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After that, Whitfield shifts into recruiting questions. I'm a little more comfortable with these, even though my answers are all dodges. I just tell him that I'm taking my time. No favorites. I want a place I can compete for a championship, I say, but that could happen almost anywhere these days. Once he shuts the phone off and thanks me for my time, I remind him that anything official is going to come through Coach or my parents. He nods real quick like he doesn't really believe it. He's overweight, probably from eating gym food for months at a time. His shirt is so wrinkled it looks like he pulled it out of the locker room
laundry basket. That and his pasty complexion make him look tired and jaded. “It's not going to stop me from asking you directly,” he says. He sounds a little disgusted by my refusal to answer him straight.

He waves at me to go on, like all of a sudden I'm the one holding
him
up. I see Jayson and Kid waiting for me at mid-court. Jayson looks a little bored, itching to leave, but Kid's styling. He's got on a red silk shirt that pops in the gym lights. It's the kind of thing that gets a body noticed, and Kid knows it. He's got that look in his eye like he could stand there all night letting women look him over.

Instead, what he gets is his nephew coming up for some sympathy. “Now I know how you feel,” I say—a reference to Kid's playing days under Bolden, his senior year cut short by all his run-ins.

He pulls back and narrows his eyes. “Boy, you don't know the half.”

“Well, tell me the whole story then,” I say.

Jayson puts his hands on his hips. “Can we
go
?” he snarls. It shuts down the conversation between me and Kid. It'll be interesting to see who Jayson turns into as he gets older. I know he's a good guy, but what used to be just a little mischief is turning into some serious attitude.

I don't have time to sweat that though. I gaze toward the edge of the gym and see none other than Wes Oakes. He's posing tough—got a Bulls hat cocked sideways and a baggy black jacket on, like he's trying to pass for some old-school banger. The problem is that next to him is the real deal: JaQuentin Peggs. Not that I know for real that Peggs is in a crew, but I know enough. And it kills me that that's where Wes is hanging instead of kicking it with me and my family like he used to. He catches me checking him. Just for a second the old Wes shines through. He smiles, big, and calls out, “'Sup, D?” Then he sags back into his
sulk. But he steps away from JaQuentin and his boys a few paces and nods at me, motioning for me to come over. I know the ground Wes walks is forbidden for me, but I figure if I can hang with him away from JaQuentin, then that's just what we need.

I nod to Kid and Jayson. “Go on. I'll hoof it home later.”

They both know I'm going over to Wes. Jayson raises his eyebrows. “You know Mom's not cool with that,” he says.

“She doesn't have to know,” I say. That came out a little sharp, so I shrug at them. “Wes is my boy. I can't just ditch him forever.”

Jayson doesn't look convinced, but Kid understands. He nods at me and gives a half-smile. He might have lectured me about cutting dead weight, but Kid knows that you have to stay true to your people.

6.

This isn't at all what I had in mind. It's like with hoops—sometimes you play out a whole game in your head, how things will break your way, how you'll put the clamps on the other squad, how you'll get a run-out early to get things rolling. Then that orange goes up and everything switches up on you. The other team's changed offenses. Your first shot rattles out. You get a cheap foul. It all goes to pieces.

That's about how it's gone with Wes tonight. The idea was to get him away from JaQuentin, just let him ease back into being the same old Wes—easygoing, ready to chill, no stupid stuff. Instead, he dropped it on me that he skated on home detention because JaQuentin “had the hook up.” Then he told me we could head back to the block together. I figured that meant just me and Wes kicking it on foot like old times, but what that really meant was piling into JaQuentin's black Tahoe, the last place on earth I want to be. I'm in back next to Wes, and there's some thugged-out guy riding shotgun. That guy's about as tatted as Kid Ink. He's got his neck marked, some detailed designs on his forearms. Even his fingers sport
tats—a 3 and a 7 on his right hand with a symbol I can't make sense of between them.

And of course JaQuentin isn't rolling straight back to Patton. No, he tells me he's got to make a pit stop, and soon enough we're cruising slow through the streets behind the Marott Apartments. Peggs keeps eyeing his phone like he's waiting on a text. I give the death stare to Wes, but he just shrugs. Then he mouths
It's cool
to me. I just shake my head and turn back toward my window. I don't want to get into it now. Lord knows I don't want to distract JaQuentin from his driving any more than he already is with that phone. It's a sure bet he's riding dirty, so I don't want a repeat of this summer with Wes.

“Can you believe this motherfucker?” JaQuentin asks his buddy in the front. Peggs holds up his phone. “I texted him ten minutes ago and he said he'd be here.
Shiiit.”

His inked-up friend just grunts. JaQuentin steps on the gas and roars around the corner to start another lap. He loops his arm around the passenger side's headrest and cranes back toward us. He shifts his lazy gaze back and forth between me and Wes. Meanwhile, he's still cruising a few miles an hour, his car drifting across the center lines. “After this we gonna hit up a place on 30
^th
. My boy Hutch is throwing down tonight. You two invited.”

When I clear my throat, Peggs doesn't even flinch. “You got a problem, Bowen?” he asks.

“I got to get back,” I say. I try to put a little oomph behind it. After all, I've got four inches on the guy. But I can't hide the fact that I'm way out of my comfort zone.

“What? You ball a little and you think you're too good for us?
Shit. You in my car now, D-Bow.” Then he hits the brakes and jackknifes into an open space, the back end hanging out a good two feet. He points out the passenger side's window. “There he is. Let's roll.”

He and his friend get out. A gust of night wind comes into JaQuentin's ride. I'm no fool. I know what they're doing. They move beneath dim streetlights down to the corner where a man—older, bulkier—waits. He keeps his body still, but his head swivels slowly, like a security camera. The street's so quiet you can hear the roar of engines racing on nearby blocks. When the man finally sees JaQuentin, his
There you are
cuts clean through the air. After that, they talk more quietly. All you can hear are rises in inflection, bursts of laughter now and then.

“You got to be kidding me,” I seethe at Wes.

He's pinched himself all the way back into the opposite corner, as far away from me as he can be. “It's not a thing,” he says. “Be cool.”

“Be cool,”
I spit back. It's like someone who's just committed three straight turnovers and been beaten for three straight buckets turning to you and saying
My bad.

When we were runts, they'd hit us with all these talks at school. They'd bring police officers in to lecture us about every single danger out there. Nobody took it seriously. It was like the more they tried to scare us, the tougher we had to act. They did this one exercise, though, I thought was over the top. They'd have a person stand on the teacher's desk and try to pull up another kid who was sitting on the floor. Nobody could do it. Not even the strongest guy. Then they'd have the person on the floor tug on the person on the desk. Most of the time, the person on the desk would come tumbling down in a heap. They told us that was
what it was like trying to help someone who was messed up with the wrong people or on drugs or something. All they did was drag you down.

I guess I always thought that was stupid—like the moral was to never try helping anyone. Until now.

“You didn't have to come,” Wes says.

“I wanted to try to help you.”

Now Wes gets his back up. “Help me? You think I need
your
help
?
Just accept that I got my own thing going and deal.”

“This is your thing?” I gesture out the window to where JaQuentin slaps hands with the guy they met. They hug it out and then Peggs and his boy start back for the car. Right then the chirp from a police car pierces the night. Everyone freezes. In that pause I feel it all—my season, my career, my dreams—drifting away like so much smoke.

But it's just a noise from another block, signaling trouble for someone else. It's like a warning shot though. JaQuentin hustles back to his ride. He and his boy pile in. He smiles at us in the back seat. “Business is over. Play time now. Let's hit up Hutch's.”

“I can't do that,” I say.

JaQuentin's smile vanishes. He turns to his boy riding shotgun. “D-Bow
does
think he's too good for us. I guess if you don't have scholarship offers from the ACC then you don't rate in the great D-Bow's book.”

“It's not about that, it's—”

“What?” JaQuentin shouts at me.

“I just got to get home.”

JaQuentin stares at me for a few seconds. He looks at his friend.
Then at Wes. Then back at me. “Fine,” he says. He throws his ride into reverse to back us out, then lays down some tire as he roars down the road. First stop sign we hit, he slows enough that I can hear him mutter to himself—“Some bullshit, Bowen. Straight bullshit.”

But at least we're heading back to Patton.

I don't even try to cover it. I'm late, so they'll demand an explanation.

And as soon as the name—
Wes
—is out of my mouth, Mom springs off the couch. “I know!” she hollers. I shake my head, and she can see what I'm thinking. “Don't act like your brother betrayed you. What? You think he's going to lie to me to protect you? Would
you
do that for him?”

I mutter out a
no
, the only acceptable answer. Besides, it's probably the truth. I fear nothing on the hardwood, but, man,
nobody
has the brass to lie to my mom when she gets heated up. I take a quick look at Dad. He's sitting in his chair, hands gripping the armrests. He reaches up slowly, removes his glasses, and wipes his tired eyes. Then he shakes his head. “If you're looking to me for sympathy, you're not going to find it. Come on, son. On the same night you were suspended? You have to be smarter than that.”

Still, at least his tone is one of worn-out disapproval. My mom's still on full-tilt. “Every detail,” she snaps. “I want to know every single thing that happened tonight.” She levels her index finger at me, all business.

I go through it. JaQuentin Peggs. His friend. The noise they got up to. All of it.

“Derrick,” my dad says at the end, “what on earth are you thinking?”

“Look. I got out of it as best I could. I didn't go the party with them. I just got home.”

“I understand that.” He sighs. “But, Derrick, you're not some prep school kid who keeps getting chances. People will give you a little rope because you can play, but not as much as you think. You screw up too many more times and everyone will think you're just another thug.” His gaze hardens as he stares past me, thinking about me but something else at the same time. “And you'll be shocked at how cold the world gets when they decide that about you.”

I accept the mini-lecture and then take a step toward my room. Mom's not having it. “Where you think you're going?” she asks. “Wait here.”

She storms out of the living room, her feet pounding the floor so hard I'm sure that Jayson's wide awake now and listening in. She comes storming back down the hall with a city map in her hands, unfolding it angrily as she walks. Ripping right past without even looking at me, she heads to the kitchen. She spreads the map on the table, then turns around to me and Dad. “Come here,” she commands.

As we walk over, she yanks a kitchen drawer open and unsnaps a red Sharpie. A quick wave of her hand indicates that we best sit, and we obey. In red so thick you'd think it would bleed through onto the table, she marks a big red loop on 465, circling the city. Then she scrawls a 144 inside of it. “You know what that means?” she asks me.

I just shake my head.

“That's how many people got killed here last year,” she says. She's not shouting now. Instead, her voice has settled into an urgent whisper. “Yeah, when the news covers it, they make it sound like it's the whole
area's problem, but”—she takes that Sharpie and presses a big red dot up in Carmel—“they're not talking about people up here. No. It's us. These streets.” She motions toward the walls, lingering just an extra millisecond when she's gesturing up the street toward Wes' direction.

She sits now, like she's exhausted from the effort. She buries her head in her hands. Then she looks up again. “You want more? Sixteen white people got killed. Twenty women. I'm not saying they don't count, Derrick. I'm saying that most of the people who got killed”—she jabs her index finger at my chest, emphasizing every word—“look just like you. And it's not just from people in gangs. You don't think a policeman can lose his mind here just like they do in other cities? Think again. All it takes is for you to be with Wes when he runs into a cop on a power trip.”

“How do you know all those numbers anyway?” I ask her, trying to hide my skepticism. I mean, I know how things break in the city, but it seems like my mom's putting it on a little heavy.

Dad's the one that answers. “We're parents of a black teenager,” he says. “It's our job to pay attention even if nobody else does.”

7.

Stanford controls to Fuller. He kicks it to me. First touch all year, and I know what to do with it—rip it right to the rack. I duck under a challenging big for a reverse off the glass. Quick as that, we're up 2-0 on Warren Central.

That's all it takes for the blood to get flowing again. The crowd's jumping too. The season's
on
.

One thing's for sure—Warren Central isn't going to sit back and let me soak in the moment. They rip it back at us. Right off the bat, coach has me on Rory Upchurch. He's their senior scorer, the guy who lit up everybody last year. A two-guard, he's not my natural match-up. And it means I've got to locate him every time down, since he's guarding Reynolds on our end. Right away, I see the problem—since I drove to the hole, he's got about a twenty-foot headstart on me. They kick it ahead before I can catch up. Reynolds races over to help, but Upchurch shakes him fast. Next up, Fuller flies at him. It slows Upchurch down
just a tick, enough for me to close some ground. He gets past Fuller to the baseline side, opening up a clean look from fifteen. He lets it fly.

And—
whap!—
I arrive just in time to put that thing in the fifth row.

Upchurch is a legit Mr. Basketball candidate, and he just got punked. Our crowd lets him have it, hooting and jeering and rising to their feet. Upchurch is too good to sweat it, but I check some of his younger teammates. Their eyes go wide. For a couple of them, this is their first road start and they're realizing that we don't set out the welcome mat at Marion East.

Their coach barks the in-bounds play to them. All I know is that I need to stay glued to Upchurch. Everything they run involves him. I fight over a screen and stay on his hip. Then I hear Jones warning me about a back-screen. I turn to locate, keeping watch on Upchurch at the same time. Jones gives me room to make it through, and I've got Upchurch locked down again. That leaves Jones' man with a pop-out to fifteen. He catches the in-bounds, shot-fakes, then fires—way out of rhythm and way off line.

I can't get a clean rip, but I tap it to Stanford. He grips it, then pivots and outlets to Reynolds. That's when I see my opening. Warren Central has to switch just like we do. Upchurch is supposed to check Reynolds, but now he's trailing. While he sprints to catch up, my man tries to slow down Reynolds—and I'm
off
. Reynolds crosses mid-court and fans out to the right wing. That gives Upchurch time to catch up, but when my man tries to recover it's too late. Reynolds sees me and lobs one to the rim. With a free run, I sprint, gather, and rise. I catch that thing a good foot above the rack and muscle it home.

I've been there before. So instead of getting all swole about it, I just give a single fist pump and race back on D. But, baby, inside my chest the fireworks are going off. The crowd on its feet, the rim rocking, the opponents shell-shocked—this is
it
. This is what I live for.

After the grind of last year, I'm locked in with Fuller, Stanford and Reynolds. Jones is the only one who didn't get meaningful minutes last year, so we have to coax him along a little—remind him where to go on some offensive sets, encourage him when he gets beat on the boards a few times.

That togetherness is the difference. Upchurch is a load, but Warren Central doesn't have any backup for him. And the only time he really gets loose is when Bolden gives me a breather for Rider. Man, I hit the bench, and you can see Upchurch's eyes light up. First time he gets a touch, he attacks—shot fake to get Rider off his feet, then a dribble to his favorite pull-up spot. Deuce. Next time he loses Rider on a screen and launches a trey. The kid's shot is butter when he gets a look like that.

Bolden tells Reynolds to switch onto Upchurch, but that's only a little bit better. Reynolds had a brief go at Upchurch last year, so he knows what he's in for—but that doesn't mean he can stop it. Upchurch has to work harder. He rubs off screen after screen, then has to shake Reynolds with a nasty crossover—but in the end, Reynolds is still beat. Upchurch buries another trey. The lead we've spent all game building is suddenly down to three.

“Don't get too comfortable there,” Bolden growls at me. “Next dead ball you're back in.”

That's what I want to hear. I know he's just trying to keep my legs fresh, but truth is I want to go all 32 minutes every time out. The only time I want to rest is when we've got the game iced.

On our end, Fuller goes flying baseline and gets bailed out with a reach. The whistle's my cue. As soon as I stand, there's a ripple of applause in our crowd. People know what's up. When I jog onto the court, I point at Rider and he hangs his head in dejection. And Upchurch just smiles and claps. I know what he's thinking—he's loose now. He feels like he can keep it rolling, even against me.

Before the game, I eyed all the scouts checking us. Purdue, Michigan State, Louisville, Cincinnati. I know what they're thinking too—showdown in crunch-time between two big-time guards. And, yeah, Upchurch is a senior so it's not like an offer to him means they'll miss a shot at me, but everyone's always trying to figure out the pecking order. Time to prove to them whose name should be on top.

We run an in-bounds play for Stanford, but he doesn't come free so Fuller lobs it way out top to me. And wouldn't you know it—Warren Central's coach has Upchurch switch onto me. Showdown time for real. I know better than to just force it. We run offense. A kick to Reynolds on the wing. A look to Jones in the post. Then a reversal through Fuller out top. Back to me on the left wing. I power past Upchurch, but their bigs jump to the action quick. There's a look at a tough pull-up, but we can do better. Back out to Reynolds on top again. I glide on through the paint, getting a rub off of Stanford. It's just enough to get Upchurch trailing by a step. Reynolds hits me right on time on the opposite wing. Just the slightest pump fake gets Upchurch leaning—and I'm gone. I knife into the paint, getting deep into the teeth of the defense before
they pick me up. Their center rises to challenge my look. Quick as a whip, I duck under him and feed Stanford. Easy deuce.

Our crowd jumps back into full throat. Stanford pounds his chest and points in my direction—the points are his, but he knows who made that bucket happen. No time to celebrate though. I clap my hands and holler at my boys. “Stop now! Let's get a stop!”

Even as I yell, Warren Central's pushing for Upchurch. I find him on the wing. When he catches, I challenge with my hand but keep my feet balanced. He's smart too. Doesn't force. They run offense instead, which means I get pinballed off screen after screen. I keep contact, helped by my teammates hedging into passing lanes.

Finally I get a face full of shoulder from their center. Probably a moving screen, but not a call you get down the stretch. It gives Upchurch room on the right baseline, a place he likes to work. I close fast, and he passes on a catch-and-shoot. Maybe that swat from early in the game is still on his mind. Instead, he tries driving baseline. When I cut him off, he backs out to the wing to solo me up—and makes one bad mistake. He turns his back. Maybe he's trying to set me up, but it gives me a clean look at the orange. Just a tap is all it takes. The rock ricochets off his knee and bounces toward open court. Their other guard dives after it, but I get there first. I tap it again, pushing it out toward mid-court. I leap over their sprawling guard. Then I'm all alone.

Corral. Push. Feel the energy of the crowd swell as I race to the rack. And then when I rise up, it's all blocked out for the briefest of moments. There's no crowd, no scouts, no coaches. Hell, there's not even a game on. Just me attacking the rim. I break out a big tomahawk, throwing the thing down as hard as I can.

When I land, it all comes rushing back. The crowd is a mob, a rocking sea of red and green. My teammates are howling as our coaches urge us to race back on D. Upchurch turns to the ref and signals for time, his squad down seven again, chances dashed. And all those scouts from the blue chip schools have their answer: Derrick Bowen's the king on this court.

Fuller just wants to talk hoops. Perfect. That's why I hit him up after the game to go get some grub—I know Fuller is the one guy who won't get up to any nonsense.

“We got to get Jones involved,” he says. “I'm not saying take shots away from you or Stanford, but we make him into a threat and teams won't know what to do with us.”

“I hear it. Right now the only looks he gets are put-backs. But in practice he buries that J from the elbow.”

Fuller's chuckles and shakes his head. He looks away like a wistful old man. “There's no greater distance than the one between practice shots and game shots,” he says.

“Preach it,” I say. My agreement makes Fuller smile. All the kid wants, really, is to belong. He transferred here last year. As much as he's found his fit on the court, he's a tough fit off it. He's so eager it kills him, so sincere he makes people roll their eyes. He falls in love with any girl who looks his way and—even worse—professes it to them right off the bat. And then there was his “party” the other weekend, which made everyone feel like they were back in sixth grade. But the kid's steady. And right now, I can use steady.

So here we are, at Sure Burger on 38
^th
. It's a new place, opened
last month, but it doesn't look it. The booths look so old and grimy, it's like they pre-date the building. In the hall to the bathroom there's a small mountain of wreckage—old aprons, a broken space heater, busted crates—and in the men's room the window is clapped shut with plywood. And then there's the grease—everything within 50 feet of the kitchen has a slick coat on it, like someone busted in one night and just doused the place in the oil from the fryer. But, hey, it's got the good eats. That's all we care.

I make the mistake of checking my phone. The scroll of texts is longer than the Constitution. On one hand, it makes me feel good. I mean, that's part of the point, right? Ball out and get a ride to college. Then own it there and make it to the L. But already the voices are blurring.
Good game!
and
Way to tear it up!
and
Saw your line, D. Way to be!
and
We need a scorer like that at Creighton!
They all start to look the same after a while. The names of the schools change, but it's all the same. I need to narrow them down. Fast.

Fuller points at me with his fork, a mess of stabbed fries on the end—I mean, the guy eats his fries
with a fork!
“More questions from Whitfield?” he asks. It's a loaded comment. More snark than usual from a guy like Fuller. But I know I deserve it. The interview with Whitfield did
not
go over well in the locker room. Nobody was truly falling out, but Stanford and Reynolds both made sure to give me some static on it. Then again, I basically proved myself right on the court tonight. Maybe that's why Fuller backs off when I don't answer right away. “Probably schools, huh?” he says. “Where you thinking?”

I sigh. “I wish I knew. Indiana, maybe,” I tell him, but even that I can't say with conviction. It's just my default response.

“Playing it close to the vest,” Fuller says. He says it like we're conspiring on something. Then he nods in approval, like he's been down that road before.

“I'm just telling you how it is,” I say. “I'm not trying to hold back some secret.”

“Oh, I hear you.” But he has that look like he
knows
I mean something else. Whatever. Let him think what he wants to think. “But if you need to hash it out with someone,” he says, “I'm here.” On
that
I've got to fight back the urge to roll my eyes. It's like he
wants
to sound like a pathetic guidance counselor. He must read my thoughts because he puts his fork down and bugs his eyes. “What? What'd I say?”

I shake my head. “Nothing, man. Just take it easy. It's cool.” But when I look past him, now I'm the one bugging. What I see up at the front is the very last thing I'd expect late-night at a grimy place like Sure Burger: Jasmine Winters, a stack of books clutched under her arm. Her eyes look a little bleary, and she's got her hair bunched up under a baseball cap, but she still looks
good
.

I don't want to just rush up on her. But Fuller sees me looking and wheels around so hard that his chair scrapes on the floor. Jasmine turns, sees us gawking. She smiles and shrugs her shoulders. “Hey, Derrick,” she says. “What can I say? I needed to re-fuel.”

I figured Jasmine would head downtown, hit up some dimly lit coffee shop, instead of cracking her books next to a pile of chili-cheese fries.

“Come sit with us,” Fuller blurts before I can respond. Makes me cringe. If the guy had any subtlety, he'd wait to see what Jasmine wanted. Or, even better, hit the pavement so she and I could kick it alone. But that doesn't seem to bother Jasmine—she jumps at the offer.

She comes over and slings her stack of books down to the floor. I know she came here with the intention of more studies, but she thuds those things down like they weigh five-hundred pounds each. There's an ACT prep book, a thick novel for her English class, and then a little pamphlet. It's got pictures of kids of all races, their eyes eager, all of them looking forward like they're listening to some lecture. It's got the IUPUI logo on it, but I know Jasmine hasn't studied herself crazy for four years to go there. Jasmine catches me looking at it. She kicks the novel over to cover the pamphlet.

“Heard you won tonight,” she says.

“Ah, we put it
down
,” Fuller says. “Dropped Warren Central.” If I didn't know better, I'd swear Fuller was trying to act the big man for Jasmine. Crazy move. She might not be my girl, but she's not exactly
nothing
to me.

“Well, that's good, I guess,” she says, a little ice in her voice. Fuller sits back, realizing just how unimpressed Jasmine Winters is by a high school basketball game.