethoscope draped around his neck.
I know Keyona will be all right, too. She’s at the top of our class and right on track to become a scientist like she’s always wanted. Wants to cure cancer, since it took her mom when Keyona was little.
Eric’s next shot clangs against the front of the rim. We rotate, and it’s my turn on the line. Drew grabs the rebound and rolls the ball my way.
I pick it up, spin it in my hands as I set my feet at the line.
Nasir was right that things weren’t too bad for me at Whitman. I was pulling decent enough grades, and our squad had potential.
But after last season, all these people started putting the idea of transferring in my ear, the idea that I could do better. Mostly they’d catch me before or after an AAU game, when I was by myself. Usually they’d hint at what I’d get if I played for them, but some of them straight up said it. Gear. Exposure. Scholarships.
One of them, from a school up north, implied that they had a house ready for my family to move into.
I dribble hard once and put up the shot. It slips through the net with a sweet swoosh.
“Ninety-eight.”
Clap.
Rebound.
I ignored all that noise—at least until Coach Baum came up and spoke to me while I was in DC for nationals. Maybe it’s because he wasn’t trying to do anything extra, anything that seemed too wrong. He kept it simple and honest. Said I wouldn’t pay a dime because the school would hook me up between a need-based grant and a sponsor willing to cover the rest—which he assured me was legal—but that he wasn’t going to offer me the world like everyone else probably was, just the chance to be part of one of the nation’s best high school basketball programs and access to the world-class academics the school was known for. Plus, unlike most of the other schools, I could get to St. S by public transportation and wouldn’t need to move out of Whitman.
“Ninety-nine.”
Clap.
Rebound.
Throughout that week, I kept thinking about it. St. S regularly sends players to Kentucky, Duke, UNC, UCLA, and powerhouses like that. Even some to colleges with weaker programs but amazing academics like Harvard or Stanford. So the more I thought about it, the more it felt like when you hear the train rumbling through the tunnel but you’re just starting down the steps. You’ve either got to run and catch it, or let the doors close on you and watch it pull away from the platform. I caught that train—told Coach Baum before I left DC that I was down.
I spin the ball in my hands, set my feet again.
Was it the right call? I don’t know.
I dribble once and shoot. Everyone’s hands are getting ready to clap since I rarely miss from the line, but the ball circles the rim and pops out. There’s a moment of hesitation and then everyone rotates, Drew taking my place at the line.
I don’t think Whitman High is as bad as people usually assume it is. When I was there, I liked most of my teachers, and most of them always made sure we learned about Black folks in whatever subject we studied—something St. S only does in February. But every year the newspapers would put out some article about the low test scores, and those people talking to me about transferring made it clear that the best colleges wouldn’t be impressed by decent grades at a school with that reputation.
But there’s not a single teacher at St. S with my skin color. They all look surprised when I say something thoughtful in a class discussion or quote a line from a reading assignment in English without looking at the page. And they say “your parents” to everyone else but “your mom” to me.
Problem is, even if I wanted to switch back, I don’t think the students at Whitman High would welcome me with open arms.
Then again, who knows? Nasir texted this morning, apologizing for what he said the other night, and asked if I wanted to meet at Word Up after dinner. I’ve been looking forward to that all day long.
And then I get an idea. I glance at Coach.
Drew sinks number one hundred, and we shoot around until the other groups finish and Coach Baum calls us in. We huddle up, arms draped around each other’s shoulders. Coach looks us in the eye one by one and gives a short speech about how this week’s outcome is going to depend on how well we work together.
“Together,” he repeats.
The team heads to the locker room, but I hang back.
“Coach,” I say, “can we talk?”
26
Nasir
When I walk into Word Up, Billie Holiday’s playing over the speakers and the store is as warm and as book-scented as always. Bunny’s sitting at one of the café tables reading, Mr. Thompson’s behind the register, and an old woman is on one of the couches tapping away at her smartphone. Besides these three souls, the place is dead. I don’t even see Zaire’s cat.
I say hello to Mr. Thompson as I walk over to Bunny. He marks his page, sets his book face-down, and stands up. We shake like a couple of oldheads, and then he gestures to the seat on the other side of the small table. “Have a seat, man.”
“What are you reading?” I ask.
He flips it over, and I check out the cover. The Book of Light by Lucille Clifton. I nod like I think it’s a great choice, even though I’ve never heard of it before.
I start having second thoughts about all this, and I’m a moment away from making an excuse and ducking out when that old woman on the couch suddenly lets out a string of curse words. Bunny and I turn to look and she’s pulling that universal face everyone makes when they’ve lost a game.
>
Then Bunny and I turn back to each other and get a case of the church giggles—you know, when you’re laughing at something that’s not that funny and you can’t stop. It’s a few moments before we catch our breath, and I spot Mr. Thompson smiling out of the corner of my eye. If he knew why I was really here, though, he’d be kicking me out.
“You want to go up to the roof?” Bunny asks.
“Sure,” I say.
So we get up and go out the back door, leaving behind the warmth and Billie Holiday’s beautifully unsteady voice for the cold and the quiet. We start climbing the fire escape, and it’s not long before Bunny stops ahead of me and points at the window to the second-floor apartment where Zaire lives above the store. We start laughing all over again, because dude’s lying on his couch in his boxers watching TV in the dark with his old cat chilling on his stomach. I push Bunny to keep him moving before Zaire hears us snickering out here.
When we get up to the roof, two things hit me right away: the view and the wind. Shivering, I zip my coat all the way, pull up my hood, and bury my hands in my pockets. Then I wander over the flat surface to the edge that faces west and take it all in. It’s been a minute since I’ve come by the store, but it’s been even longer since we came up here. The stars are almost all washed out by the light pollution, but the Ben Franklin Bridge is lit up blue over the Delaware River, and Philly’s glimmering orange and white on the other side. But all of that’s the same as I remember. It’s the area right around the store here in downtown Whitman that I barely recognize, with the new development reminding me about Wallace’s situation and why I’m here.
Bunny stands next to me, overlooking the city, silent. After a bit, he says, “Borders are kind of weird, huh?”
I shrug. “I guess.”
He goes on. “We’re in Jersey right here in Whitman, but if we cross the river, we’re suddenly in Pennsylvania.”
“And?”
“And that’s strange to me. Whitman feels more like Philly than it does like any of the other towns around us. But it’s not. Almost like someone drew the lines wrong.”
I think about this for a couple beats. “You high?”
He lets out a small laugh and shakes his head. “Just something I find myself thinking about lately, is all. Sorry.”
“Look,” I say. “I wanted to meet up to tell you I’m sorry. About the other night. I was out of line.”
“You already apologized.”
“I wanted to do it in person,” I say. “Seems like it means more.” Though I don’t really mean it at all.
He takes a deep breath. “Appreciate that, Nas. But maybe you were right about some stuff.”
“Like what?” I ask, hating him for acting so cool about this.
“Like how I don’t belong there.”
I nod. “So come back to Whitman.”
He takes another deep breath. Looks down at his feet. “Maybe there’s another solution.”
“Like what?”
“Maybe”—he pauses, then raises his eyes to me—“maybe you could transfer to St. Sebastian’s?”
I hold his gaze for a moment, and then I turn away and bust out, sending my laughter out over the rooftops.
“I’m serious, Nas,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say, no longer laughing. “And while I’m at it, I’ll get my parents to buy me a Maserati, I’ll put a down payment on a penthouse in one of those Philly high-rises, and then I’ll book my flight to Europe for spring break. What do you think, Bunny: Paris or Venice?”
Bunny shakes his head. “Hear me out, man. I’m being real. It’s not impossible.”
“You sure about that?” I look away. “How are you even affording to go there? The bookstore doesn’t look like it’s doing so hot.”
“A combination of a grant and a sponsor.”
“What’s a sponsor?” I ask.
“Some oldhead who helps me out by covering what my grant doesn’t.”
“Huh. That legal?”
He nods.
I make a mental note to do my own research later. “Well, unless they’re about to throw any of that to a second-string point guard with a B-plus average, let’s go ahead and file this idea under ‘Impossible.’”
Bunny walks a little closer to the edge and peers down at the alleyway below. “If you could, would you?”
I clench my jaw and grind my teeth a little as I think about how to even begin to answer that question. “There’s no point in even thinking about that,” I finally say.
Then he says, “I talked to my coach. Told him how out of place I felt this year, and that I’ve been thinking about transferring back to Whitman.”
“Have you?” I ask.
He shrugs again.
“What’d he say?”
“Got real nervous. Asked what they could do to make me feel more at home. So I asked him if he could—”
“Get me in,” I finish.
Bunny looks at me. “Coach said he could make it happen, Nas.”
“For real?”
“For real.”
“Damn,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. “Damn,” I add a moment later, because the right words still fail to come to mind. I was mad Bunny left me behind, and now he’s offering to take me with him—literally. I look out over the city in the direction of Wallace’s place.
“You probably didn’t expect this,” he says.
“Understatement of the year.”
“But you don’t need to make a decision now.” He runs a hand over the top of his head and exhales. “Think on it. Talk to your parents, and know the offer stands. Know it’s possible.”
“Cool,” I say flatly. And I can tell by his face that he’s taken aback I’m not acting all happy and grateful about this news. Instead, I’m trying to hold in my anger at the fact that Bunny thinks he can wave his magic basketball wand and fix everything. But this doesn’t make me forget about how he jumped at the chance to leave soon as he could. Who’s to say he wouldn’t abandon me again?
He looks away. “You should come by the school. Check it out before you make up your mind.”
“Sure,” I say. Even though I really don’t want to, I need to find out something Wallace can use.
“Cool,” he says, nodding. “How about tomorrow? It’s a home game, so you can hang afterward, and I can show you around.”
“Sure. Yeah. But, man, it’s getting pretty damned cold up here,” I say, turning away. “I’m headed back inside.”
So I do, and Bunny follows me down.
27
Bunny
After Nas walks out and the door swings shut, my dad looks up from his computer screen behind the register. “What was that all about?”
I shrug. “Trying to figure things out.”
“You two friends again?”
“We’re getting there, I think.” And I feel good when I say those words.
“Good,” my dad says, and then laughs. “He used to be one of my best customers.”
I wonder what was going on in Nasir’s head up on that rooftop. I knew he wouldn’t say yes to transferring right away. I mean, I didn’t when Coach Baum first approached me. But still, Nasir didn’t say a whole lot or ask many questions.
But I laugh at my dad’s corny joke and slip the Clifton book back into its place on the shelf. I grab my bags and am about to head back home when my dad clears his throat. “Can I talk to you about something while I’ve got you, Bunny?”
By the tone of his voice, I know whatever it is must be serious.
“Sure,” I say, then wander over and lean on the counter across from him. The counter’s surface in front of the register’s usually filled with little stacks of flyers advertising all kinds of upcoming events at the store. Poetry readings. Hip-hop shows. Community meetings. Stuff like that. But right now the space is clear.
I wait for him to speak, but instead he slips off his glasses and cleans the lenses with the hem of his shirt. He puts them back on, sits up
on his stool, and crosses his arms over his chest.
“As I’m sure you know,” he says, “business has been slow lately.”
No, don’t say it, I think, because I know exactly where this is going.
“Well, not just lately, but for the last couple of years.”
No. Don’t.
“We’ve been losing more than we’ve been making.”
No.
He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. Then he says it: “Someone’s made an offer on our building. A generous offer.”
“And?”
“And Zaire and I are going to sell.”
My heart sinks into my stomach. I drop my bags and lean against the back of the couch near the counter. I feel like I got the wind knocked out of me. “Come on, Dad—you can’t. Don’t.”
“I know you love the store, Bunny, but nobody loves it as much as I do. Not even Zaire, I think, and we started it together.” He looks around. Billie Holiday’s still playing softly. “So you need to trust me when I say it’s really not feasible anymore. We’ve been running on fumes for a long time.”
“Maybe you could—” I start to say, but he cuts me off.
“Zaire and I have thought through all the scenarios, Bunny. Trust me.”
I shake my head. “The community needs this place.”
“It used to,” he says. “But not anymore. Things change.”
Forget change. Switching schools this year was all the change I needed. “Who’s buying it?”
“Some developer.”
“They keeping it a bookstore?”
He looks at the shelves. “Once we sell, we don’t have any say in what they do with it.”
“What are you going to do?” I ask. “For work, I mean?”
He shakes his head. “Not sure. I’ll find something, though. Don’t worry about that. I’m not as young and beautiful as I used to be, but I think I’m a lot smarter now.” He lets out a small laugh, and so do I. Not because it’s that funny, but because both of us need it.
