in the middle of the city. I have to call his name to get his attention, and even then Iesha takes a few more steps with her hand in his, so it looks like he’s about to drift away at any minute.
“What up, D?” he asks, still leaning in Iesha’s direction.
“We hanging later?” I ask. “We can maybe hit up Ty’s Tower.”
His eyes light up for a second, but then he glances over at Iesha. She just gives him this knowing look, and he turns back to me. “Nah, D. Can’t tonight. Maybe next week?”
I want to call bullshit on him. I mean, for years Wes clung to me like I was a life preserver. And he always jumped my case if I blew him off for hoops. Now he gets action with a girl and it’s Nah, D. Maybe next week. “Sure,” I say. I try to let the word slide out slow, to let him know this isn’t cool, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Soon as it’s out of my mouth, he’s turned back to Iesha, and they’re out the door. Just me and Mrs. Hulsey, who’s still not looked up from her desk.
Practice was ugly. Being stuck with Fuller at the three is starting to turn Josh Reynolds into Lance Stephenson in our minds. And if I weren’t so mad at the kid, I’d make another appeal for him to come back.
The truth is though, we can make do with Fuller. Tonight was just one of those sluggish practices. The shine is off things, and now we’re just slogging until the regular season starts.
I make the mistake about bringing it up to Jasmine. Now, she gets grief from her parents or gets something less than a perfect grade on a quiz, and I’m all ears. I’ll listen to her vent all night if it means I get to spend time with her. But let me mention one thing about Bolden being the biggest pain-in-the-ass to ever blow a whistle, and I get the sigh. It’s that long, frustrated sigh she gives when I’ve done something intolerable. She looks away as she does it, like it causes her physical pain.
“What?” I ask.
“Basketball,” she says. “Again.”
We’re sitting on Massachusetts Avenue at some place you can get coffee and sweets and frozen yogurt. Not my speed, but I’ve never been one to say no to Jasmine. I mean, there have been maybe three other black people in here the whole time. The place is filled with people who scream money—thirtysomethings with their bratty kids, college-aged kids in their stupid band t-shirts and caps. I feel like there should be a sign at the Northeast end of Mass Ave telling people from my blocks that they’re not invited down here. Sometimes I think this is the Indianapolis Jasmine wants to belong to, but I give her the benefit of the doubt—there aren’t really any decent places open late in our part of town.
“It’s not like I’m making you memorize our offense,” I tell her.
She gives a half-smile at this. “Fair enough.” She takes a sip of her hot chocolate.
I push my luck a little. “And be honest, girl. You were into it last year when we got on that tear. We make it to State and you’ll be as amped as anyone.”
She sets her drink down and gives me a long stare. For a second I think I’ve crossed some line with her, but then, slowly, she lets her mouth curl into a grin. “Oh, Derrick,” she says, “you are a funny guy.”
After that she starts telling me about things she’s learning in her Honors English class. Stuff about the Harlem Renaissance, stuff about W.E.B. DuBois, things I know I should care about. But I can’t get worked up about what happened to poets a century ago, no matter how much she insists it’s still important today. I don’t let on though. I ask questions, nod along, be a good boyfriend. When she’s done, she starts window shopping, making a huge deal out of some vintage handmade scarf she sees across the street. I want to get on her for liking white people things, but I know better. Besides, I also know she’ll look good in that scarf if she ever gets it.
Later, we’re parked down the street from my house. I don’t want to go in—not because it’ll be the same noise of Dad and Jayson arguing, but because this is as close as I’ve been to Jasmine all night. I lean over and kiss her, and she doesn’t pull away. That’s all it takes to set me racing. I lean in closer and take her hand in mine, feel the heat flowing from her. When I kiss her again, our bodies press together, and I can feel her heart pounding. I slide my free hand along her knee and up to her thigh. I pull back for just a second and look at her—her eyes are half-open, and her lips are still formed into a kiss. She shifts her hand in mine, then places her other one over it. Looking at our hands, her skin tone a couple shades lighter than mine, I think about more of our skin touching. I imagine rolling back to her house, sneaking up into her room—maybe her parents are out—and getting down to it for real.
But just as I go in for another kiss, images of where this could go zipping through my head, Jasmine squeezes my hand and pushes it back against my chest.
“You have to go,” she says. She sounds out of breath and distracted, like she’s afraid of what will happen if I don’t get out of the car.
“Jasmine,” I say and lean back in.
She stiffens and turns her head away. “No, Derrick. You’ve got to go. It’s late and I need to get home.” There’s no sense in trying for more. It feels like someone just elbowed me in the stomach and my breath comes out fast as I sink back in my seat. “Don’t be that way,” she snaps. “Don’t make me feel guilty, Derrick.”
“I’m not, I just—” but I don’t know where that’s going. We look at each other for a while longer. We’ve been down this road before, and she’s made it pretty clear that we’re not going further any time soon. Still, I could feel how hot she was getting. Up the walk, the porch light at my house snaps on. If there was any chance before, it’s gone now.
Jasmine leans over and kisses me on the cheek, like some aunt telling a child how sweet they are. “I had a great night, Derrick. Let’s not mess it up. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I say, and I try to sound upbeat about it. “I’ll see you at school.”
Then it’s up the walk to home, the crisp night air hitting me like a splash of cold water.
5.
Moose goes first. He’s a coin toss from the stripe, so it’s one of Reynolds’ best chances. Moose takes a few slow dribbles, then lets fly with his awkward form. The free throw comes out flat, but zips through cleanly.
“That’s one,” Bolden says. Reynolds nods at him.
Devin’s next and there’s no doubt on his. It sings through the net and Bolden raises two fingers to Reynolds. He nods again. No choice, really, because he’s got no room to complain. Coach Bolden let him back on, just two nights before our first game, but the deal is Reynolds has to run for it. And he’s got to do the stairs in the gym while we practice below him. A set of stairs isn’t that bad, but Bolden lined the rest of us up at the stripe—for each one we knock down it’s a set for Reynolds.
Maybe Reynolds thought we’d take it easy on him, try to miss a few without being too obvious about it. No way. I want Reynolds back for his sake, but we’ve been busting it for weeks while he’s been coasting. Personally, after the way he turned me down at the park and then strolled in now? I’d like to see him run until his feet bleed.
Stanford’s up now and even he knocks one down, thanks to a friendly roll. After that one falls, you can feel this little ripple pass through us all—everyone’s gonna knock theirs down, one after
