"Aww, I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me." He pretends to wipe his eyes while we head back into school.
I'm dragging my feet because I really don't want to go to English today. Actually, I don't want to go to English any day, but especially today. "You ready for practice tomorrow?" I ask.
"Yep. Senior year. We're going to own it." We own every year, but he's right. This one is going to be the best. Electricity zaps through me at the thought of getting on the court again. Hearing the crowd scream for us. Knowing it's the one thing that's mine. There's nothing like it.
"Coach said he's heard talk of scouts coming to check us out."
"Obviously, we're the shit."
We laugh and slip into class right before the bell rings. I take my seat in the back corner of the room behind Travis. Sinking into the chair, I fit myself so I'm right behind him as though it will somehow make me invisible.
"New girl, twelve o'clock," Travis mutters.
It's more like one o'clock, but who’s counting? There's a girl standing by the door wearing some long hippie-looking skirt and a pair of combat boots. She's kind of exotic looking, with light brown skin and tons of thin, long black braids with purple tinting here and there. She's thin, but curvy in all the places girls should have curves.
Cute. Not the most gorgeous girl in the world, but definitely cute.
She hands a sheet of paper to Mrs. Z, who skims over it briefly. "Class, this is Kira. Kira, this is the class." Mrs. Z smirks. She's cool. Too bad she teaches, English, the worst class in history.
"You can sit in the back. Take the empty desk next to Carter, the guy with the messy brown hair." She points to me. "You might have to give him a kick once in a while because Mr. Shaw likes to fall asleep in my class, but other than that, he's okay."
Kira smiles before walking back and falling into the seat beside me.
"Don't worry, I don't kick too hard," she whispers at me.
Looking to the side, I smirk. "I fight back."
"Okay, then I do kick hard. That way you can't get up."
A laugh kind of tumbles out of my mouth. Her words surprise me. "I'll remember that."
"Good idea."
Mrs. Z starts talking and I slide back down into my seat. I miss half of what she says, trying to keep from falling asleep. I don't know how they expect anyone to stay awake through Shakespeare during normal circumstances, but I'm functioning on about an hour and a half of sleep here.
All sorts of stupid Shakespearian names start blurring together. Crap about symbolism and metaphors no one really understands anyway. My struggle to keep my eyes pried open gets harder and harder until the bell ringing jerks me awake and I realize I lost the battle.
Kira is standing up, pulling on her lime green backpack. All sorts of different pictures are drawn on it with marker.
"You didn't kick," pops out of my mouth.
She shrugs. "Figured I'd give you a pass. I've heard it's not nice to kick people on your first day."
Travis slips up next to me. "Hey. I'm Travis. Welcome and all that stuff. Sorry, but I gotta steal my boy before I go crazy because his girlfriend won't stop blowing up my phone."
I fight a groan.
"Actually, I'm going to steal 'your boy'," Mrs. Z's voice sounds from beside us. This time, I really can't hold it in. Just what I don't need right now. Travis nudges my arm and laughs. Kira is right behind him as they sneak out of class. Me? I'm trying to slow down my jack-hammering heart.
"So...basketball starts tomorrow?" Mrs. Z sits on my desk.
"Yep. Senior year. Have to make it count so I can get into a good college next year." College is a good thing to throw into a conversation like this, right? Suck up a little.
"Good grades will do that too, Mr. Shaw. You're not doing so well in my class. Missing assignments."
My heart pounds harder. Don't do this. Please don't fucking do this. "I'll get my grade up. Extra credit. Whatever it takes."
She sighs. "Carter, is there anything you want to tell me? I can help. If I can't, I'll find someone who can. You're a smart boy. There's nothing wrong if you don't underst--"
My hands tighten into a fist. "It's fine. Everything's fine. I don't need help. I'll fix it. Whatever I have to do, I'll fix it." My voice sounds as tight as my fists are. I can't lose basketball. Can't.
"You need to fix it because if you don't, I can't let you play. I know how much you love basketball and I've seen you on the court. I know how good you are, but there are more important things. One of them being your education."
A breath finds its way from my lungs. No questions. No lies. "I know. I've been screwing around, but I won't anymore."
She gives me a quick nod and holds a folder out to me. "It's early in the year so it shouldn't be hard for you to get on track. I shouldn't...but I'll let you make up your missed assignments. If you do that and keep track of what we're working on now, you'll be okay."
I take the folder. No, things are never okay. Not for long.
Chapter Two
I let Mom cover at the shop tonight. With the way I feel about basketball and everything else, there's no way I can be there, helping little old ladies pick their favorite candle scent or a book on poetry. Sometimes I wonder if Mom wants to be there because she knows it will be easier if she's working late and not at home where it's easy to grab the vodka she keeps hidden in a box, under my old baby blankets in her closet. Is that a sign, I wonder? If there's some way I've driven her to this place in her life—where she wants to forget everything so instead of grabbing a basketball, like I do, she chooses to get lost in a bottle.
My backpack sits under the hoop on the far end of the court. Each time I run that way, see it sitting there with the work I know I should be doing, I push harder, run harder. My cell is going crazy, ringing and beeping every two seconds. But instead of answering, I jump, letting the ball roll off my fingertips just right. It arcs in the air, hitting nothing but the bottom of the net.
Five more minutes. Then I'll go over to Mel's to apologize, then head home to bust my ass learning Hamlet and reading books that will have no effect on my life whatsoever.
My muscles are tight, Mrs. Z's words from today slamming into me.
Mom's apology from last night taunts me.
Instead of grabbing the ball, I start running lines. From one side of the court, to the free throw line, and back. Three point line and back. Half court, and then owning the other side too. By the time I'm done, my lungs ache, but in a good way. My way. Not giving a shit that I'm in the middle of a public basketball court, at a park, I collapse on the ground, one arm covering my eyes.
The warm pavement feels good against my back, seeping through my shirt. There's a part of me that's screaming at my muscles to move, to make myself get up and do all the stuff that I don't want to do, but nothing happens.
My phone goes off again. Mel's going to kill me. I need to talk to her. It's not her fault I was in a bad mood today. Not her fault I stayed up all night then took it out on her. In a way, she's like basketball for me. An escape. Maybe a much moodier escape, but one all the same.