Basketball

This story is written from the perspective of Rowdy. It jumps in time mainly because I didn't want to copy exactly what was written in the book. This probably won't make much sense if you haven't read the book recently.

I do not own this (but I wish I did.)

"Maybe I'll just bust his pimply-faced globe head again!" I crow. The whole team screams encouragement.

"Break in his teeth!" One of them yells.

"Feed his white trash retard ass to the ants!" Another.

I lean my chair back, arms hanging loose, screaming.

"Boys," stammered Mr. P. "Now boys, if you would turn to page seventy-three. Boys."

I just ignore him. The day before our game against Reardon, and we're pumped for a massacre.

"Run him out of town."

"F-ing traitor."

"String him up, white style."

"No honorable death, not for him."

Mr. P. throws his hands into the air and collapses into his easy chair at the front of the classroom. "Fine. Well."

The classroom dissolved into chaos. Well, more chaos. Not much really changed.

"We'll all be watching." The reporter said. I flicked off the TV and slammed the remote to the ground. F-ing fag. Why should Arnold be interviewed? White aren't supposed to respect us. I stomped to my room and slammed the door.

"You just quiet it up over there!" My father yells.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah!" Arnold's a hero in that stinking white town. He doesn't deserve it, can't even ball all that good. I punch the bed and hurl my school books against the wall. They slam into the air conditioner grate, knocking it off the last screw. Don't even know why we have that, never enough money to run the thing. I grab the grate and fling it onto the ground. The crash dislodges a piece of paper. It wilts to the ground, settling in the dirt and grime. I snatch it up. Arnold gave this to me. I rip it in half and let the pieces drift to the ground. Why'd he have to leave? I sink onto my bed. He just . . . left.

There's just a piece of bread in the ice box the morning of the game. My father pounds me on the back as I leave.

"You slaughter them boy," he slurs.

The team trickles into the high school and a two on two breaks out. I stand to the side, focusing on hitting my three point jumpers. The coach finally arrives and we all tumble into the bus. It breaks down on the outskirts of Reardon, but we just pile out. We make like a regular war path, whooping and screaming to the gym. "Let's show these whites a real Indian basketball team!"

Our performance goes mostly unnoticed, save for a cat or two; everyone's already in the gym. The coach gives us a little pep talk before we head out onto the court, but he's really too hung over to be much use. We charge onto the court. A wall of sound hits us. Boos, catcalls, and screams.

Victor turns and grins at me. "Feels like we're trying to perform horse tricks in Washington after hitting Custer."

I just nod and scan the Reardon team. There's Arnold, staring back. We never ignore the each other after that, even during the layup drills. He comes up to me before the game. "I'm guarding you." He says.

Do they want this game to be a total rout?

The game begins. Their big guy is well fed and ready, we aren't going to get the tip. My knees bend, ready to charge. The ball goes up, they get it, but I'm already there. A few second in and I'm already in control. Arnold is pounding behind me, but he doesn't stand a chance. Two steps, the leap. Arnold is beside me. I brace for the foul, but it doesn't come. The goal. Arnold is beside me, rising higher than me. The ball is taken.

Now it is me chasing, pounding behind. I swipe at the ball as I pass, but he keeps control. I ready myself for the charge to the goal. He winds up for a shot. Leap to block. He grins, sidesteps, sticks out his tongue, and sinks the shot.

I slam the door to my room. How? A breeze blows through the open window and flutters a piece of paper jammed between a crack in the wall. I yank it out, preparing to rip it again, destroy what I had fixed. Humiliated me. Should have just hit him again. I flip out my lighter. Hold the drawing over the flame. He's dead to me. This picture isn't us. But I can't.