Three On Three (5 page)

“The key and the three-point line are painted right there on the driveway.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No,” I answered, shaking my head.

“Sounds cool.”

“So,” I said, “are you coming over?”

“I'll think about it.”

“Do you have to call somebody and ask?” Kyle said.

“Naw … I'm on my own after school this week anyway. My old man is working twelve-hour day shifts this week so he doesn't get home until after seven — later if there's any overtime.”

Kia frowned. “What about your mother?”

There was a pause. “There's nobody at home. I take care of myself.”

“But what about supper?” Kia
continued. That was like Kia to be worried about food.

“Sometimes I wait for my father, but most of the time I just fix myself something.”

“You cook?” I asked.

“How hard is it to open a can of spaghetti?” He paused. “Is it okay for you to just bring somebody home? I'm not allowed anybody in when my father isn't there.”

“My mother never minds an extra person around.”

“I
hope
she doesn't mind,” Kia said. “I'm there practically every day after school.”

“Every day, huh?” Marcus asked. “Are you two like girlfriend and boyfrie—”

“No!” we both yelled, cutting him off.

“We're just friends,” I said.

“Yeah, friends,” Kia added.

“So are you coming over?” I asked, quickly changing the subject.

“Like I said, I'll think about it. If I decide to come, I'll meet you two at the swings right after the bell.”

“You guys are late,” Marcus said, jumping off the swing. “What took you so long? I was just getting ready to leave.”

“Sorry,” I apologized.

“Nick had to stay after school to finish up his work,” Kia explained.

“Been there, done that,” Marcus said.

Maybe it was something that had happened to Marcus before, but it was a first for me. I was so distracted wondering if he was going to show, I had trouble finishing
my work.

We hurried out of the school yard and along the streets. It was important we make up for the time I'd lost finishing my work. My mother never minded me having friends come over, but she did mind me being late.

“That must be your place up ahead,” Marcus said.

“Yeah … how did you know?” I asked in surprise.

“The driveway has a court painted on it. Dead giveaway. This is probably the only driveway like that in the world. I'm surprised your father let you do it.”

“Nick didn't do it,” Kia said. “His father did.”

“You're kidding.”

“My father is crazy about sports. Of course, when he told my mother about his plan, she was pretty concerned.”

“She doesn't like basketball?” Marcus asked.

“She thinks it's okay. She was just worried that if he didn't do it right, it would
look awful. She likes things done the correct way, that's all.”

As we walked up the driveway Marcus stopped, bent down and ran a hand along one of the lines. He looked up. “It looks
really
good. Are all the lines in the right places?”

“Yep. I helped my dad put them on. He measured them so they'd be perfect.”

Marcus nodded. “Let's play some ball.”

“Let's have a snack first,” Kia suggested.

“And work on the poem,” I added. “There's no point in practicing until we know we can play.”

“We could write poetry and eat at the same time,” Kia said. Typical Kia. But I had to admit that I was hungry too. I held open the door for them and we all entered the house.

“I'm home, Mom!” I bellowed as we all took off our shoes.

“Hi, honey!” Her voice came rolling down from upstairs. She was probably up there in her office working away on the computer. She was doing some writing
for the local newspaper and was often on a ‘deadline,' which meant she had to have an article finished fast.

“You're late!” she called down.

“A little,” I yelled back. “I brought home some … some kids from school.” I was going to say “friends,” but I really didn't think I could call Marcus a friend. I went to the bottom of the stairs. “Can I get a snack for us?”

“Go ahead. I'll be down as soon as I'm through.”

Kia and Marcus followed me into the kitchen. I grabbed some cookies from the cupboard while Kia pulled out three pops from the fridge.

“Maybe we should get started right away on the poem so we can have plenty of time to shoot some hoops,” I suggested.

“I brought what I've written so far,” Marcus said.

“Great! How far have you got?” I asked.

He rose to his feet and pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. “Not far. I'm still on the first line.”

“That's a start. Let's hear it.”

Marcus uncrumpled the paper and cleared his throat. “The basketball is black and orange.”

Kia nodded. “That's good. All we have to do is find a rhyme for orange.”

“I've been trying for three nights. I can't get it.”

“My mother showed me a trick to get rhymes. You get the word, and then start at the beginning of the alphabet and work your way through, writing down every word that rhymes.”

“That sounds easy enough,” Marcus admitted.

“Okay, let's start. Hmmmm … no ‘a' word … borange, corange, dorange … ummm … forange … horange.”

“But none of those are actually words, are they?” Kia asked.

“Nope. Keep going,” Marcus suggested. “Umm, jorange, korange, lorange —”

“So did you get something to eat?” Mom asked as she came breezing into the kitchen. Her brow furrowed at the sight of Marcus.
“I see we have a new guest in the house.”

“Mom, this is Marcus … Marcus Bennett.”

She came forward and offered her hand to shake.

“It's nice to meet you, Marcus. Any friend of Nick's is always welcome here.”

Marcus just nodded his head.

“You must be the biggest grade three in the school,” she said.

“I guess I would be, if I was in grade three. I'm a fiver.”

“Grade five?”

“Yeah,” I broke in. “Marcus is on our team for the three-on-three tournament. I told you before.”

“I'm sure you did. You know how it is, though. Sometimes when you go on about basketball, I stop paying attention.”

Mom liked sports okay, but she sometimes thought that both Dad and I spent too much time on them.

“And I guess the contest is being run by that
wonderfully
dressed Mr. Roberts,” she continued. Mom was active on the parents' council and was often at the school.

“Come on, Mom, he's the gym teacher. He's supposed to dress in sweats.”

“That's a matter of opinion. I think teachers should all dress more formally. When I went to school, all the male teachers wore jackets and ties.”

I thought it was best to change the subject. “We're finishing up our poems.”

“I thought you and Kia finished last week.”

“We're just giving Marcus a hand with the finishing touches on his,” Kia said.

“But we're having trouble. Can we use the rhyming dictionary? We need to find a word that rhymes with orange.”

“Orange!” she chuckled. “Even that dictionary won't help you. Nothing rhymes with orange.”

“Something must,” I argued.

“Nothing. A rhyme for orange doesn't exist. You'll have to try something else. Why don't you all go up to my office? The rhyming dictionary is on the shelf. There's plenty of paper and you can work undisturbed. I was just going to bake a batch
of muffins. I'll bring you up some when they're ready.”

We headed out of the room.

“Marcus?” my mother called out and we stopped.

“I heard a new family with a son about your age just moved in over on Hudson. Is that your house?”

“Nope. Me and my father live over on Maple.”

“Maple?”

“Yeah, in the complex.”

“Oh … the complex … I see.”

I couldn't put my finger on it, but somehow her voice seemed a little bit different.

“Almost finished?” Mom asked. She was standing in the doorway. This was the fourth time she'd been up; twice to bring us food, and once to tell Kia she had to go home for supper.

“We just finished,” I answered. “And it's really good.”

“It's all right,” Marcus said quietly.

“Do you want to read it, Mom?”

“Could you read it to me? I seem to have misplaced my glasses again.”

Marcus and I exchanged a look and a chuckle.

“What's so funny?” Mom asked.

I pointed to the top of her head where her glasses were perched.

“Oh, thank you,” she mumbled as she pulled them down. “Sometimes I get so distracted when I'm on deadline, I lose track of things. Why don't you read it to me anyway? Poetry is meant to be said more than it is to be read.”

Marcus didn't look comfortable with that idea.

“You don't have to if you don't want to,” I offered.

“That's okay, I guess.” He cleared his throat and began.

“The ball moves like it's on a string
,

Dancing, jiving, I can make it sing
,

Opponents try to take it away
,

I make my move, a difficult play
,

I pass the ball and drive the hoop
,

A pass comes back, a perfect loop
,

An alley-oop for two!

We win!”

“What do you think, Mom?”

“I think, that if Marcus plays basketball as well as he writes poetry, then your team is going to win for sure.”

Marcus burst into a gigantic grin, and I realized it was the first time I'd seen him smile — not just today, but ever.

“It's time for your friend to head home. Our supper is ready.”