catching Jasmine’s eye. Every time, she pauses for just a beat in her conversation and bats those eyelids at me. Then she turns back to the person next to her and smiles—but I can’t help thinking that smile’s for me.
“Anyway, so I’m trying to tell him that he should look for me on the back-cut, and he just keeps saying, ‘Coach said you’d flare.’” This is Fuller, griping to Jones about Rider at practice yesterday. Fuller’s just like he is on the court—full-steam ahead and not paying attention to the reactions around him. Jones looks around for an escape, his eyes wide like when he forgets the play Coach called.
As much as I love hoops, I didn’t come out on a Friday night to talk business with the boys. I walk across the room toward Jasmine. She sees me coming and tries to look busy, leaning in to whisper to one of her friends—a junior named Lia Stone, who’s got every guy in the city begging for her attentions. But I just buzz right up. I slide between a fence of females—smooth as weaving through defenders on the court—and come to a stop about two feet from Jasmine.
Everyone hushes. Jasmine keeps whispering to Lia for a few seconds, but her eyes drift toward me. Finally she stops and turns my way. Her lips are still pursed around the last word she said to Lia. She looks me up and down, judging. She cocks her head at me, giving a What-you-think-you-doing-all-up-on-me look.
I know she’s just messing, so I mess right back. I pivot and turn.
“’Sup, Lia,” I say.
“Nothing, Derrick,” she says. She gives me this smoking little smile. Everyone knows I’m really coming over to chat up Jasmine, but Lia looks like she might call my bluff. Her cocoa face is smooth, flawless. I don’t dare check the rest of her, or I’ll get caught staring like a creep. “You’re looking good tonight,” she adds. She smiles again, then looks away from me like there’s something more interesting on the wall across the room.
That throws me. I was trying to be all cool, but Lia Stone says that to you, and your heart leaps a little. I try to stop the thought, but there it is—if Jasmine keeps dragging on me, I might just jump to Lia for real. But like a chump, I mumble around. “Thanks,” I stammer. “I—” I look down at my clothing, like maybe there’s something I’m wearing she was talking about.
“Smooth,” Jasmine says. She puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head like she’s scolding me. “You know, for someone who thinks he’s a baller, you sure could use some better game.”
Now this—Jasmine cracking on me—I’m used to. I straighten up and smile. I nod at her, like Okay, you got me on this one. But I fight back too. “Hang with me tonight,” I say. “I’ll show you game.”
Jasmine tries to keep her face expressionless. She makes it for a second or two, but then a smile creeps up on her and turns into a laugh. Lia shakes her head at both of us and walks away. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least interested in Lia. The girl is next-level hot. But I don’t dare let my eyes follow her—not with Jasmine standing right in front me.
The two of us wander away from the crowd. We settle on a couch over by the window. Jasmine leans back and looks out, watching traffic pass. From my spot, I can see up the stairs. Every now and then I see two heavy black shoes thud down on the top step—Fuller’s dad eavesdropping on the happenings. Poor Fuller—the kid’s nice enough, but everyone in here knows this is about as dead as a party can be. Everyone’s trying to think of an excuse to bolt. Doesn’t matter to me right now—I got myself some Jasmine time.
“How’s the recruiting going?” she asks. Normally she wouldn’t talk hoops, but she actually cares about where I end up. To answer, I just show her my phone. In the text history, there’s a long scroll of schools—Indiana, Clemson, Michigan, Tennessee, Purdue, Kansas State. On and on. Jasmine follows for a minute, but then her eyes glaze. She looks back up at me. “You keeping your head on straight with all this?”
“Sure,” I say. “It’s not gonna get serious until I start making visits.”
“Where?” she asks. It’s a basic question, but she absent-mindedly runs her fingernail up and down my arm. Moments like that, it feels like we’re a real couple—but I know what’ll happen if I bite on her move. We’ll find some place to be alone, mess around just enough to get me to my breaking point. Then she’ll cut it off, and I won’t hear from her for a week. So I play it straight.
“Indiana’s most definitely on the list,” I say. “But everyone knows that. I’ll just take my time and get a vibe for places.”
Jasmine nods, then looks out the window again. There’s that distant stare. I try turning things around and give her a playful touch on the knee. She jumps like I’m a snake.
“Easy girl,” I say. “Touchy. I was just wondering where your head is. What about school for you?”
She gives a big sigh, her shoulders sagging under the weight of the question. “I don’t know,” she says. “I thought my ACT score was good enough, but now everything I’m seeing says I need to get a 32 or better.” This is the first time I’ve ever seen her uptight about anything academic, and it’s a wake-up call—I’m not the only one with some pressure on me.
“What’d you get so far?” I ask.
Jasmine looks away again. “Not 32,” she says. She shakes her head in disgust. “I don’t get it. I crank out A after A at Marion East, and somehow that’s not good enough? It’s not right. Maybe I should take prep classes somewhere else.” Her fingernails, just briefly, dig violently into the couch cushion. Then she unclenches and tries to laugh it off. “Can we get out of here?” she says.
I don’t know what she has in mind, but I’m down for whatever. I grab Jasmine’s coat for her, and we jet.
Like he’s pulling a night security shift, my dad’s standing watch in the living room when I walk in. A quick double-check on my watch tells me I’m in with fifteen minutes to spare.
“How was the party?” Dad asks.
“Fine,” I say.
His eyes narrow, like he’s inspecting me for some sign of misbehavior. I’ve got two inches on him, but he’s still my dad. That stare would make me feel guilty even if I’d just come from church. “Who drove you home?” he asks.
“Jasmine,” I answer. I really don’t want follow-ups. I’m in no position to lie about anything, but I don’t want to get into it—driving aimlessly with Jasmine until she pulled into the parking lot of a closed department store, making out with her for a few hot minutes, then getting the stiff-arm—again—when I tried to get busy for real. Then she just got all quiet on the drive home, like I was some stranger all of a sudden. Same story as always. With her, I’m like a big who keeps biting on every shot fake he sees.
Dad nods a couple times, considering more questions. This is usually Mom’s job—staying up until I get back and grilling me—and Dad’s not quite as tough. I know he’s supposed to give me the third-degree, but I see it all over his face—he doesn’t really want to know what his teenage son has been doing with a girl on a Friday night. He’s beat anyway. He’s cramming in double shifts working security every chance he gets, like he’s trying to make up for all the time he lost last year when he was laid up. His shoulders go slack and he motions me back toward the hall. “Go on to bed,” he says.
“Cool,” I say, then tell him goodnight.
“Hey,
