Chameleon (18 page)

Shoot the ball: bend your knees, spring into the shot, sign it with your wrist, and follow through . . . just like Dad taught you — swish.

“Nice shot, Shawn,” Andre said, slapping me five as I made my way up the court.

Randy pushed his little brother on the back of his head and said, “Somebody been practicing,” then shouted, “One–zip, us.”

Bricker pointed in my direction and said, “Ain’t go be no mo’ of them, homey,” then pointed at Trent and said, “Lock him down,” talking about me.

Now, I been playing with Trent for a while, and he can’t guard me. Plain and simple. That’s not trash talk; that’s just a fact. Out of all of us, Trent is the weakest. He plays hard and he tries, but the three of us are just better than him. I don’t know why — that’s just how it is. I felt bad for him right now, though, because if I torched Trent during this game, he might get bawled out by this dude who can’t even make a free throw. I didn’t want that. But I also didn’t want to lose.

The next batch of points came fast and furious: a dunk by ’Dre’s brother here, a dunk from the other team there, a jump shot by ’Dre here, a layup by ’Zo there. The four of us and Randy were playing pretty good — even Trent managed to make a few jump shots. I didn’t take it easy on him; I just didn’t hound him on D like I do when I play Andre.

Throughout all of this, Bricker still had that look in his eye. After I made another jump shot, he yelled at Trent, “If that’s your man, get up on him!” Then he rushed Trent to show him, knocking him down in the process.

But that was just the beginning.

If somebody dropped a pass: “Catch the ball, PLEASE!”

If he dropped a pass: “Why you throwing it over there when I’m over here?”

If a teammate missed an open layup: “Can somebody PLEASE make a layup?”

If he missed an open layup: “It slipped off my fingers.”

He seemed to forget about all the open jumpers he missed and all the times he went one on five as he said this to his teammates. This wasn’t lost on me or Andre as we tried to encourage our friends on the other side; we been playing together for so long that it was hard seeing some knucklehead all in our friends’ faces. Randy tried to shut this clown up too. More than once he splashed in Bricker’s face, shaking his head and staring at him while backpedaling up court. But guys like that only get more upset. They take it personal, then they take it out on somebody else.

Andre brought the ball up, and Bricker met him on the other side, swiping at Andre’s face like a cat to distract him. I came over to help, but he tried to jump up on me too. I weaved left, then right, then Andre threw the ball over his head to me. I threw it right to another teammate. Randy raced up court, pointed to the rim, and caught a quick lob for an easy dunk. Sweet.

I slapped high five with Randy as he ran back, but my smile disappeared as I turned around and saw Andre on the ground clutching his stomach. Randy saw it too. He ran over to his little brother and said, “’Dre, what happened?”

Andre clutched his stomach as he pulled himself up and said, “I’m cool, just caught a forearm.”

Randy rushed Bricker, stuck his finger in his face, and said, “Ay, man, keep yo’ hands to yo’self.”

Bricker held up his hands as if to say, “What did I do?”

Randy backed off, his eyes burning into Bricker, and shouted, “Game point — our ball!”

One point and we’d win. Andre was standing but still clutching his stomach. He didn’t look good.

“’Dre . . . you cool?”

“Yeah, Shawn, why don’t you bring it up.”

I didn’t want to bring it up, especially if Bricker was going to be swiping at my face. But I had no choice. I wiped my palms off on the bottom of my shoes and took the ball out. I tossed it into Andre, who tossed it right back. Bricker jogged up slow, following ’Dre, then he darted back over to me. The instant he broke for me, I lobbed it over his head to Andre, who pushed the ball up court. I raced to follow but then . . .
BLAM!

Blue sky. Purple sky. Yellow clouds. Red birds. Green sun. Blue sun. White shadow. Black shadow. Voices. And pain.

“Shawn.”

Mama waking me up.

“Shawn.”

Auntie calling for ice.

“Shawn!”

Marisol running up behind me.

A cough. My cough. Inhale. Cough-cough. Exhale.

“Shawn . . . you all right?”

I blinked the colors away and stared up at four tall shadows. The tallest blocked the sun from my eyes. It crouched down and the sun broke through.

“You all right, man?”

Randy?

The light struck me in the eyes and pierced pain into my brain. I exhaled.

“Catch your breath,” the voice said.

I sat up. My head throbbed, my chest felt like an elephant had stepped on it, and everything looked and sounded fuzzy. A loud voice cut through, “If li’l man can’t stand the heat, he need to stay out the kitchen!”

Bricker.

Randy jumped up, knocking the fellas in the process. “What I tell you?” he said.

I tried to stand but couldn’t catch my breath.

“Don’t get up too quick,” Andre said, adding, “He got me too.”

What’s he talking about?

“You took a forearm to the chest,” Andre said.

Trent added, “And I think you hit your head when you fell.”

I ran my fingers across the back of my head and didn’t feel any blood. Good.

“Still game point. Check ball,” Randy said.

“Well, let’s go,” Bricker replied.

Yeah, let’s go.

“Shawn . . . you sure you cool?” Andre asked as I tossed the ball back to him after one dribble.

Inhale. “Yeah. Let’s go.” Exhale.

I shook the cobwebs away with each pass of the ball. My lungs were working overtime. Bricker was
not
going to win. Somebody needed to shut him up, but who?

I caught a pass and scanned the court. Where was everybody? Trent crowded closer. Where was Andre? There he was, moving down low. I quick-flicked it to him in the corner. Bricker saw this and yelled out, “Trap!”

He and a teammate rushed over, but Andre was ready for the trap. He tossed a high pass behind them to Randy, swooping in from the right. Randy caught it, came down, and bounced back into the air in one quick motion. Bricker backed off Andre. Instead of rising with Randy, Bricker got under him and took out his legs, flipping him over and onto his back.

We rushed him.

“AY, MAN! What’s wrong witchu?”

That was Andre.

Once again Bricker threw his hands in the air, all innocent, and said, “What?”

Andre got up in his face, even though Bricker was a good couple of inches taller than him, and said, “What’s your problem?”

Bricker hovered over Andre and said, “Ain’t no problem, homey. . . . You got a problem?”

Andre stepped in close enough to smell Bricker’s breath.

“Yeah, I got a problem. I got a problem with you acting like this is football.”

Andre?
Is that you, my brutha?

His eyes were locked on Bricker’s.

“I got plenty mo’ where that came from,” he said, lunging at Andre, but he was held back by his teammates.

Me, Lorenzo, and Trent rushed over and formed a wall between Bricker and Andre. Randy lay behind us, sprawled on the ground in pain.

“What y’all gone do now? Huh? yo’ brother cain’t help you now! Look at ’im . . . holding his back, crying like a bitch!”

We just stood there as Bricker grinned and laughed. What
are
we gonna do? I wasn’t about to swing on him, and if Andre did, then he’s even crazier than I thought. Instead, Andre bent down to check on his brother, who managed to sit himself up.

“Randy, you all right?”

His legs wobbled but he got on his feet. “Yeah. I’m cool.”

“Our ball,” Bricker shouted.

“I don’t think so,” Randy said.

“You turned it over when you dropped it,” Bricker said.

Was he serious?

Randy shook off the pain and stepped up to Bricker’s face, hovering inches over him.

“I dropped it ’cause you pulled that bullshit bridge move, taking my legs out from under me — that’s a foul. So I’m callin’ it. Our ball,” Randy said, cool as ice, grabbing the ball.

All Bricker could do was raise his hands and say, “All right, all right.”

Randy twisted and turned his torso a few times to stretch, then shouted with more spring in his step, “Ball’s in.”

He flipped it to Andre. Andre brought the ball up, with Randy trailing behind him. I ran near the baseline. Right to left. A teammate set a screen, and I ran left to right as ’Dre dribbled up top. Bricker jumped out to guard him and swiped at Andre’s face, but ’Dre stayed cool. He kept his body between Bricker and the ball, then turned around to talk smack, his eyes focused on Bricker’s like Master swinging his chain, about to chop some heads.

“Game’s ’bout to be over,” he said, dribbling the ball in circles between his legs like we’ve seen him do so many times.

“Oh, is that right?” Bricker said.

Andre replied with the ball. Bang-bang between the legs. Right to left — left to right, spin, and . . . gone. Again. Straight to the basket. Faster than I’ve ever seen. Past Bricker, past Lorenzo, past two more players, flicking the ball up and over the brick-house brutha’s tree limb of an arm like a balloon . . . higher and higher and higher and higher.

Time stopped ticking. Sneakers stopped squeaking. Mouths stopped speaking as silence filled the park. The whisper of a breeze gave way to the whisper of net cords caressing the ball in a
swish
as it dropped back to earth.

Andre’s eyes followed the ball into the basket until it dropped. When he landed, his momentum carried him in a circle, back to where Bricker stood. He stopped, stood tall face-to-face, and said the only thing he could say: “Game.”

“CHECK YOU OUT . . . talking smack and backing it up!” Randy said, draping his arm around Andre’s shoulder and shaking it.

Bricker was long gone and the court was now empty.

As good as Andre is, none of us have ever seen him do anything like that before. I slapped him on his back and said, “What got into you, ’Dre?”

He shrugged. “I ’on’t know. I just did it. I kept thinking about the pain in my stomach and seeing you on the ground and seeing Randy on his back and . . .”

His words dribbled into space as his eyes did the same; the movie was replaying in his head.

Randy snapped him back into reality. “So you going out for the team?”

“I was planning on it.”

“You keep playing like that and you’ll be on the varsity no problem,” Randy added.

“Really? I was just hoping to make freshman or JV, but hey . . .”

“You too, Shawn. I’m telling you . . . both of y’all . . . in the back court . . . man . . . you guys will be killing it.”

Then Randy grabbed
my
shoulder and shook it. That was the first time I imagined myself running on the same court with Andre — freshman, JV, whatever. If we played like we did today, who knows?

“Yeah, maybe so,” I said.

The five of us took over a couple of benches and stretched our exhausted bodies. Lorenzo sprawled on his back as usual while Trent sat on the top of the same bench next to him. Andre and Randy took over another bench, spreading their arms like wings and extending their legs like landing gear. I stretched my limbs across the cushy green grass in front of both benches and exhaled; that last game wiped me out.

“Y’all play down here a lot?” Randy asked.

“Yeah . . . but not just here,” Andre answered.

Lorenzo added, “Sometimes we go over to DuBois or Carver. Depending on . . .”

I knew what he was gonna say and I’m sure Trent and ’Dre knew too, but nobody wanted to finish the sentence. Randy got the hint and finished it for us.

“Depending on where the Crips and Pirus are, right?”

“Yeah,” Andre said.

Our heads dropped as we nodded.

“Man, I hear you. You guys haven’t had any problems, though, right?”

Again we looked at each other. Our silence spoke louder than words.

“What happened?”

Andre told his brother what happened last year with the Pirus in this very same park near this very same court. As the story trickled out, my eyes darted around the park. The four Pirus choking weed smoke reappeared on the court we were just victorious on, and my mouth filled with the taste of dirt. Andre got to the part about his brother’s shorts, and Randy’s grip tightened on the bench.

Bloodred smeared my brain when he mentioned the golf club swinging on him. And me. BAM. My back tightened so I stood, stretching my arms east and west. When he finished, it was silent among the five of us. At last Randy spoke: “Man . . . I didn’t know about all that.”

“How could you? You weren’t here, so . . .” Andre said, fading into silence. A few breaths later, he finished, “It ain’t nobody’s fault, though. That’s just how it is.”

Lorenzo sat up wide awake in his seat and added, “Yeah, that’s why we have the color check.”

“The what?” Randy asked.

“The color check. Before we go out anywhere in the morning, we just make sure none of us is wearing blue or red,” ’Zo said.

“It’s funny you say that because I’m in my navy shorts. Y’all realize that?” Randy said.