me personally, but I bet that’s just because I’m in-state.
For now, I’m just hearing them all out, telling them I’m a long way off from making a decision. And that’s the truth. I’m taking everything slow. When I have news for schools, it’s coming through Coach or my folks. That’s the way we set it up in the summer. I even squashed my Twitter and Facebook so I wouldn’t send out something that got taken the wrong way. Besides, like my mom said, when’s the last time something good came out of a young athlete being on Twitter? And we decided—all of us together—that we’re playing things the right way. No freebies, no payouts, no kickbacks. I know that’s not how the game’s played these days, but that’s how it gets played when your parents are Tom and Kaylene Bowen.
But tonight’s the first practice, so I’m that’s all that’s on my mind when I hit the cafeteria. Then I see Wes. It’s not that he’s just a friend. That makes it sound like we hang sometimes on weekends, catch each other at parties, and say ‘sup when we pass in the halls. He is the friend in my life. I mean, I can’t remember a time when Wes and I weren’t tight. Mom tells me that even before we could walk, we were hanging together. Wes’ mom would drop him off at our place and we’d crawl around the living room getting into trouble. To me, Wes is more blood than friend.
So it kills me—just kills me—to see him catch my eye in the lunch room and then look away. He spins on his heel and makes tracks for a far table. Watching him do that makes me feel like a bone is breaking. It hurts worse than when he didn’t own up to the weed. Around me, Marion East churns on—students shuffle through the lunch line with their trays in their hands, teachers hover around the edges of the cafeteria on the lookout for trouble, and the whole room swells with the fast chatter of people spreading gossip. Meanwhile, I’m standing there like my feet are made of stone while I watch Wes bail on me.
“D-Bow!” Someone shouts, calling me by my nickname. “Over here,” another voice calls. I turn and see our two bigs—Chris Jones and Tyler Stanford—waving to me. They’re all amped for tonight. They’ve got some space cleared out for me at a table with a few cheerleaders. That’s where I belong. I head that way. But then something stops me, like there’s a hook lodged in the fabric of my shirt. My parents have banned me from hanging with Wes on our own time. If I walk away now, maybe that’s it. If he doesn’t want to hash it out, then I’ve got to be the man in the situation. Otherwise, what? Wes and I are through? No deal.
I stride across the cafeteria, confident as if I’m walking to the stripe to ice a game. I get to Wes and stand over him. Below me, he looks smaller than usual. He’s hunched over his tray, trying to just ignore everything and everyone. So I sit down next to him, putting us closer to an even level. “Wes,” I say, “man, we got to talk. It’s been a month.”
He drops his fork on his tray with a clatter. He pushes back from the table. “Talk about what?” he asks. He looks down at his watch, like he’s late to some important meeting. All I notice is that it’s a pretty heavy piece—way out of Wes’ price range.
“What is up with you?” I ask. I raise my voice more than I intended, and I can feel the attention of the cafeteria settle on us. So I try to act chill. I lean back in my chair and shrug. “I mean, seriously, why you getting all worked up on me?”
Finally, Wes relents. His shoulders slump down and he sighs. “Man, I’m just pissed at the world these days,” he says. “It’s got nothin’ to do with you.”
I don’t jump on him right away. Dealing with Wes these days is like handling a lit firecracker. “I feel you,” I say. “But, man—and I’m not trying to get all up on you—if you put weed in my car, then it has a lot to do with me.”
Wes stiffens. For a second, I think he’s going to bolt and that will be that. But at last he nods. “I’m sorry, D,” he says. “I just panicked when you got pulled over. I knew better, but I thought maybe they wouldn’t find it.” He pauses, squints his eyes like he’s thinking of the answer to some riddle. When he does, his face fills with tension. I get an image of what he’ll look like when he’s older. “I just didn’t want to get run in again.”
I nod, silently pleased that he at least apologized. Then it hits me. “Again?” I ask.
Wes juts his chin out. Now that his secret’s out, he puts on a tough face. Like getting into more trouble makes him cool or something. “Yeah,” he drawls. “I got busted back in June too. Got pinched lifting from Ty’s Tower when you were off playing AAU.”
Maybe that jab about me being at AAU is a guilt trip—like I’m supposed to be here to take care of him 24-7. Well, it works a little. It kills me that I didn’t even know. And it kills me more that maybe Wes is in real trouble. I think again about how he hangs with guys like JaQuentin Peggs. I think again about that watch he’s rocking. I also think about Kid’s warning. There’s a time to just cut out on someone. But not yet. Not with my boy. “Wes, man, I’m right here now. If you need—”
He cuts me off. Just holds up his hand like he’s heard it all before. “It’s nothing,” he says. “Home detention’s no big thing. Besides, JaQuentin says he’s got a guy who can get it dropped in another week. No sweat.”
We sit there in silence while Wes takes a few bites. Then he sets his fork down and waves his hand at his tray like he’s disgusted by his food. He crumples his napkin and throws it on his tray. He gives a nod to me, scoops up his mess, and he’s on his way—to where, I don’t know.
Wes was the one who got home detention, but it feels like I got it too. No wheels, no Wes, no Jasmine—it’s meant I’m pretty much just hoofing it to school and back, and only getting a sweat up when the weather’s been nice enough to hit the Fall Creek court. Well, no Jasmine isn’t quite right. I still see her. We even fooled around some last weekend when her parents were out. But it’s not like it was a year ago. In the middle of a conversation, her attention will wander. It’s like sitting with someone who’s got a plane to catch—they’re right next to you, but part of them is already leaving you behind.
But right now that doesn’t matter. Let every coach in the country call. Let Jasmine move halfway across the world. Let Wes waste all his time with losers like JaQuentin. I’ve got something else at last—finally, ball.
Already Coach Bolden’s put us through our sprints. And already a few freshmen have damn near bowed out. And already Coach Bolden’s gotten so mad at our lack of hustle that he’s kicked a ball into the third row, sending his assistant Coach Murphy sprinting after it. But that’s all show to get the new guys up to speed. Now the real practice starts—we’re going through offensive sets with the first team.
I’ve got a good lather worked up. I’d love to just run five-on-five. Let it rip up and down the floor. Instead, I obediently listen to Coach. “The whole focus changes this year,” he says. “We don’t have Moose around, so we can’t just work through him in the post. We want to spread teams out and look to drive.”
That’s my game right there—go to the hole. The next thing he says I don’t like so much.
“Usually, we’ll have Derrick at point, but he’ll be sitting the first game. If you don’t walk the line off the court, you don’t play for Marion East,” he barks. Coach Murphy nods up and down in agreement, both of them making a point for the younger players. Then Coach Bolden points at me. “Flip that jersey, Bowen,” he says. “Run with the twos until you earn that starting spot back.”
That
