Chelsea snorts out a low laugh.
Bryson’s loose shoestrings and crooked shorts look on par with her clown accusation. Ace swipes a tongue out, dribbling the ball and staring at Bryson as if they aren’t teammates. He has this “me against the world” mentality and I guess I’d have the same way of thinking if I were ever in his shoes.
He doesn’t talk until Bryson does something stupid, like having his arms too slack while he’s supposed to be playing defense.
“Spread your arms,” Ace says.
My knees throb from digging my elbows into them. I’m looking hard for the Bryson that gives Marcus hell in our driveway. He’s not here though. Ace snatched all that confidence away. It’s gotten lower each day he’s been on campus. Now Bryson don’t have anything left—not even a voice because Ace’s feet are too quick, his arms are too sturdy and his mouth is hot.
“Man, spread your arms,” he says harder while spinning and driving past Bryson to the basket.
The ball goes in easy like all the ones he put up against the other boys.
Bryson tosses his hands behind his head instead of falling back into a defensive stance.
He’s hiding. That’s what Marcus calls it, but Mama says it’s anxiety from all the pressure. Bryson told me he didn’t know what it was. He just knows his brain stops working sometimes when niggas press him too hard on the court.
Ace dribbles between his legs and behind his back. His eyes lock with Bryson’s and I can’t hear him anymore. All I see are his full lips moving. They fold underneath his teeth and the nasty word flies out of his mouth.
P… U… S… S… Y.
The rest of his words trail behind it, but I can’t make out what they are.
Bryson loses his footing and stumbles to the side while Ace drives to the basket again, finishing with a layup.
“Ohhh.” I blow out a breath. “Bryson!”
“Phat,” Chelsea hisses. “Hush.”
“No, I know you saw what he just called him.”
“Okay, but talk to him about it after. We’ll get kick—oh shoot.”
We’re not invisible anymore. Ace dribbles in slow, fluid motions while staring at me. The itch I tried to stop in my throat earlier comes back even harder.
“This a weak ass nigga! Put your arms up, Bryson! He ain’t even from here! How you let him hoe you like that?” I push the words out, hoping they’ll satisfy the itching along the way.
They don’t.
They just make Ace’s handles more smooth than they were. The gym gets quiet except for the thumping basketball he keeps shoving against the court.
Bryson’s arms fall and he’s trying to crawl out of whatever hole his anxiety has him hiding in, but it’s too late for that. Ace don’t let dudes think on the court, and Bryson should know that. He’s been watching him right along with the rest of America ever since we found out he was just as good as his daddy—maybe even better. By the time Bryson gets out of his head and tries to push his arms up to get out of that hole, the rest of the team howls out screams.
My brain has to hit rewind to breakdown what happened because it’s too hard to understand.
There was Ace, a hesi, and a shot from half-court so smooth Dell Curry would’ve been proud. But most importantly, there was a smile—at me—like I was the second coming of Jesus.
CHAPTERTHREE
Lourdes
Low-key, boys give me hives. Not all boys. Just the boys I hate and like at the same time.
“So…” Bryson leans over the bookstore’s counter, plucking my baggy smock.
“So?”
I think Bryson wishes he gave me hives. I don’t hate and like him at the same time. I just like him. Not in a googly eyed childhood crush way—just a “damn, he looks kind of cute today” or “damn, those braces did wonders for lil’ Bryson.” He didn’t look like he came barreling out his mama with a basketball in his hands and, according to his mama, Lucy, he didn’t. He came out feet first, hollering so loud the doctors couldn’t wait to shut his ass up.
