Pull (11 page)

14.

The season stops for no one. That train leaves the station and there's no holding it back. So even though
my
season's on pause doesn't mean the schedule stops.

So here's Park Tudor warming up in our gym, ready to roll. And one look at their squad gives another lesson in how a season is relentless. It doesn't care that you've hit a rough patch. It doesn't give a damn you've got a key player injured. It's not going to offer you some cupcake just so you can click off a win. No. It'll give you Park Tudor. They have things ramped up, sitting at 10-2. They've sent guys to Xavier and Indiana recently, and they've got a couple other high major guys—Travis Bookley and Donte Walker—this time around. Walker's their point, all muscle on his 6'2” frame, with a deadly stroke from deep.

Then I look at our side. Stanford can hang, for sure. Fuller's not crazy skilled, but he'll fight to the death. Reynolds has shown flashes, but his best days are all out in front of him. That leaves Jones, who's really just a big body. And Rider. Even warming up, Rider looks shook. He spins out a lay-up and shakes his head. Fuller goes over to him to
give him some encouragement, but next time through Rider pulls up for a short J and just scrapes front iron.

Give our fans credit. They've still packed the joint out. As the clock ticks toward zeroes, their sound swells in anticipation. Bolden calls everyone in for last instructions before tip, and there's a buzz of energy coming off guys. The fans believe. Why not a win tonight? Why not an early Christmas present for Marion East? And that kind of thinking gets my blood pumping too, so much that when Bolden crouches down in front of the bench I almost, out of habit, grab a spot right in front of him. But then I remember—the constant pain in my calf, the khakis, the street shoes. So it's behind Bolden for me, standing with the back-ups and managers. All this game energy and nothing to do with it but watch.

Murphy stands next to me and squeezes my shoulder. “You still gotta stay into it,” he says. “Be another coach for us.”

He's right. So when the huddle breaks and they start announcing the starters, I grab a spot next to Rider. His leg's bouncing so hard with nervous energy, he's about to wear himself out before the ball even goes up. “You're okay,” I tell him. “Just remember you don't have to be a hero.” I gesture out toward the crowd. “Nobody out there expects you to be me.”

“I know that,” he says. He starts to stand.

“I didn't mean it bad,” I say. I stand too, so he has to listen to me. “Just stay within things. Don't force.”

“You mean don't screw things up,” he sneers.

This has gone all wrong. But just like between the lines, there are no do-overs. Rider's name gets called and he bolts out to mid-court. I
wonder if he took anything good from what I said. It doesn't take long for my wondering to get answered. First trip down he catches left wing and drives baseline—head down. He runs straight into the teeth of the D and picks up his dribble. He fakes and fakes, then gets the ball knocked away—off his leg and out of bounds. So much for not forcing it.

Walker brings it up and passes to the wing, then jogs down the lane—Rider on his hip—toward the block. Then Walker heads back out to the wing. And when a screen comes, Rider does the unforgiveable. Instead of staying tight on Walker, he goes under the screen. Walker can read that in his sleep. He pops to the three-point stripe, catches the pass in rhythm, and lets loose that pretty J of his.

Whatever buzz our crowd had diminishes to a murmur just like that. They all sit back down, ready for what looks like a long night.

It wasn't a bloodbath. But that's just because guys like Fuller and Stanford fought like madmen. And Bolden pulled out all the stops. He tried to hide Rider on defense by switching Reynolds onto Walker. He even ran more basic sets on offense so Rider wouldn't have to make snap decisions.

But it didn't matter. Park Tudor's a tough out even if we're at full strength. And without me to deal with, they cruised. They built a nine-point lead by halftime. We dug back to five—even Rider dropped a couple buckets—by the end of the third. But then Park Tudor just pulled away in the fourth, leaving our gym with a 60-48 win that was never really that close.

For Lia, I choose a place I never went with Jasmine. It's downtown, packed late on a Saturday night so Lia and I have to wait for our table.
Way
out of my price range, but Uncle Kid hooked me up with some extra dough on top of what Mom and Dad gave me. “So you can take it next level for once,” he said. All of it makes an impression on Lia, I can tell. She checks some of the women walking by in their expensive dresses, some of them with pearls strung around their necks. A lot of the men have that almost-rich look. Not loaded like they're CEOs or anything, but I see some heavy watches, some suits that look like they cost some serious coin. The hostess definitely did a double take on us, but she took my name and told us to have a seat. We're not the only two slumming up the place. There are plenty of guys throwing back at the bar, rocking sweaters and jeans. But I still get the feeling like maybe I've overdone it. When we squeeze into the crowded waiting area, I feel small and insignificant even if I've got a good two inches on every person there.

“You okay, Derrick?” Lia asks. I nod all nonchalant, but she senses something's off. “You know,” she says, “we can go somewhere else.”

“It's cool,” I say. “I got this.” For whatever reason, I feel committed to the move. Like if we jumped now people would all stare at us and point, laugh and say we couldn't afford it.

“I know you
got it
,” Lia says, “but—” She trails off, interrupted by some middle-aged guy trying to squeeze next to her on the bench. I'm seventeen and have the common decency to let a girl have a seat,
but this guy lacks it. Maybe he thinks his big ol' belly makes him deserve some rest. Or maybe Lia's just invisible to him.

“Excuse me,” I say. But he just ignores us, mashing out a text with his fat thumb. “Ex
cuse
me!” I snap. This time his head pops back. Full attention. Not just him, but every single person in the waiting area. I try not to laugh. Nothing like a black teenager raising his voice to get the pretty people all stiff. It makes me want to get all swole on him. Give him a good scare. But I cool it. I gesture, gentle as a cat, toward Lia. “You bumped her. I think you owe her an apology.”

His face gets all squinched up like he's insulted. But then he senses it. Everyone is watching him. In a heartbeat they've gone from being scared of me to frowning at the guy who had to be taught some manners by a teenager. Splotches of crimson rise on his neck. “Well, I—I didn't—I…”

Lia doesn't give him the chance to finish. She reaches her hand to me. I pull her up. Even that effort causes a little tweak in my calf, but I don't dare show signs of pain now. As if she's casting a spell with a wand, she waves her hand at the bench. “You can have it if you need it that much,” she says.

We don't even need to talk it over. We both know it's exit time. And now, instead of feeling like we bailed because we were out of place, we can spin on those people and act like
we're
too good for
them
. Even before we make it to the door, Lia's shaking as she tries to hold in her laughter. Then we're out in the cold December night and she lets it loose. She almost doubles over. She grabs onto my arm for balance. Around us is a swirl of flurries, people hurrying through the cold. The beams in the passing cars all seem to blur as they pass, like the very light is sticking to the air. But it's all good. So good.

When Lia regains her composure she squeezes my arm. “Derrick, there are more ways to impress a girl than dropping forty dollars on a plate that costs ten on Central,” she says. She raises onto her toes and gives me a soft kiss by my ear. “You just found one,” she whispers to me.

We make it back to my car. As soon as we get in, my impulse is to lean over Lia's way and go as far as I can with her. But I've learned a little patience in these things. So instead we leave downtown and head up toward our neighborhood. Soon, the streets get dimmer and the storefronts grow less inviting. I'm not sure where to take her. She says she doesn't need someplace over the top, but I want somewhere decent at least.

She must know I'm struggling to find the right spot. The car's been too quiet for too long, so she finally offers a suggestion. “Head up Keystone. There's that new place up around 56
^th
.”

I tap the gas and we're off. It's a clean, well-lit chain restaurant. Custom made for first dates. And, no, it doesn't have the splash of the place downtown. Or even the gritty character of places closer to our blocks, but I'm not about to gripe.

We park and head for the restaurant. And bump smack into some guy who's trudging along with his head down, hood pulled up so you can't see his face. I immediately tense up. I might get cracked up at white people tripping because of me. But the truth is, you never know. I get between the guy and Lia, but I don't say a word—better to just keep your head down and move along.

“D?”

I wheel around again and see J.J. Fuller, his hood pulled back now, staring at us. First thing I think is that if Lia and I wanted to keep
it to ourselves, that's done with. Not that Fuller's racing off to Twitter to spread the news, but all it takes is for him to tell one person and then the word will move through our school like a virus. But that worry fades fast. Instead, I wonder what Fuller's doing hoofing it this far from home.

“Where you headed, Fuller?”

He shrugs. In the parking lot lights, I can see embarrassment wash across his face. “Nowhere,” he says, trying to play it off. But Fuller's brow furrows up as deep as Bolden's does sometimes.

“You walk all the way up here?” I ask. “You got a ride?”

He relents now. He sighs, and his breath puffs into a cloud between us. “Yeah, I walked. It's stupid, I know. But after we lose, I just can't take it. I try to sit somewhere and it just gnaws at me. So I started walking, and before I knew it I was almost up at the mall.” He looks away again, worried maybe that he's sounding ridiculous. Everyone on the team always cracks on Fuller for being so earnest, so eager. Maybe we've made him self-conscious.

I'm not going to give him some big apology for that—giving each other hell is one of the best parts of being on a squad—but seeing him all torn up over a loss? That's different. I remember my freshman year when I just walked and walked after we got whipped by Hamilton Academy. I know
exactly
how Fuller feels. And I realize that maybe I should stop acting like nobody on the team has as much invested in it as me. It's pretty clear Fuller's all in. “It's gonna be okay,” I tell him. “You should know by now nothing comes easy at Marion East. We'll get this thing rolling when I get back.”

Fuller nods, but something doesn't sit well with him. “Look, D. I
want you back in the lineup. With you, we're a threat to win the whole thing. I just—” He breaks off and shakes his head.

“Say it, man.” Behind him, traffic rips up and down Keystone. The neon light of a tattoo shop buzzes against the night. Down the street a light snaps off in a car repair place—either someone working late or someone raiding the place.

“Fine. It's just that it would be nice if we could get a win without you. Like, let people know we're more than just the Derrick Bowen Show.”

Before I can say anything back, I see Lia out of the corner of my eye—her arms are pulled tight to her chest and she's shivering. I tilt my head toward her and tell Fuller we've got to get inside. Then I tell him to stay safe. But when I turn back to Lia to head to the restaurant, she's frowning at me. I just hold my palms up, wondering what I've done wrong now.

“You are
not
gonna let your boy walk home from here,” she says. “In this cold? This far from home? Tell me you're not gonna do that.”

Damn.
She's right, and I know it, but sometimes it would be a whole lot easier if I weren't surrounded by people reminding me to do the right thing.

So, in a minute, we're rumbling back down Keystone, Fuller in the backseat. We're almost back to Fall Creek Parkway when my hunger starts kicking in for real. “We're still getting some food, right?” I ask Lia.

“Absolutely,” she says. “Remember—nobody stands me up.”

Then Fuller chimes in from the backseat. “I'm kind of starving too,” he says. “You two want to hit up Sure Burger?”

I start scheming for excuses, some good reason I've got to drop Fuller at home first. But I come up dry. I look over to Lia for some help.

“Pretty soon it'll be about the only place open,” she says. “Let's just do it.”

So there it is. Sure Burger with Fuller tagging along. Not exactly what I had in mind. But before I let myself get all tensed up about it, I take stock. Good grub, hanging with a teammate, clocking time with the finest girl at Marion East—I've had myself some worse nights than this one.