day, I consider how many options there are. Maybe a dark horse like Mississippi State or Clemson. Maybe a smaller school like Gonzaga or Wichita State. The dream at this point is to make it to the League—and you can do that from anywhere. I mean, George Hill went to IUPUI, and now he’s running point for the Pacers and just tearing it up. If you’re good enough, the NBA scouts will find you.
Then again, maybe I ought to just cool it. A good first step would be scoring double figures at Marion East.
6.
Tomorrow night we head to Gary to play King, a Chicago team. It’s a chance for cross-state bragging rights. The game after us is Hamilton versus another legendary Chicago team, Simeon. Which means another chance for Vasco and company to steal the show. I’ve got to stay focused on King though. Always gotta remember—the only team you can beat is the next one on your schedule.
Uncle Kid has drilled into me all the famous King names from back in the day—Marcus Liberty, Jamie Brandon, Rashard Griffith. I let Kid tell his old war stories, but I know those guys aren’t walking through the door. The guy who is hitting the hardwood tomorrow night is Martin Randle-El, the best player we’ll see until Vasco. He’s 6’11” and just a load down low. Got a little range to keep guys honest too. If you could still jump straight to the League, he’d be a lottery pick with that size, but instead he’ll spend a year at Kansas before bolting.
“Where’s your head at, Derrick?”
“Right here,” I say.
We’re upstairs in Jasmine’s room, working through some geometry problems. She’s got this stuff down from last year, so she helps me out some. It’s not like I’m some dumb jock getting his honey to write his papers for him, but this stuff is no joke. Besides, it’s a good excuse to get close to Jasmine without her pushing me away.
We’re sitting on her bed, the book between us like a little border. Even her room just seems so perfect. Always clean, never a stray sock on the floor, books all ordered on the shelves just so. But it’s more than the order. It’s her plush comforter on her big bed, her framed posters behind glass, her bookshelf—made of thick, solid wood instead of one of those throw-together things that break if you bump it hard. Her parents are dropping coin for stuff instead of scouring thrift stores. I know her folks well enough to know they have the same ongoing fight as mine—whether to keep on keeping on or save up to jump to some nicer neighborhood. From the looks of this place, I’d say Jasmine’s folks have the money to leap if they want to.
“You’ve been staring at that problem for five minutes,” she says. “You sure you’re still working on it?”
“I’m concentrating,” I say, but my smile gives me away.
She laughs at me. “I swear, Derrick, you can’t keep your head clear of hoops for even ten minutes. You’re obsessed!”
“Look, Coach Bolden always tells us it’s a game of angles, so maybe it’ll help me with geometry.”
She rolls her eyes. “You go on thinking that. See how it works out for you.” She sighs and rolls away from me, leaving me sitting up by her pillows while she stretches on her back across the bottom part of her bed. Her sweater rides up from her jeans, showing a little sliver of skin. My eyes trace from there up her body to those fine curves. Her parents are gone, and it’s almost dusk outside.
I put the textbook over on her nightstand, then lean down to her. I behave, keeping my hand on her stomach and not trying for too much too fast, but when I kiss her she rises up to me. It’s like somehow I turned on a switch in her. Jasmine pulls herself up by my shoulders and presses against me. Her tongue pushes into my mouth, and then she pulls back to kiss me down along my neck, peeling back my shirt a little to bite my shoulder. I try not to lose my cool. I know rushing things could kill it but as I hear her breaths get heavier and faster, all I can think is, This is finally happening.
Jasmine backs me up so my shoulders are against her headboard. Then she swings her right leg across me so she’s straddling me. I can’t take it. She’s practically begging me. So I lower my head to kiss her neck. Then lower. Then lower again. I can’t stop my hands.
“Derrick,” she sighs. “What are you doing?”
I don’t answer. Just keep moving my hands wherever they want to go.
“Derrick,” she says again. “Don’t.”
My hands move away from her chest, but slide down to her waist to pull her tighter to me. She pulls her arms from around my shoulders and squeezes them in between us like two bars along my chest. “Derrick,” she says one more time, her voice full of warning.
I know to stop. Anyone who’s listened to my mother preach for years about the right way to treat women knows to stop. So I do. But I don’t know how not to act upset. “Shit,” I say. It’s under my breath—same way I’d say it when I miss a free throw in practice—but Jasmine’s right next to me.
“Don’t be that way,” she says.
I lace my fingers behind my head, like that’s the one way to keep my hands still. “I know,” I say. “But…”
Jasmine stares hard at me, the heat in her eyes that was lust just a minute ago turning quickly to anger. “What?” She cocks her head at an angle. “What, Derrick? Go ahead and say it.”
“Nothing,” I say.
That’s it for a while. Both of us breathe heavily into the silence. Then we hear the front door unlock and her parents come in, calling for their daughter.
The gym in Gary is boiling. Like mid-summer hot. Even a minute into warm-ups and everyone’s streaming sweat. When I check the stands, people are fanning themselves with programs and mopping their foreheads with whatever they can find.
This time my family—all of them—made it on time. I see Jayson waving to me. He and Kid are squeezed between my parents, who are looking in opposite directions, like there’s some other game they want to check out on different ends of the gym.
Jasmine didn’t make the trek to Gary, so the only other person to check for is Wes. He’s in his usual spot in the middle of the band. I throw a look his way every time I go through the layup line. His head’s down though. He’s trying to be all subtle and text, something that would get his ass jumped by the band director if he gets caught. Would serve him right, I think, because I know he’s just hitting up Iesha. Like if they go five minutes without checking in, they’re both going to melt.
We step between the lines with the same starting five as the first game. It doesn’t take long to realize we’re in for the same kind of dog fight. King sinks back in around Moose and Stanford, but the tougher part is that when we finally do get Moose the rock, King doesn’t have to double. With Randle-El down there, they’ve got a guy Moose can’t uproot. First few trips we settle for jumpers from Fuller. He gets one to spin in, but it’s just the kind of possessions King wants for us.
On their end, no hurry. It’s pretty clear they like these kinds of games. Maybe try a drive here, a shot fake there. But it’s all built around Randle-El. They get him in the post once and Fuller’s late on the double, so Moose just goes for a ride to the rim. Next time down Randle-El catches shallow wing and drops in a little J. Third time down he posts again, we double hard, and he hits a cutter for a lay-in. All so easy.
It goes on like that the whole first half. We work forever to get an ugly look,
