Falling From the Sky (2 page)

Basketball doesn’t seem like his thing. Sports in general don’t seem like his thing. He accepts little silver tokens from excited kids who can’t wait for a two-minute ride on a painted horse. Why in the hell is he even talking to me? I don’t really care to be alone in my dorm room for two and a half months while my teammates get drunk, but now I can’t even hide at the mall because the guy who runs the carousel seems to think we’re friends.

He waves his hand in front of me.

“Yes? No?” he asks.

“What?” I wonder if he realizes how spaced out I was.

“I asked if you ever found any shoes,” he says.

“Oh. Yeah, I did,” I say in between the last bites of my barbeque sandwich. I motion underneath the table. “Thanks for your help.”

Fifteen minutes later, I regret my decision to follow him back to the carousel. If he hadn’t been talking about Xbox games, I wouldn’t have. I feel like an idiot for getting sucked into a conversation. Now I can’t get away from the guy.

“Uncle Micah!”

The words echo against the high ceiling of the mall. Two little girls run toward us with their arms wide open and big smiles across their faces. One girl is about two or three inches taller than the other, and she gets to the token booth first. They both ram their wrinkled one-dollar bills into the two slots, like a race to see who can get a coin first.

The clink of a coin against metal sounds twice. Micah laughs at them, watching them scramble against each other trying to get to the gate. Micah’s hand purposely covers the lock.

“Sorry, ladies, but I’m closed,” he says.

The taller girl folds her arms across her chest and glares at him, but the shorter one looks like she’s about to cry.

“I’m kidding, Abby. You know I’ll let you guys ride,” he says.

He unlocks the gate, and they rush inside, giggling with girly excitement that instantly turns into a screaming match. They stand on opposite sides of a horse with yellow flowers on it.

“I was here first!” the short girl yells.

“Nuh-huh! I was!” the taller one counters.

Both girls cling to the horse. Micah runs over to play referee. He talks with his hands, pointing to the horse with yellow flowers, to the rest of the carousel, and then back to the horse. This is probably my best chance to run like the baller that I am and give these new Nikes a work out. I should run. I should bail right this very second.

But I know that if I do, I’ll never be able to show my face in this mall again. The arcade and movie theatre may be the only forms of entertainment I have all summer, so I can’t make a scene. Micah would find me anyway. I’d been here a total of three minutes before he found me tonight.

The taller girl stomps away and climbs on top of a horse with pink roses while Micah helps the shorter girl onto the one with yellow flowers. He glances over, makes sure they’re both buckled, and starts the ride.

“Sorry about that,” he says as he slides back into the token booth. “They’re my nieces. Twins, double the disaster.”

I nod, having already made that assumption. I could’ve guessed they were related even if they hadn’t called him Uncle Micah. They have his tan skin.

“Abby’s the smaller one. And Jade is the other. They’re five. They always fight over who rides which one,” he explains.

“They’re just horses,” I say.

If Jordan and I were close in age, I could see him making a scene like that. Hell, he makes a scene over everything, and we’re a decade apart in age.

Micah shakes his head. “No, they’re so much more than
just
horses
. You see those on the outside? There’s ten of them. They were specially designed just for this carousel.”

I don’t question his knowledge. The horses spin around, and I take notice of their designs. The yellow flowers. The pink roses. The one with the two fish. The one with the wild mohawk. There’s even one with an Indian’s head painted on the side of the saddle.

“And they all relate back to my tribe, my life. I’m connected to every one of those ten horses in some way,” he says.

He pulls back on the lever, and the carousel slows to a stop. The two girls climb off of their horses and switch places before Micah starts it up again.

“So what do they mean?” I ask.

He leans his head back against the wall of the token booth.

“You really think I can explain all of that to you in a few minutes?” he asks.

I glance at my cell phone. Curfew is in two hours. “I have time,” I say.

He laughs and shakes his head. “I need more time than what you have tonight. It’d seriously take all day just to tell you about one horse, much less ten. You know, I could just show you instead,” he says.

“What are you suggesting?” I ask.

“Give me ten days this summer,” he says.

“I don’t know if I can. It’s going to be a busy summer,” I say.

Really, I just don’t know if I can handle Micah for ten days of the summer. He talks too damn much, and I don’t want him latching on to me like I’m his best friend.

He doesn’t buy my excuse. “You practice when, Monday through Friday? Do you plan on going home every weekend? Where are you from anyway?”

Yeah. Already getting on my nerves.

“Yes. Maybe. Markham,” I answer.

Weekends on campus will get boring. I don’t plan on going out with the guys at camp and getting drunk. Terrence won’t be around much. And I’m sure as hell not going home on the weekends to deal with Mom’s crying, Jordan’s complaining, and Samantha’s attempt to fake a relationship with me.

But Micah doesn’t need to know that.

“I can work my schedule around yours,” he offers. He scribbles his phone number down on the back of a mall pamphlet. “Just in case you change your mind or get bored.”

He pulls the lever again, and the horses stop spinning. The girls climb down from their mounts and run back over to us. I have to get out of here before they disappear, and he traps me with more Xbox conversation. I glance down at the mall pamphlet in my hand.

“We’ll see,” I say. “I’ve gotta head back, so I’ll see you around.”

I don’t give him a chance to persuade me any more than he’s already tried to.

Room eleven is still silent when I get back. Terrence won’t be back until morning. I don’t mind the silence, though. I’d rather be alone. When I’m alone, I don’t get fake sympathy and “it’ll get better” speeches. I don’t get asked stupid questions about how I’m holding up or if I need to talk. It’s probably written all over my face that I’m alone and need pity, even here, away from annoying brothers, grieving moms, distant girlfriends, and rainforests that eat planes. That’s probably why Micah wants to be my friend this summer. I probably sweat tragedies the way my summer teammates will sweat alcohol.

I empty my pockets and crumple up the mall pamphlet. Micah’s phone number falls from the sky and crash-lands in the metal garbage bin by the door. I flip off the light.

I’d rather be alone all summer.

CHAPTER TWO

The gym at Dunson Hills is ten times nicer than the one my high school team uses all season. Obviously all of their money went into the gym, though, because the dorm rooms suck. Coach Bennett’s first team lecture is sure to last the first hour of practice. I bet the summer baseball league is getting their lecture in the hundred degree heat as I sit here shivering under this air vent. It’s a good thing I play an indoor sport. I don’t think they’d understand if their second baseman missed a catch because he was praying for an airplane.

A maroon falcon stares up at us from the center of the gym’s floor, matching the blood red bleachers. I wonder if they were painted with the blood of last year’s summer basketball team. A banner hangs over the goal on the far end of the court. It reads
Live. Learn. Hoop.
I’m ready for Coach Bennett to get this over with. That floor is too damn shiny. It needs scuff marks. And I need to break in these new shoes.

I’ve heard the “no beer, no girls, no late nights” lecture every season, and obviously summer camp is no different. A few guys swap smirks. I wonder if coaches are really stupid enough to think a bunch of guys are going to spend a summer away from home studying the fundamentals of basketball without sex, booze, and sneaking out.

Terrence and I may be the only guys in this gym without a weekend hangover. Coach Bennett probably smells the irony from down on the sidelines. If not, he’ll smell it once these guys start sweating alcohol from their pores.

This basketball camp is supposed to be a great experience for me, according to my mom anyway. She doesn’t talk basketball with me anymore, and on the rare occasion when she’s not hovering over Jordan, she’ll show up at my games. Basketball was Dad’s thing, and as far as Mom is concerned, it’s still Dad’s thing. I think that’s part of the reason she doesn’t show her face on game nights and only pops up for the obligatory concession stand duty that all b-ball parents are dealt.

Basketball hits this now-empty place in her, and her emotions ignite into flames that she can only put out with tears. And not just any tears – the hysterical, red-eyed, puffy-cheeked, can’t-breathe kind of tears she cries every time she watches
Titanic
. So it’s a given. We don’t talk about Dad, and we don’t talk about basketball. Unless it’s about picking Jordan up from his after-school reading program, we don’t really talk at all.

It’s not just Mom, though. These days, I don’t talk to anyone. Samantha yaps in my ear at school, and Jordan bugs the shit out of me at home. But I’ve mastered the stone wall look by now. For the most part, I don’t even hear them when they speak. They’re just static. Mom stopped paying for grief counseling once the therapist told her that I wasn’t making any further progress. She said I was “too internal” with my emotions, whatever the hell that means. I’m not internal. I just didn’t want to talk to some stranger about my dad’s death while she thumbed through a textbook and tried to find the right lines to feed me.

Coach Bennett paces the sidelines and skims through a playbook that I know we won’t be using for another week or so. I’ve never been more ready to run suicides. I need to sweat. I need to run. I need to dribble. I need a prettier jump shot and a smoother lay-up. I need a nothing-but-net free throw, and I’m the world’s worst three point shot. I need to live, learn, and hoop instead of sitting here freezing my ass off while trying to reason my existence in my head.

The summertime lecture becomes static. Ants crawling crazily over an old TV screen. Black and white. Silence and sound. Just static.

And somewhere in the insect frenzy are the words I’ve been waiting to hear –
to the baseline.

My calf muscles ache more than I thought they would. I don’t bother complaining about the stone rock of a bed. Terrence emerges from the bathroom in a pair of shorts and digs through his unpacked bags for a shirt.

“Shower felt damn good,” he says. “Sorry for bailing on you before. I’m gonna stick around, though. Too many people crash at Demetrice’s house. I didn’t sleep any better there than I would’ve here in basketball hell.”

I lift my head just slightly off the pillow. “Don’t blame you for trying,” I say.

Before I say any more, an electronic key card clicks in our lock. A tall guy with a blonde buzz cut walks in. Was he at practice today?

“I’m guessing you’re Ridge,” he says to me.

He tosses a gym bag onto the only empty bed. I seriously thought I lucked up just having Terrence as a roommate. I should’ve known better.

“And I’d assume you’re Terrence? I’ve never met a white guy named Terrence,” he says.

Way to make an assumption there, dude. I’m tempted to tell him he’s wrong and that I’m Terrence and Terrence is me, but Terrence laughs off the racist comment and says ‘damn straight I’m Terrence King’ like a boss.

“Cool, man,” the blonde says. “Some idiot in housing stuck me with the baseball team, and they just got it sorted out. Looks like I’m crashing with you guys.”

Terrence nods. “Welcome to room eleven, then. The mattresses suck, and the lights are like a prison interrogation room.”

So I’m
not
the only one who thought so.

Roomie Number Three steps over toward Terrence and extends a hand.

“Aaron Shelton,” he says.

Then he steps over to me. “You’re a baller? You don’t look the type. You look more like a skater kid.”

What is he now, my mom? I got the lecture from her already about how “summer would be more enjoyable without a shaggy mop full of sweat on your head.” This guy is already pissing me off.

So I shake my hair to the side, just like those damn emo kids.

“Well you look more fit for boot camp than basketball camp. Dishonorable discharge so soon?” I ask.

He laughs. “Alright, I got it. No bashing on your hair,” he says. “What position do you play?”

“Point guard,” I reply.

He nods. “I play center. I’m guessing ‘damn straight I’m Terrence King’ does too, right?”

Terrence laughs and nods to confirm the assumption. They’re both around six-foot-two, maybe six-foot-three. It makes my five-foot-ten feel pretty damn short.

“Look, I’m just going to be real with you guys, seeing that we’ll be together for the summer,” Aaron says. He paces the room while he speaks. “I’ve been with my girl nearly two years. Things are good. But she’s three hours away, and I’m not big on dry spells during the summer. Get my drift?”

Terrence and I both nod. I don’t know what to say. I don’t condone cheating, but I really don’t fucking care where he sticks his dick this summer as long as he leaves me out of it.

Aaron sits on his bed, distracting himself with his cell phone while he talks.

“So, what Holly doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” he says. “And if Holly calls the room when I’m not here, I’d hope you’d have the decency not to tell her anything that could hurt her.”

“What happens here stays here, right?” I say.

Aaron laughs. “I like your attitude, even if you do need a haircut.”

An hour later, Aaron gripes from across the room about being sore and having a splitting headache. Some guy named Zach Perry stands at the end of Aaron’s bed talking about dinner plans and a girl whose number he got at the river. Zach walks with an arrogant bounce in his step, and he really has no grounds for it seeing as he was pretty slow on the court today.