Opening Lines. I checked the time on the text. She had sent it an hour ago. I quickly typed a killer response: Hey, you still there?
No reply. I put the phone down and dressed, staring at it, waiting for it to vibrate. I was putting on my sneakers when it did.
Rachel: Yes. Where r u?
Me: Tryouts today.
Rachel: How did they go?
Me: Fine. Who cares? How are you??
Rachel: Better. Bullet skimmed my head but caused no damage. Being released tomorrow afternoon.
Immature as this sounded, I wanted to ask her if she’d been in touch with Troy, but a) it wasn’t my business; and b) could you imagine anything more petty? Plus his speech came back to me:
That special girl who stole my heart is lying in a hospital bed, clinging to life.
The one who was being released tomorrow? Liar!
Rachel: Cand you stop by my house tomorrow after school?
Okay, I admit it—I felt a swelling in my chest and there was a smile on my face. School ended at three. Tryouts started at five.
Me: No problem.
Rachel: My dad will be home by 4. I don’t want him to see you so we have to make it fast.
I didn’t know what to make of that.
Me: Something wrong?
Rachel: Gotta go. Don’t tell anyone I texted you. No one. See u tomorrow.
I stared at the phone another minute or two and then finished getting dressed. When I got outside, Coach Stashower was waiting for me.
“You have a minute, Mickey?”
“Sure, Coach.”
Coach Stashower had thick curly hair and wore a polo shirt with the Kasselton Camel, our school mascot, on it. We moved into the PE teachers’ office and he closed the door.
“You’re some player, Mickey,” he said with something approaching awe.
Not sure what else to say, I went with, “Thank you.”
“I mean, this is only one day.” He cleared his throat, his voice more serious now. “Tryouts last the rest of the week. It may have been just a fluke.”
I didn’t say anything. I knew. He knew. Again, I don’t say this to sound cocky or full of myself. I say it because I know. I hate when the gorgeous girl always pretends she has no idea she’s pretty. It is dishonest. That kind of false modesty can be as annoying as bragging. So I didn’t say anything—there was no need because it all gets said on the court—but Coach Stashower knew that it wasn’t a fluke.
“Coach Grady is going to be working with the varsity for another hour, and he didn’t want you to wait around for him. He also needs to think about some stuff.” Coach Stashower stopped then, unsure how to continue. “Anyway, he asked if you can come to his office tomorrow at lunch. Can you make it?”
I tried very hard not to smile. “Yes, Coach.”
“Okay then. Go home and get some rest.”
CHAPTER 20
But I had no interest in rest. I was still flying high.
What I really wanted to do was play more basketball. I realize that this may sound obvious, but the more you play, the better you get. Plus I loved it.
I checked the clock. The pickup games down in Newark might still be going on. I could grab the next bus and be downtown in half an hour.
I texted Tyrell Waters, a junior at Newark’s Weequahic High School, who lived on those courts: Games still on?
I realized that I probably wouldn’t get an answer—Tyrell could be playing right now—but I got one immediately.
Tyrell: Yep, come on down.
I caught the bus at the Northfield Avenue stop. The bus was filled with weary housekeepers, nannies, and various domestics, who always gave this white boy curious looks. The trip from the leafy suburb of Kasselton to the grimier streets of Newark was only seven miles in distance but much farther in pretty much every other way.
The pickup basketball games were played on cracked asphalt with rusted rims. I started coming down here about a month ago because this is where the best basketball is played. You can call me prejudiced for that, but again it’s like that false modesty thing. If you want to get better—and keep your game under wraps until
No reply. I put the phone down and dressed, staring at it, waiting for it to vibrate. I was putting on my sneakers when it did.
Rachel: Yes. Where r u?
Me: Tryouts today.
Rachel: How did they go?
Me: Fine. Who cares? How are you??
Rachel: Better. Bullet skimmed my head but caused no damage. Being released tomorrow afternoon.
Immature as this sounded, I wanted to ask her if she’d been in touch with Troy, but a) it wasn’t my business; and b) could you imagine anything more petty? Plus his speech came back to me:
That special girl who stole my heart is lying in a hospital bed, clinging to life.
The one who was being released tomorrow? Liar!
Rachel: Cand you stop by my house tomorrow after school?
Okay, I admit it—I felt a swelling in my chest and there was a smile on my face. School ended at three. Tryouts started at five.
Me: No problem.
Rachel: My dad will be home by 4. I don’t want him to see you so we have to make it fast.
I didn’t know what to make of that.
Me: Something wrong?
Rachel: Gotta go. Don’t tell anyone I texted you. No one. See u tomorrow.
I stared at the phone another minute or two and then finished getting dressed. When I got outside, Coach Stashower was waiting for me.
“You have a minute, Mickey?”
“Sure, Coach.”
Coach Stashower had thick curly hair and wore a polo shirt with the Kasselton Camel, our school mascot, on it. We moved into the PE teachers’ office and he closed the door.
“You’re some player, Mickey,” he said with something approaching awe.
Not sure what else to say, I went with, “Thank you.”
“I mean, this is only one day.” He cleared his throat, his voice more serious now. “Tryouts last the rest of the week. It may have been just a fluke.”
I didn’t say anything. I knew. He knew. Again, I don’t say this to sound cocky or full of myself. I say it because I know. I hate when the gorgeous girl always pretends she has no idea she’s pretty. It is dishonest. That kind of false modesty can be as annoying as bragging. So I didn’t say anything—there was no need because it all gets said on the court—but Coach Stashower knew that it wasn’t a fluke.
“Coach Grady is going to be working with the varsity for another hour, and he didn’t want you to wait around for him. He also needs to think about some stuff.” Coach Stashower stopped then, unsure how to continue. “Anyway, he asked if you can come to his office tomorrow at lunch. Can you make it?”
I tried very hard not to smile. “Yes, Coach.”
“Okay then. Go home and get some rest.”
CHAPTER 20
But I had no interest in rest. I was still flying high.
What I really wanted to do was play more basketball. I realize that this may sound obvious, but the more you play, the better you get. Plus I loved it.
I checked the clock. The pickup games down in Newark might still be going on. I could grab the next bus and be downtown in half an hour.
I texted Tyrell Waters, a junior at Newark’s Weequahic High School, who lived on those courts: Games still on?
I realized that I probably wouldn’t get an answer—Tyrell could be playing right now—but I got one immediately.
Tyrell: Yep, come on down.
I caught the bus at the Northfield Avenue stop. The bus was filled with weary housekeepers, nannies, and various domestics, who always gave this white boy curious looks. The trip from the leafy suburb of Kasselton to the grimier streets of Newark was only seven miles in distance but much farther in pretty much every other way.
The pickup basketball games were played on cracked asphalt with rusted rims. I started coming down here about a month ago because this is where the best basketball is played. You can call me prejudiced for that, but again it’s like that false modesty thing. If you want to get better—and keep your game under wraps until
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