I can’t blame him. Since Uncle Kid had to move in with us, Jayson and I have been crammed into what used to be just my room. And with the baby coming, nothing’s going to change—except for Kid getting booted to the couch or, maybe, finding his own place—until I split for college. We’ve got the beds pushed against two walls, our clothes spilling out of drawers, our school books and papers fighting for room in the corner. That leaves a few feet for Jayson’s X-Box, its wires snaking up to a little hand-me-down T.V. on the dresser. We could clean, but first we’d need twice the space. I step over Jayson’s book bag and go toward the closet so I can peel off my clothes and get into something clean for night-time. Even there, I’ve got no room. Jayson’s got a lifetime’s worth of dirty socks and underwear piled in the center. And scattered around that is my recruiting mail. When it first started rolling in I kept it in organized boxes, but somewhere along the way it just spilled into an avalanche. You can see the school logos on the envelopes—Purdue, Georgetown, UAB, Dayton. Thing is, there are a few names that aren’t adding themselves to that stack anymore. When I tore up my knee last year, the flood of letters—and texts and tweets and calls—diminished to a stream. I still have an offer from Indiana, but the other elites have cooled on me. I’m damaged goods.
I kick at Jayson’s pile until there’s some free floor space to set down my bag. I scan the room. We’ve got to at least make a dent, or Mom’s going to come in here in the morning and blow the place up. But first, I plop down next to Jayson. He scoots over, annoyed.
“It’s not like we’ve got privacy anymore,” I say. “Might as well just tell me what you’re checking.”
He sneers. “Man, they’re making us do A Raisin in the Sun. Like there hasn’t been a black play written in the last fifty years or something.” He acts too tough for it, but here he is memorizing lines. He doesn’t want to think of himself as an actor, but he can make you a believer the minute he steps on the boards. “What about you?” he asks. “Hook it up with Lia?”
“Shut up,” I say, but he laughs. Like I said, no privacy. I can’t keep track of how many times I’ve caught him snooping through my texts.
He sets his script down. “How’s hoops?”
“All good,” I say. Only I’m not as good an actor as Jayson.
“For real?” he asks. “You been sighing around this place like you’re about to cry.”
“Nobody’s gonna cry,” I say. I scan the room again. “Unless Mom sees this room and whips both our hides.”
That spurs him into action. We do what we can—cram clothing into drawers, combine our dirty laundry into one pile, stack our books on the shelves, tuck his X-Box to the side of the dresser. But as we do it, all I can think about is that stream of recruiting letters. And what I wonder is how much of it would dry up—even from my main schools like Indiana and Clemson—if they knew I was getting turned inside-out by some scrub white boy in pre-season practices.
It’s 2:00 in the morning when I hear it. The ka-thunk of a basketball being dunked—the sound of an incoming text on my phone. I fumble for my phone in the dark.
You up?
I smile at the message, though I probably shouldn’t. I yawn, then tuck the phone under the sheet so the light won’t wake Jayson. Am now, I hit back.
The text comes back quick, and I try to muffle the sound by shoving the phone under my pillow. Too late. “Who the hell is that?” Jayson asks, his voice annoyed and raspy with sleep.
“None of your business,” I whisper.
“Good luck with that,” he says.
I take a quick peek at my phone: Just up. Thinking about you. Want to get together soon? It might be the middle of the night, but that’s all it takes to get my pulse racing.
Jayson keeps after me. “It’s Lia, isn’t it? She sending pics? Man, if she’s sending pics you’ve got to let me see.” He’s getting louder every second. The last thing I need is for Mom, sleepless again, to come in here and start asking questions.
“It’s not Lia,” I seethe. While I whisper-shout at Jayson, I knock out another text. A simple Sure. Not too eager. No definite date. Just enough to keep the conversation open.
“Oh, come on, D,” Jayson says. “It’s Lia. Ain’t nobody gonna text you in the middle of the night but her.” He climbs out of his bed now and stands over me—hand out, expecting the phone.
I slap his hand away. “Get back in your bed,” I say. “It’s not Lia.” He just stands there, hands on his hips, not believing me. “It’s not,” I insist. “It’s Jasmine.”
“Jasmine Winters?” he asks.
I don’t have to answer that one. Then there’s a heavy footstep in the hallway. Probably Mom. Maybe Kid or Dad prowling for late-night eats. Either way, it saves me from more questions. Jayson slips back into his bed soft as a free throw finding nothing but net.
I turn to the wall and check my phone again. On cue, the text comes back—Cool. Soon then. It kind of pulls back on her previous urgency. But there it is—texts from Jasmine. The first I’ve heard from my ex in months. Ex. Crazy to think about her in that term because, somehow, it always feels like we’re still together, even when we go forever without talking.
I don’t text back. I just try to be quiet and get some sleep. But not before I delete the whole conversation so Lia never sees it.
I know better than to pay attention to a list. What matters is what happens between the lines. But I can’t help it.
The Indianapolis Star, with the season starting tonight, has listed its “Top 20 Indiana Basketball Prospects.” When I was a freshman I popped on these very pages, listed as the top underclassman. Now? Well, they’ve got it in black and white.
I stand in our kitchen and stare at it. I got up early this morning, even before Mom, because I knew this would be in the paper, and I wanted to see it before anyone else. So now I’ve got some quiet time. Except all I want to do is scream. Ten guys in front of me? Two from Pike and two from Evansville Harrison? Two sophomores in front of me? And four guards? Kernantz has at least earned it. He’s a two-time champ and Ohio State bound. And Drew’s a beast at Pike. But Holliday? Stanski? I could have turned those guys inside-out on my crutches.
I don’t scream, of course. Waking up the house won’t help a thing. I slide open the drawer next to the sink instead. Pull out the scissors. I flatten the paper on the counter and start to snip into it. I might as well make this my hit list. Knock ‘em off one at a time. Hell, I’ll post it in my school locker so it’ll be there first thing every morning.
I hear the creak of a floorboard. I wrap my hand around the scissors, turning them into a dagger in my hand. Pure instinct. Then I wheel around, ready to face the intruder. There’s Jayson, yawning. “You scared the shit out of me,” I say. “What are you doing up this early?”
He sneers at me. “You’re not as quiet as you think,” he says. “And my
