PULL: Chapter 1

Again.

The pain that’s made its home inside me for so long I’ve learned to ignore it suddenly roars to life, flexes its claws and tears at me from the inside. The voices around me fade. Sweaty bodies vanish as memory throws itself at me and I’m back. Back in that house. Caught up in that night. Only this time, it’s different. This time, I see his hand lift. Hear the gun fire. See the bullet racing through the air toward her chest.

This time I will save her.

Sweat pours from my forehead and salt stings my lips as I step into the path of death. I have no delusions. I know what’s about to happen to me. I’m David, not some superman. My hands clench, muscles tense as I wait for the impact, grateful for this opportunity to set things right.

My life for hers.

This time I will not fail.

The bullet slams into my chest. The collision forces air from my lungs and sends me hurtling through the air, sliding along the polished hardwood floor.

Hardwood?

From the corners of my eyes I see the basketball rolling across the court. Slowly I turn my head, but I already know. My mother’s not here.

A voice, “Hey, Albacore, eyes open,” provokes a round of laughter.

The gym teacher’s whistle sounds, the shriek knifing through my ears. He runs over from the sidelines where he’s been talking with another man while the inept group of students practiced passing the ball. His pale face holds wide, worried gray eyes. You’d think he’d never seen a guy downed by a basketball before. Probably hasn’t been teaching in the inner city very long. Probably still has ideals and intends to do some good or something.

Probably needs to get the hell out of my space.

“You okay, David?”

The temptation to answer no to his stupid question grips me, but I’m not ready for the paperwork involved in a trip to the school nurse on my first day. That might put a little too much strain on the high-tension wire of fraud I’ve strung here at Farrington. I nod and sit up. Which makes the world spin and the cracks in the paint on the orange and black walls dance.

Over the teacher’s shoulder I see a larger man approach.  He’s wearing an orange polo shirt with a wide black band around the left sleeve. I recognize the dark eyes and square chin from the picture in the trophy case outside the school’s main office. Hakeem Kasili, the new varsity basketball coach.

The gym teacher reaches to help me stand. I’m a senior, I don’t need help and I jerk free of his grip. Laughter runs through the tiny gym again when my legs tangle and I fall to one knee.

“Fish-face can’t even stand.”

Only three hours in this school and already I’ve picked up a nickname. It’s better than hundreds of voices in the stands yelling, “Don’t hassle Murhaselt.” Anyone around here says that, they’re dead.

The shuffling and muttering grow louder. Another joker says, “Get fish-eyes a pair of glasses.”

Kasili steps into the circle around me. He turns. Slowly. No more laughter. No shuffling. More than thirty guys in the class and every one silent.

Total control.

First teacher I’ve seen in this place with that kind of power. He reminds me of Coach Anderson back at Grogan Hills. Except this guy can’t be much more than forty. Skin almost as dark as mine and deep lines in the corners of his eyes. If I were ever to play ball again it would be for a man like this.

If.

Minority of One: Chapter 1

Where the heck is Carl?

He worried about first semester finals last week. I understood when he said he had no time to get together. Carl’s always been silent and moody. Artists can be like that. I understand. But he’s grown worse since school started again after winter break.

No. Even before.

Carl’s acted strange ever since his uncle, the old guy who claims he’s no longer gay, lost his job and moved into the family’s basement. The whole Redkin family acts different. They even skipped church yesterday. Probably the first time Carl’s mother’s voice didn’t overpower the choir since the days of Noah.

Most students moving around me and climbing the stairs to Farrington High School’s doors act like I’m just another lump of dirty snow. Doesn’t matter, I see Carl at the end of the block.

His solid frame looks better than usual. Or maybe it’s just that I haven’t seen him in so long. Even bundled in that bulky down coat his parents insisted on buying him, the one he says makes him look like a human marshmallow, he looks good.

I feel hard and tight and ready to go off like a Fourth of July bottle rocket as I jump to his side and give him a slap on the back. “ Where you been, man? Damn near froze my ass off waiting on you.”

“ Don’t.” He jumps and pulls himself free like my fingers are knives. “ I--we need to talk.”

I know what that means. Code for, I’ve found someone else. It all comes together. His silence, the way he’s found excuses not to meet, the unanswered phone calls.

Who is he, I want to ask. What’s the name of the guy who’s taken Carl away? I’m ready to order him to stay with me. Dad used to call me Orders ‘R Us, and even my big brother sometimes finds it easier to just salute and let me rule. But that’s not what I want with Carl.

“ It was all a mistake.” Carl bites his lower lip the way he always does when he’s nervous. “ I’m not gay. I’m--I want to be normal.”

“ What are you talking about?”

Carl stands with his arms crossed tightly around himself, as if to push off an attack. “ I just want to be normal. Is that too much to ask? ”

For Carl to be normal, he has to dump me.

Maybe I didn’t really think we could be a forever couple.

Or maybe I did.

Being God: Chapter 1

Coach Hakeem Kasili divided the basketball team into two squads for today’s scrimmage, black against orange. No way will I let black lose. I race for the far end of the court and the expected pass. The moment the ball reaches my hands I rush the orange-shirted defender positioned between me and my goal. Muscles tighten as I power my way past him and then into the air for the one-handed slam dunk.

The shrink who doubles as a coach blows his whistle and crosses the court toward me. “ Don’t go crazy out there, Kaplan, this is a game, not war.”

He’s wrong. Basketball has never been a game. My life is all about war and I’m done losing. People expect Malik Kaplan to deliver. I expect me to be the best. Reaching the top in a school filled with wannabes out to take what belongs to me was damned hard. Fighting my way back to the top again is a full-time job.

I wipe my face with the bottom of my black jersey. “ Practice makes victorious. Isn’t that why we’re here?”

“ Finesse and intelligence beats brute strength.”

“ I scored.”

“ And nearly injured your teammate doing so.”

“ My bad, Coach,” says Cesare Russo, the forward I barreled through. He and I are the only seniors on our team. He’s also one of only two white guys on the squad, if you don’t count the light-skinned Hispanics who snarl if you try calling them white. He plays like he’s part of the ball even though he’s skinny and twitchy. His orange shirt and the red hair falling in his face makes him look like he’s on fire.

“ You had position, Russo,” Coach tells him without turning away from me. If Kasili were a little shorter I could exchange him and his dark stare for my dad; I never get a “ good job.” from either of them. “ Today’s practice is about improving teamwork. I need you to be an example, Kaplan.”

“ You need me, period.”

“ The team needs you, but most of all they need unity. Start working together, or we’ll work without you.”

“ I do my share. More than my share.”

Kasili starts to say something and then sighs. When he does speak, I know the words are not what he originally intended. “ No one manages solo all the time. These guys are your friends, not your enemies.”

He leaves me and goes to talk to his favorite, Julian the showboat Morales, a dumb sophomore who does everything except lick the coach’s shoes trying to get my spot as starting center. Mr. Morales sits up in the stands with a bunch of other parents who like to come and watch practice. Julian is tall, not as tall as me, but then few guys are over six and a half feet. Plus, my shoulders are broader, thanks to three years on varsity and forever in the weight room. The coach pats him on the back as they talk. Julian stares at me over the coach’s head. He pushes back his long hair, trying to hide the way he gloats.

I wipe sweaty palms on my shorts and move closer to Cesare. He’s bent over with his hands on his thighs, breathing heavily. “ Don’t apologize for me,” I say. “I charged.”

He lifts his head and shrugs. “ It’s not like this is a real game.”

“ You should have held the block and stopped me. Don’t go around and end up flaking off when it counts. Do your job or I swear I’ll hurt you.”

Cesare stares as if he sees some creature that doesn’t belong on Earth, not the guy who kept him from being pounded on in third grade, helped him bury his cat in seventh grade and taught him the fine art of landing girls in high school. “ Play the asshole with others, Malik, not with me.”

“ I’m not playing, and you know exactly what I am.”

“ The Badass.” Someone has to be.