Terrific.
The heck with it. I moved over to a basket in the far left corner and shot alone. My face burned. I let the burn sink deep inside of me. The burn was good. The burn would fuel my game and make me better. The burn would let me forget, for a few moments anyway, that I still didn’t know what really happened to my father. The burn would let me forget—no, not really—that my friend Spoon was in the hospital and may never walk again and that it was all my fault.
Maybe that explained why all my potential teammates, even Brandon Foley, had turned on me. Maybe they too blamed me for what happened to the nerd that they all enjoyed bullying.
It didn’t matter. Shoot, get the rebound, shoot. Stare at the rim, only the rim; never watch the ball in flight; feel the grooves on your fingertips. Shoot, swish, shoot, swish. Let the rest of the world fade away for a little while.
Do you have something like this in your life? Something you do or play that makes the entire world, at least for a little while, fade away? That was how basketball was. I could sometimes focus so hard that everything else ceased to exist. There was the ball. There was the hoop. Nothing else.
“Hey, hotshot.”
The sound of Troy’s voice knocked me out of my stupor. I looked around. The gym was empty.
“Team meeting for non-lettermen,” Troy said. “Room one seventy-eight. Hurry.”
“Where is that?”
Troy frowned. “You serious?”
“I’m new to the school, remember?”
“Lower level. Push through the metal doors. Hurry. Coach Grady hates when someone shows up late.”
“Thanks.”
I dropped the ball and hustled down the corridor. As I took the stairs down, a small niggling started at the back of my brain. It wondered how come Coach Grady would call a meeting so far from the gym. I wish that I had stopped there and listened to that niggling. But there was really no time. And what was I going to do anyway, run back upstairs and ask my buddy Troy for more details on the meeting?
So I ran down the corridor. There was no else in the halls. The echo of my sneakers slapping the linoleum sounded as loud as . . .
. . . as gunshots.
My head started spinning. Where exactly was I? The lower level was for senior classes. I had never been here before. But if my sense of direction was correct, I was pretty close to being right on top of where Spoon had been shot just a few days earlier.
I hurried my step.
Room 166. Then room 168. I was getting closer. 170, 172 . . .
Up ahead I saw the metal doors Troy had mentioned. I pushed through them. They closed behind me with a bang.
And locked me out.
I stopped and closed my eyes. There was no room 178. Practice was probably starting right now. I would have to go out the back, through the football field, and around to the front entrance in order to make my way to the gym.
I ran as fast as I could but it still took me nearly ten minutes to get back. My teammates were already doing the weave drill when I burst in through the door. Coach Grady was not pleased. He turned and snapped, “You’re late, Bolitar.”
“It isn’t my . . .”
I stopped. What exactly was I going to say here? Troy looked at me with that same stupid smirk. He knew. I had two choices. One, tell Coach Grady what really happened, in which case Coach Grady might or might not believe me, but either way I’d be forever labeled a tattletale. Or, two, keep my mouth shut.
“Sorry, Coach.”
But Coach Grady wasn’t done. “Being late to practice is disrespectful to both your teammates and your coaches.”
I nodded. “It won’t happen again.”
“You haven’t even made the team yet.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And this won’t help your cause.”
“I understand, sir. I’m really sorry.”
Coach Grady stared at me a beat too long. “Run three laps and then get on line. Troy?”
“Yes, Coach?”
“Where’s Buck?”
I would say that Buck was meaner than a snake, but that wouldn’t be nice to the snake.
“I don’t know, Coach. He didn’t pick up his cell.”
“Odd. He’s never missed a practice before. Okay, five-second-denial drill. Get into it.”
Practice didn’t get much better. Whenever we were working on plays, the guys would throw it at my feet, making it nearly impossible to catch. When we scrimmaged, they froze me out, never passing me the ball no matter how open I was. Of course, I got my share of rebounds. I scored twice off steals. But still. If your teammates freeze you out, there is only so much you can do.
And then, with just a minute left in practice, I saw a glorious opening.
I was covering Brandon Foley. He grabbed a rebound and threw a long outlet pass to Troy Taylor. Troy had been what we call “basket-hanging”—not playing defense and staying close to his own basket for easy points. Troy caught the ball and slowed down his dribble. He was taking his time, preparing for takeoff, revving himself up for a big-time slam dunk.
The other guys hung back, watching, waiting to see whether Troy threw it down with one hand or two, or whether he tried a reverse dunk or something trickier.
I didn’t.
I sprinted toward the basket with everything I had. Up ahead of me, Troy took off into the air. His hand was above the rim, palming the ball. He was maybe half a second away from dunking the ball through the hoop when I leapt up from behind him and swatted the ball away.
“What the—?” Troy shouted in surprise.
A completely clean block.
“Foul!” he yelled.
I said nothing, just jogged toward the bouncing ball.
“You fouled me!”
I picked up the ball. I had knocked it out of bounds. It was his team’s possession. My father had taught me that you let your game do the talking. You don’t yell at referees. You don’t trash-talk. You just play.
I handed Troy the ball. He snatched it away.
“He fouled me!” Troy shouted again.
“Take the ball out of bounds, Troy,” Coach Grady said. “Run the stack.”
“But—”
“It’s just a scrimmage. Let’s go. Ten seconds left.”
Troy didn’t like it. He muttered something under his breath. I ignored him and got ready. I covered Brandon Foley tightly. I knew that he was the first option on the stack. Troy would want to lob it over my head to Brandon. I wouldn’t let that happen.