by Randy Ribay
Coincidence?
Yeah, right.
Don’t be a coward—own up to what you’ve done.
Nasir???
NASIR????
She tries calling again, but I hit Ignore again.
Answer the fucking phone.
ANSWER IT.
I hope you know how much this hurts him.
This might ruin his future.
Your FRIEND’S future.
Fine, don’t say anything.
My phone grows quiet. I close the browser window with the article about Bunny and shut off the screen. The sliver of sunlight on my desk shrinks as the sun sets.
And then one more text comes through from Keyona: Make it right, Nasir.
But I don’t know how I could, or if I even want to. Wallace was in a tight spot, and I was trying to help him out. Yeah, it sucks for Bunny right now, but the email’s fake. The state will probably figure that out quickly enough. Who knows, he might even get to play tonight. But if he doesn’t, St. S will lose, Wallace will make the money he needs, and the world will move on.
What’s done is done. I know my shot at going to St. S flew out the window along with our friendship, but I never wanted that anyway.
So Keyona’s wrong. There’s nothing to make right—most everything is as it should be.
The only thing that’s not right?
Nazi zombies.
I power my console back on and go kill some more.
35
Bunny
I’m sitting in a seat by myself in the back of the bus as we ride to the game. I’ve got my hood up and I’m gazing out the window, watching the sun set over suburbia. Usually I listen to music on these rides. Nothing too hard. Mostly that old stuff my dad plays at Word Up, since it’s so relaxing.
I don’t have my phone, though, so tonight it’s just the sounds of the bus in my ears. The rumble of the engine and the suspension groaning when we drive over bumps. The semi trucks flying past us on the highway. My teammates chatting up the cheerleaders, who split the ride with us.
It always bothers me when the other guys talk on the bus like this, and it’s getting on my nerves more than usual tonight since I can’t drown it out. They’re laughing and carrying on like they’re on a field trip to Six Flags, not like we’re headed to the state semifinals. They should be running through plays in their mind and trying to get mentally prepped.
After all, they have to do this without me.
All day I was waiting to be called down to the office again, waiting for some good news. But as the school day wound down, so did my hope. When the team met up at the front of the school before getting on the bus, Coach put a hand on my shoulder, sighed, and said a single word: “Sunday.”
Too bad we’re not going to make it to Sunday. Not without me. I’m not trying to be arrogant or anything, but the numbers don’t lie. On average, I score about a third of the team’s points each game. Sometimes half.
That’s why I’m not feeling too optimistic about Sunday.
Or about the future in general.
I’m pissed at Nasir for backstabbing me. Keyona and I still haven’t worked things out. And my dad’s selling the bookstore.
Not to mention a lot of the D-I schools will probably lose interest in me. Even if the state doesn’t find anything, the rumors that have already started going around won’t ever go away. The way the NCAA has been cracking down lately, coaches are trying to stay far from any potential scandals.
For some reason, my thoughts shift to when Nasir and I went camping in the Adirondacks with his dad the summer before seventh grade. I had never been real camping before. It wasn’t something my dad did. And, damn, was I miserable out there. Bored. Covered in mosquitoes. Afraid I’d be eaten by bears or snakes or wolves.
Anyway, the campsite we were planning on staying at was taken, so we had to hike farther along the trail and set up in the dark. And it rained our first night, the moisture soaking through the tent and leaving the three of us cold and damp.
I was the first one up the next morning because I don’t think I even slept. I unzipped the tent and stepped into the sunrise. The light spilled through the trees like gold threads. And I remember heading through the forest to take a leak and coming up on this ridge. A valley stretched out at my feet.
I’d never seen a view like that before, so clear and crisp in every direction. I thought I could even spot our car parked along a road in the distance.
It’s kind of stupid, I know, but I remember thinking that our lives must be something like that. Like when we’re alive, we’re stuck down in that forest, lost in the trees, lost in the dark. But when we die, we find ourselves up on a ridge, looking out over every moment we lived. Everything would make so much sense. Point A. Point B. The path we took. The path we should have taken.
Whenever I’ve thought of the future, I’ve tried to imagine it like that. State championship. College scholarship. NBA. I’d be able to save the bookstore, send my parents to Hawaii or something, pay off Jess’s student loans, help the twins go to any college they want.
But now I can’t see things from that ridge anymore. I’m down in the valley, deep in the trees. Lost and alone in the dark.
Someone slides into the seat with me, interrupting my thoughts. I turn to find Brooke. She smells like some citrusy shampoo, and I can tell by her bare legs sticking out from underneath her winter coat that she’s wearing her cheerleading outfit.
“How are you holding up?” she asks, making a sympathetic face.
“I’ve been better,” I say.
She brushes a strand of yellow hair out of her eyes and behind her ear. “This is bullshit.”
“You’re telling me.”
Brooke sits there quiet for a few moments and then says, “So there’s a party after the game. At Stacy’s. I know you don’t normally come to these things, but you should come.”
“Thanks, but I’m not really in the mood.”
“It would be good for you. If we win, it will be a celebration. If we lose, you can drown your sorrows in cheap beer.”
“I don’t think so,” I say. “I don’t even drink. Besides, we’ve got school tomorrow.”
“It’ll be fun,” she says. “Eric and Drew are going. Drew’s even bringing his boyfriend, and he never does that. Nobody will force you to drink, and you can always leave early.”
“Thanks, but—”
“Come on, Bunny. You’ve been going to school with us for, like, six months, and you almost never hang out. Don’t you get lonely?”
“No,” I lie. “I have friends back in Whitman.” A second lie. “And a girlfriend.” Maybe a third lie—she’s still mad at me.
She shoulder checks me playfully. “Come on . . .”
“I’ll make a deal with you,” I say. “I’ll go if we win.”
Her face lights up. “Really?”
“Yup,” I say. “We can even have a drink together,” I add, since there’s no way we’re walking away with the W tonight.
She gives me a little hug in the seat, her hair brushing against my face. “I can’t wait!” Then she slides out of the seat and returns to the front of the bus with the other cheer-leaders.
I move to slide my headphones back on, forgetting they’re not around my neck.
36
Nasir
I take a break from killing zombies to find that it’s just past seven o’clock. That means the St. S game is under way.
I thought Wallace would try to get me to go with him, but he wasn’t in school, and I haven’t heard from him all day.
When I return to my room, I check my phone to make sure. There’s nothing except a couple more harsh texts from Keyona from over an hour ago. I clear them from my notifications and reread the barrage she sent me earlier. One sticks in my head: Make it right.
37
Bunny
There are about two minutes left on the clock in the fourth quarter, and Oak Hill just threw the ball out of bounds.
Somehow, we’re not getting destroyed. In fact, we’re only trailing by five.
I’m at the end of the bench like a chump, though, still wearing my khakis, blazer, and tie. Sweating more than my teammates.
It’s not right. I don’t have a leg or arm or hand in a cast preventing me from playing. I’m not even in foul trouble. Nah, I’m fine. Perfectly healthy.
Perfectly powerless.
Yet the team’s doing all right without me.
Of course, a big reason for that is because Oak Hill’s all-American point guard, Luis Garcia, has the flu. He was trying to play through it, but he looked like death. Slow to react and wasting time-outs so he could run to the sideline to vomit. They finally sat him at the half and put in their second-string guy, who’s so nervous he’s been dribbling around like a squirrel looking for a lost nut.
So with each team’s best player effectively a nonfactor, the whole game’s been back and forth, like watching Ping-Pong. And it’s killing me knowing that if I were in, this wouldn’t even be close, especially with Garcia sick. The whole crowd is probably thinking the same.
Anyway, the ref hands the ball to Clay, who’s playing power forward in my place, and blows the whistle. Clay’s defender jumps up and down, waving his hands and legs all around to try and block the pass. Clay’s scanning for an open man but can’t find one. Even from the opposite side of the court I can see the panic on his face.
The ref’s about to blow that whistle for a five-second violation when Clay lobs it deep. Drew snatches it out of the sky, hands it off to Eric, sets the pick, rolls, gets the ball back, and puts it in for two.
The crowd goes nuts.
Now we’re only down by three.
Oak Hill inbounds and we run a full-court press. They break it, get deep in the paint, and answer with two of their own, quieting our fans.
Just like that, Oak Hill’s lead is back to five. Except now there’s only a minute thirty-seven left.
I lean forward, ready to rip off my school uniform like Superman and sub in for Clay. I try to catch Coach Baum’s eye, hoping he’ll ask me to, but I know that I don’t even exist to him right now.
The game resumes. Clay inbounds to Eric, and Eric pushes it up court. Number thirteen on Oak Hill, their two-guard, slides over to double-team Eric. Eric panics. Picks up his dribble. He starts pivoting like mad, trying to get clear from the tangle of arms and legs. He sneaks a pass through to the wing and our shooting guard, Hunter, forces a flat-looking three that I’m sure is going to brick hard—but it finds its way to the bottom of the net.
The gym explodes and our bench rises, throwing our arms around each other’s shoulders.
The lead’s cut to two. A minute twenty left. An eternity in this game.
People start clapping and stomping in rhythm, running that old DE-FENSE chant.
My heart’s beating three times as fast as normal. My adrenaline’s flowing, but it’s got nowhere to go. God, I want to be on that court with the ball in my hands at the top of the key. I want to break ankles with my crossover, drive to the lane, and throw it down so hard the backboard shatters.
Instead, I loosen my tie. Shift my weight from one foot to the other. Cup my hands around my mouth and shout, “DE-FENSE,” in time with the crowd.
We’re still running a press, and this time we do it right. Force their point right up to the sideline. But he bounces it off Eric’s leg, and the ball rolls out of bounds, so they get to reset at half-court.
Oak Hill inbounds right away. Their second-string point dribbles back and forth just past midcourt to waste the clock. The crowd’s shouting for Eric to foul and force him to the line, but that’d be dumb, since there are still a few possessions left in this game. We’ve got to let them burn some seconds and then force the turnover or a bad shot.
Finally, the point fires a bounce pass to their small forward, who bricks an open ten-footer. Drew snatches the rebound, outlets to Eric on the wing, who zooms past our bench like a jet. Even though it’s two-on-one, Eric pushes it to the hoop, faking right and taking it to the left to put up a floater—that gets swatted out of the air.
But the ball wasn’t the only thing the Oak Hill kid gets a piece of. He knocks Eric down hard onto the floor, which brings the whistle.
Shooting foul.
Drew helps Eric back to his feet, and then Eric limps to the line.
He could tie it up here.
Except he doesn’t. His first one’s short, kissing the front of the rim. But he sinks the second one, so now we’re only down by one with fifty-two seconds on the clock.
Oak Hill calls a time-out.
Our guys jog over and huddle around Coach Baum, panting hard. The bench players—and myself—we gather around the outside of their circle, peering over their shoulders to feel like we’re part of the action. It kills me not to be in the center of that circle. I can’t hear what Coach is saying with the crowd so loud, and I can’t even see the defensive setup he’s drawing on his little whiteboard. He keeps pointing to his head for some reason.
Eventually, the buzzer wails, signaling the end of the time-out. My teammates hustle back into position. I slink back to my spot on the sideline and wrap my arms back over my fellow bench riders’ shoulders, my hands still itching for the ball.
I glance over at my family in the visitors’ section of the bleachers. Even though they knew I wouldn’t see a second of play, they all came. My dad even closed Word Up early again.
The whistle blows.
The Oak Hill forward takes a couple seconds and then rifles a pass up court, but it’s deflected and everyone starts diving for the ball. Nobody gets a grip on it, and it rolls out of bounds.
The ref gives it to Oak Hill.
“Bullshit!” one of my teammates calls. Coach Baum shoots him a look, and the kid shuts right up. But Coach can’t shut the crowd up from yelling the same thing.
Oak Hill inbounds again and then holds it for a few seconds. Eric glances at Coach Baum to see if he wants him to foul yet, but Coach shakes his head.
The Oak Hill kid finally puts the ball on the floor, but only for a couple of dribbles before gunning a pass to the two-guard on the wing, who sends it right back. For some reason, Clay drifts up from the block and lunges for the interception. Not only does he come up empty, but he bumps into Eric, knocking him over. The Oak Hill kid blows past them into the lane. The rest of our D collapses on him, which is exactly what he wants, and he whips it back to the shooting guard who’s wide open just outside the arc.
But his shot ricochets off the back of the rim and pops into the air. The ball hangs forever before dropping into a tangle of outstretched hands. A few guys wrap their arms around it and fall to the ground. Whistles pierce the air. Jump ball.
Since this is high school, they don’t actually jump for it—possession alternates. Our crowd erupts when the ref’s arm flies out to signal that it’s ours.
Clay inbounds, launching an overhead pass across court that finds its way to Eric, who holds it. After a few seconds, Eric drives and then kicks it out to the wing, who dumps it to Clay. Clay pivots and banks it off the glass for two to put us up by one.
Oak Hill inbounds to their point right away, and he pushes it up along the left sideline. While we’re still getting back on D, the squirrelly point guard lowers his head. I can tell before his foot hits the ground that the kid’s decided to force it, to be the hero. He’s got time, and he’s got open teammates on both sides of the court, but sure enough, he doesn’t even glance their way as he drives. He gets stuck in the paint, picks up his dribble, pump-fakes a pass to the top of the key, and then Euro-steps to lay it up from the left.
But the shot bounces off the backboard and right into Drew’s open hands. He clears some space using his elbows and hands it off to Eric. Oak Hill’s coaches are shouting for them to foul. It takes a few seconds, but they finally get a hack in on Eric. He takes the line. Ref signals to indicate that it’s a one-and-one situation. If he sinks th
e first one, he’ll get another. If he misses, it’s live.
Ref bounces him the rock. Eric takes a deep breath, dribbles it three times to his side, spins it in his hands, and then puts it up.
He drains it, and we’re up by two.
The ref gives it back. Eric repeats the same three-dribble routine as before and puts it up, but shot’s too far right and glances off the rim. Oak Hill snags the rebound, but we press them hard, careful not to foul.
No time-outs left and only a few seconds remaining, Oak Hill’s point breaks our press with that squirrelly speed. A few steps ahead of everyone else, he pulls up at the three-point arc and takes the wide-open shot. I watch with dread as the ball rolls off his fingertips and sails spinning through the air as the game clock drops to zero.
38
Nasir
Whenever Wallace comes up to my room, he usually flies up the steps two at a time and bursts through my door like the police. But tonight, he’s trudging up slowly like a death row inmate marching to the electric chair.
I know exactly why. I saw the score online: 55–53, St. Sebastian’s. Somehow they pulled it off without Bunny.
It seems like forever before Wallace appears at the top of the stairs, and when he does, he walks past me with his hood up and head down, wordless and reeking of smoke. He plops down on my mattress without pulling off his hood.
“Were you there?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer. Just drops his face into his hands.
“How bad is it?” I ask, knowing he must have had a lot riding on it since he knew before anyone else that Bunny would be sitting.
“You can’t even imagine, cuz.”
“How much do you owe?”
He shakes his head and moans like a dying cow, hands still covering his face.
“It’ll be okay,” I say.
He looks up at me, eyes bloodshot, and lets out a bitter laugh. “You think everything’s gonna be fucking okay, Nas?”
