Spirit King: Return of the Crown

by Dashiel Douglas

  “Biology?”

  “Not so much. Well, thanks for this,” she quipped. “Now I realize just how underwhelming my abilities are.”

  “Nah, there’s got to be something you’re good at. You can’t be completely inept.”

  “Hey!” She smacked his arm. “You don’t know me well enough yet to say that.”

  “How about you just owe me one?”

  “Owe you one, what?”

  “One whatever. I don’t know.”

  Zara gazed skeptically at D’Melo. “Okay, I trust that you’re not gonna ask me for anything crazy.” She shot out a pinky. D’Melo peered at it, What do you want me to do with that? She interlocked his pinky with hers and jolted it downward. “Deal,” she said.

  “So why were you late for school? You sick?”

  “Yeah, I’m sick of big business running roughshod over people. I slept outside the CEO of DunChem’s house last night.”

  “You should have told me you don’t have a place to stay,” D’Melo jested. “I would’ve taken you to the homeless shelter.”

  “Oh, you’re a riot, dude,” she said deadpanned. “I was there protesting. I wanted to hand the petition to him directly. But he just drove right past me,” she said, annoyed. “But I’m gonna keep going until he talks to me.” Zara took a bite of her sandwich. A dollop of sauce plopped in her lap. “Aww, man.”

  D’Melo handed her the napkin. She dipped it in water and scrubbed her jeans. “So why have you been looking for me? Do you need some tips on basketball moves?”

  “Now look who got jokes. No, I came to ask you whether you saw today’s paper.”

  “I did!” she said, perking up. She congratulated D’Melo on being selected as a preseason All-American.

  “No, not that. Here, look!” D’Melo dropped the newspaper on the table. “There’s an article about you in the community section!”

  Zara thumbed through the paper warily, wondering whether this was another one of D’Melo’s gags. Then she gaped at the page and leaned in for a closer look. “Oh goodness gracious! That’s what I looked like?” Zara thrust the paper away disgustedly. “Dang, the lady who took my picture didn’t even warn me about how ragged I was looking!”

  “That’s all you have to say?” D’Melo said. “You don’t think it’s kinda dope you made the paper?”

  “Well, it’s great if it creates awareness, but I doubt many people are racing past the sports and entertainment sections to get to the community page. I think people in this town may just be a teensy bit more interested in this other story I saw.” She crinkled the paper open and read, “‘D’Melo combines qualities that are rare in an athlete.’” He reached to grab the paper from her. She swiveled and continued, loving every minute of the embarrassment growing on his face. “‘Watching him play is like breathing in the grace of the ballet great, Mikhail Baryshnikov. He twirls effortlessly and launches high into the air as if the laws of gravity don’t apply to him. At the same time, he plays with an aggression reminiscent of Mike Tyson sprinting across the boxing ring because he couldn’t wait to see his opponent crash heavily to the canvas.’”

  “Okay, okay,” D’Melo pleaded, scanning the room to see if anyone was listening.

  “Wait, it gets better,” she said. “From an NBA scout, and I quote, ‘Physically, he’s a perfect specimen.’” Zara puckered her lips. “Oooh,” she warbled. “Has this dude asked you to marry him yet?”

  D’Melo was finally able to snatch the paper from her.

  “And this is my favorite part.” She spouted from memory: “‘If he didn’t have such a bright future in basketball, I’d say he would have no problem finding work as a model.’” She flitted her eyelashes exaggeratedly. “Oh, my word,” she cooed, fanning her face. She leaned over the arm of her chair. “Catch me. I think I just might faint.”

  “I hate this stuff! I just want to play ball without all this hype.”

  “Well, my friend, somehow I don’t think that’s going to happen. According to the article, there will be a ton of scouts and reporters at the game tonight. You nervous?”

  “Nah, it’s basketball. When I’m on the court, I’m at home. You gonna come?”

  “Maybe. I didn’t get much sleep last night. On the other hand, how often does one get a chance to see the grace of Baryshnikov and power of Tyson all at once!”

  The bell rang.

  “Well, I hope to see you there,” D’Melo said, scooping up his backpack. “Big-ups on your article! You should be proud . . . no matter how busted you looked,” he chortled.

  The hype around the first game of the season was always palpable. But this year the buzz in the gym was electric. College scouts with their clipboards and button-up shirts were conspicuous in the raucous crowd. Everyone was anticipating the thrill of watching the best player to have ever come out of the neighborhood. Even spectators from outside Philadelphia had made the trek to Lincoln Downs.

  The announcer introduced the starters from Carver High. There was a smattering of cheers from the few Carver fans present. Then the lights dimmed. Spotlights glided across the floor in a random pattern. “Ima Boss” by Meek Mill pounded through the gym: “Look, I be ridin’ through my old hood . . .” The frenzied crowd was scarcely able to contain itself.

  The announcer boomed: “At center, 6’6”, Tashawn Bell! At power forward, 6’4”, Asaad Hightower! At small forward, 6’1”, Kazim Benga!” The crowd hooted and hollered. “At shooting guard, 6’0”, Jeylan Kendrick!” Boisterous cheers rang out. The announcer then paused to build the hysteria. A horn blared. “AND, at point guard, 6’4”, give it up for our own Deeee Melloooo!” The cheers redoubled in a deafening crescendo. The crowd tromped the bleachers, shaking the gym. Girls’ voices sliced sporadically through the bedlam, “I love you D’Melo!”

  D’Melo loped to center court and huddled with his teammates. They gyrated in unison, revving themselves. Before each game, D’Melo closed his pep talk with the same words: “Let’s bring it home!” D’Melo scanned the crowd. No Zara.

  Performing his typical pregame ritual, he lifted the locket at the end of his silver necklace. His mother gave it to him as a Christmas gift on the very morning of the accident. He kissed the photo of her inside, then pointed heavenward.

  As the teams positioned themselves for the opening tip, Zara stepped through the door. D’Melo zealously signaled Marley, who popped off the bleachers and rushed to greet her. He escorted her to the best seat in the gym, directly behind the team’s bench.

  D’Melo wasted no time in delighting his fans. Jeylan snagged the opening tip and bounced a precision pass to D’Melo in the corner. D’Melo turned his sights to the basket. Silent anticipation descended in the gym.

  D’Melo’s prolific three-point shooting had inspired a tradition at the school. The crowd took a collective breath, seeming to suck the air right out of the building. As he released the ball and it rotated with promise toward the hoop, the crowd chanted, “Deee . . . Melll . . .” and then, as the ball snapped through the nylon net, the crowd finished in ecstasy, “. . . OHHHH.”

  That night, the crowd got to chant “OHHHH” eleven times. D’Melo broke the school record with eleven three-pointers and fifty-two points. The scouts had an early night. By halftime, they had seen enough to confirm what they already knew.

  The final buzzer sounded. The fans wanted D’Melo to acknowledge his incredible game. But they had grown to understand him well enough not to expect it. As always, he headed straight to the other team. He congratulated them, giving each an enthusiastic handclasp and shoulder bump. The opposing coach told him something that he could never get used to, although nearly every coach said something similar. “When you’re in the NBA, don’t ever forget where you came from. Congratulations, son.”

  D’Melo searched the stands. Zara was collecting her stuff to leave. He lifted a hopeful finger, requesting that
she wait for him. Four giddy freshman girls corralled him before he could disappear into the locker room. They asked for his autograph.

  “You don’t want my autograph,” he tried. “I’m no different from you. I can just play this game.” They cleaved to his arm. “Okay, but only if you give me your autographs too. Because you’re all special in your own way.” They giggled.

  Kazim seized the pen and started signing the girls’ notepads. They scoffed. “What?” he jested. “I dropped 12 points tonight.”

  The girls thanked D’Melo dotingly. As they flittered off, reporters called to him. “D’Melo! D’Melo! Just one minute.”

  It wasn’t in D’Melo’s nature to be rude, but he abhorred how reporters put him on a pedestal. He pretended not to hear them. They continued shouting his name from outside the locker room.

  Jeylan admonished them as he slipped past. “D’Melo ain’t gonna come out until y’all leave. He doesn’t want to talk to the press.”

  “I just want to ask him a few questions,” a reporter implored. “I’ll be quick.”

  “It ain’t about time,” Jeylan replied briskly. “If you weren’t gonna write an article about him, he’d chop it up with you all day. He just doesn’t want the attention.”

  “Well, he better get used to it. Reporters are going to be hounding him all season.”

  “You see,” Jeylan snipped, irritation mounting in his voice. “That’s why he won’t talk to y’all. You just don’t get it. He’s not like all the other ballers. If you ever just talked with him person to person, you’d realize that as incredible a basketball player he is, he’s an even better human being. Until you learn that, you’ll never get a word from him. So you need to step and give him his privacy.”

  In the locker room, D’Melo was fidgeting. He struggled to focus on his coach’s congratulatory words. He wanted to get to Zara before she left. Not a second after the coach dismissed the team, D’Melo made haste to the gym.

  He bounded through the door. But only the janitor was there, doing the unenviable task of cleaning up after a thousand-person typhoon. D’Melo wilted.

  “Hey, Mr. Moses,” he called. “Got another broom?”

  “Not this time, D’Melo,” Moses said, his eyes diverting to the stands.

  “Hey, dude.” Zara stepped out from the shadows of the wooden bleachers. “Good game.”

  D’Melo smiled so big he thought his cheeks might pop. “Thanks for coming to cheer me on.”

  “I came to cheer for the team,” she corrected. “Go Panda Bears! Woo-hooo!” She flung her leg mockingly and shimmied imaginary pom-poms above her head like a cheerleader.

  D’Melo pressed his lips firmly together. “We’re the Panthers.”

  “Whatever, dude.”

  “I didn’t know you like basketball.”

  “I love basketball. It was awesome seeing you score all those touchdowns!”

  “That’s football,” he said, shaking his head. D’Melo brightened with an idea. He asked Moses to toss him a ball. He handed it to Zara.

  “What do you want me to do with this thing?” she said, examining it. “You want me to bounce it or something?”

  “Well, actually, it’s called dribble.”

  “Do you mean, like this?” Zara dribbled between her legs, then behind her back. She asked Moses for a second ball. She dribbled both simultaneously, crossing them back and forth. Then, while still dribbling one ball, she shot the other into the basket. “Oh my!” she said, acting ditzy. “Did I just score a touchdown?”

  D’Melo realized he had been bamboozled. “Why didn’t you tell me you can ball?” he asked, flabbergasted.

  “What, you assume I can’t play basketball because I’m white? Or maybe because I’m a girl?”

  “Well, neither,” he quipped. “I didn’t think you could ball because you’re goofy.”

  “Oh shut up,” she countered. “Goofy can take you one-on-one anytime.”

  “Oh really?” D’Melo found Zara’s spunk entertaining. “I’d love to see that!”

  Moses propped his broom against the wall and settled on the bleachers. There was no way he was going to miss this.

  “Okay hot shot,” D’Melo said. “Let’s make a deal. If you score on me, I’ll treat you to a movie.”

  “Is that how you get girls to go out with you?” Zara needled, then pretended to vomit. “That’s so lame. Also, what if I don’t want to go to the movies with you?”

  “Then just miss the shot,” he smirked.

  Zara slipped off her ankle boots and tossed them behind her. She slid out of her olive- green hoodie. She faced him, her uniform now yellow bootcut jeans and an oversized white T-shirt that hung low in the back.

  “Are we ready now?” D’Melo said, amused. “Is there anything else you’d like to remove?”

  “Just your ego,” she jabbed. Zara crouched and dribbled deliberately. She faked left, checking D’Melo’s feet for balance. Then she dribbled hard right, crossed left, spun back, and motioned to shoot. D’Melo leapt to block her shot. She ducked under him and reversed the ball into the hoop with her left hand.

  “Oooh, scorched!” she yelled, hunching over and cupping her gaping mouth. “What happened? It seemed like you Baryshnikov-ed right by me.”

  D’Melo grinned, impressed. “I was tired. You know, I did just play a whole game.”

  “Whatever, dude. You got scorched. Own it!” She rolled the balls to Moses. “Thank you, sir.” Moses gave her a ‘you’re welcome’ wink.

  “So where’d you learn to ball like that, all smooth and shifty. You’re like a little Stephanie Curry!”

  “I’m from North Carolina, so I like to think of myself more like a Michelle Jordan!”

  “You should play for Lincoln Downs. It’d be all like—” D’Melo pretended he was the announcer. “At starting point guard, 5’4”, from Hillbilly Redneck, North Carolina, Double Z! Zarrraaa Zanic!”

  “I’m 5’7”,” she edited. “And it’s pronounced, Zan-ich.”

  “My bad. I can’t tell the height or names of short people.”

  “Ha ha,” she said. “But if I joined the school team, that would be wrong. I’d take all your glory.”

  The truth was, Zara couldn’t bear the thought of playing basketball anymore. It was too painful a reminder. Her mother had never missed a single one of her games, even when deathly ill with colon cancer. Toward the end, Zara’s games were the only thing her mother would leave the house for.

  D’Melo dashed to the bleachers. “Let’s go.” Zara gazed at him, bewildered. “Aren’t we gonna camp out at the DunChem CEO’s house? Look,” he said, unzipping his backpack. “I got my toothbrush, toothpaste, and a change of clothes—because, you never know,” he said. “I also brought a book.”

  Zara tilted her head quizzically. “Do you think we’re staying at the Marriott Hotel? It’s going to be dark out there.”

  D’Melo delved into his backpack for a night-light.

  Oh, my God. Is he serious? she thought. “What else do you have in there? Maybe a portable stove so you can prepare a four-course meal?”

  “Ahh . . . dang. I didn’t even think of that.” D’Melo wagged a fist. “Next time! But I did bring some beef jerky, bread, and a bottle of Gatorade, in case I get low on electrolytes. Don’t worry,” he assured her. “I brought something for you, too.” Corn bread crumbled in his hands. “Straight from Chubby’s.”

  “Do you realize that corn bread is made with butter? And butter comes from . . .?” Zara paused, rolling out an inviting palm.

  “Milk?” he said.

  “That’s right. And milk comes from . . .?”

  “Dang . . . cows,” he realized. “My bad, dawg. Well, I guess you gonna be hungry then.”

  Zara peeked into the backpack. “You’re kidding. Are those swim trunks? Are you planning to take a dip i
n this dude’s Jacuzzi and then maybe cool off in his Olympic-sized pool?”

  “Well, you never know. Oooh, and I definitely had to bring toilet paper because—”

  “Let me guess,” she quipped sarcastically, “—because you never know?”

  “Exactly! Marls and Kaz are meeting us there. I hope that’s okay.” D’Melo continued before Zara could even answer. “Are we stopping by the drugstore so you can change?”

  Zara raised her arms to her sides. She peered down at her chosen ensemble. “What’s wrong with this?”

  “Oh, nothing. I just thought you’d want something more, you know, campy.”

  “Dude, we’re not going camping! And, this is how I dress. It’s casual and comfortable.”

  Zara hadn’t always dressed so fashionably. Growing up, she was something of a tomboy. As long as she could climb trees in it, her outfit was just right. D’Melo’s comment triggered a memory of one of her final conversations with her mother.

  “Vezi,” her mother said, which meant “little angel” in Nečzian, “You’re the most vibrant and colorful person I’ve ever known. Don’t use clothes to hide yourself. Use clothes to express yourself. I’m deteriorating by the hour and will die soon. But you’re alive! So be alive, every moment.”

  D’Melo turned to Moses, who was sweeping conscientiously. “Mr. Moses, you sure I can’t help?”

  “I always appreciate it, D’Melo. But not tonight. I can see you have more important things to do.”

  “Okay, next time, then,” D’Melo conceded. He asked Moses to remind his son about training Sunday morning. “We’ll work on his crossover. And don’t worry, I’ll have him back in plenty of time for church.”

  “He’s getting good, you know,” Moses said, gleaming proudly. “You better be careful; he might end up breaking all your school records.” Moses glanced at the records board on the wall. D’Melo’s name topped most of the categories.

  “I hope he does, Mr. Moses. Nothing would give me more joy than to see his name above mine someday.”

  D’Melo spent much of his free time training kids. He hoped basketball would keep them off the streets, like it did for him. Lincoln Downs was rife with gang activity. But the gang leader, T-Bo, had never tried to recruit D’Melo because of his NBA potential. Instead, he offered him gifts—clothes, the latest basketball sneakers, and jewelry—expecting to one day bask in the glory of D’Melo’s NBA stardom. When Baba found out, he nearly lost his mind. D’Melo had never seen his father so furious. He made D’Melo return everything.