Page 32

Fair Game

Seventeen Years Old, Tennessee

I loop Major’s leash around a nearby bench, then tighten the laces of my Nikes and step onto the court with the captain of the basketball team, the humblest hotshot I’ve ever encountered.

“Wanna play a game?” he asks.

“Basketball’s not really my sport.”

“Yeah, you said. Ceramics. First day. And I didn’t mean an actual game of basketball. Do you know Horse?”

Beck and I used to play when we lived in Washington. Connor put up a hoop in the Byrnes’ driveway because Beck was the tallest kid in his class, and his dad was sure he was going to be NBA material. But when it came to athletics, Beck was more brawn and determination than speed and finesse. We had fun with the hoop, but he never played basketball beyond PE.

“I know it,” I tell Isaiah.

“Cool. Instead of earning letters, we’ll earn questions.”

I lift an eyebrow. “You’ll crush me.”

His smile becomes mischievous. “And I’ll learn a lot. Where’s the problem?”

He tosses me the ball.

I catch it—barely.

He nods approvingly. “There. You’re warmed up. You game?”

I send the ball back and slip the elastic from my wrist. Tying my hair up, I say, “I’m game.”

He turns and, from where we’re standing—like a million miles from the basket—launches the ball. It hits the square on the backboard before banking into the hoop.

Okay. I’m done for.

He rebounds, then passes me the ball. Shaking my head, I take aim, then hurl it into the air. It drops like a stone, landing with a bounce well before the basket.

Isaiah camouflages laughter with a cough. “We’ll work on it,” he tells me, rebounding. “First, though, I’ve scored a question.” He pauses, scrutinizing my face before asking, “What do you think of the coil pot I’m working on in Ceramics?”

I smile. A blander question than I’d expected. “It’s very good. You could sell it.”

He accepts my compliment in his unassuming way, then moves toward a line painted on the court, in front of the basket. I watch how he lifts the ball, right hand beneath, left acting as support. With a flick of his wrist, he sends it toward the hoop, tracking it as it swishes through the net.

I set up while he rebounds. After he passes me the ball, I try to mimic his stance.

“Bend your knees,” he says. “You’re a spring. Shoot with your body, not your hands.”

I do as he says, giving my knees an experimental bounce.

“That’s better. Don’t look at the ball though. Look where you want it to go. That square on the backboard? That’s your target.”

I focus on the square. I keep my knees bent. I shoot with my body, not my hands.

Not a basket, but the ball hits the rim, ricocheting back.

“Better,” Isaiah says. “You’ll sink one in no time. How’s senior year treating you?”

I scrunch my nose at his second earned question. “Okay, I guess.”

“Really? Because sometimes you look miserable.”

“Sometimes I feel miserable.”

“But not because of school?”

“No. I like school. I like my friends. I like my classes, mostly.”

“Ceramics?”

I love Ceramics. I love Ms. Robbins and her cluttered garage. I love that the only expectations are creativity and effort. I love the cool, damp clay, and all its possibilities. I love capping my day with an hour spent under Paloma’s warmth. And I love that Isaiah sits by my side, rolling coils, smoothing nicks and bumps with damp sponges, peering over at me every so often, all dancing eyes and inquisitive smiles.

“Ceramics is cool,” I say.

He sets up another shot, which he makes and I go on to miss.

The game continues.

“Favorite junk food?”

“Fritos. Or brownies.”

“Least favorite book?”

“ The Catcher and the Rye . Holden Caulfield is insufferable.”

“Best animal?”

“Foxes. Because they’re cute and smart.”

“Favorite season?”

“Summer. Obviously.”

He grins. “Me too.”

He sinks another basket. I swear, he hasn’t choked once. On my turn, I miss—but barely. “So close,” he says. And then: “What are you gonna do after high school?”

Another easy question. “Commonwealth of Virginia University.”

At this, he tucks the basketball beneath his arm. “Not a Tennessee school?”

“I’ve lived here less than a year. I have no allegiance to the Volunteer State.”

“But you’ve got allegiance to Virginia?”

“Yes.” I sound uncertain, even to myself.

“Your parents aren’t on your ass, trying to get you to stay close?”

“Oh, they’re on my ass, but not about staying close. Just…the future in general.” I smooth a hand over my hair, flustered by the turn this afternoon has taken. I never would have guessed, leashing Major up for his walk earlier, that I’d end up getting deep with Isaiah on the neighborhood basketball court. What’s strange about opening up to this boy, though, is that it doesn’t actually feel strange. I’d happily shoot hoops with him until the sun sets. I ask, “Does Marjorie get after you about college?”

“Nah. She doesn’t care what I do after high school, so long as I have a plan and graduate with intelligence, independence, and generosity of spirit—those three things specifically. Since the day I moved into her house, a punk-ass kid who snickered at her attempts at discipline, she’s preached about how I’m gonna grow up to be the sort of human who makes a difference. At some point, I started to believe her.”

“She sounds incredible.”

His eyes go soft. “She is,” he says before firing another shot at the hoop. He showboats a little this time, posing with his hands in the air, making a zealous aaaaah sound, an arena full of fans screaming for him.

I rebound, boot him out of the way, and copy his shot.

The ball swishes through the net.

I’m so surprised, I stand motionless, staring at where it bounces under the basket as Isaiah hollers an elated, “Holy shit!”

I turn a grin on him. “I did it.”

“’Course you did,” he says, offering me his fist.

I give it a bump, considering my first question. I could ask about school, or basketball, or his life with Marjorie and Naya, but first things first: “Did you know I live in this neighborhood?”

His expression becomes quizzical. “How would I?”

“I don’t know. You mentioned that you wanted to see me outside Ms. Robbins’s garage and then you turn up around the block from my house. Seems coincidental.”

He lifts a brow. “Some might say coincidental. Some might say fated.”

That word, fated …it leaves goose bumps in its wake.

He notices the way I shiver, the way I chafe warmth back into my arms, the way my mouth lifts in the tiniest smile. He’s good at listening, at watching, at picking up cues. Holding my gaze, he says, “I had no idea you live in this neighborhood, but I’ve gotta say, I’m not bummed to have found out.” Then he shoots the ball, his eyes locked on mine and, as it has every other time, it drops through the net.

I throw up my hands. “For fuck’s sake!”

He laughs, going after the rebound, then returns to me, handing over the ball, his mouth turned up in a challenge. “Your turn.”

“Do I get to look at my target?”

“Did I?”

Frowning, I lift the ball, then hurl it sightlessly at the hoop.

It smacks the backboard, but misses the rim.

“Not bad,” he says. “Before long, we’ll be a fair match.”

I smile. “Liar. Question…?”

“Yeah. You ready to tell me about how last year kicked your ass?”