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8.

Sundays mark moratoriums on basketball, at least as long as my dad has his way. He’ll usually relent by late afternoon and let me watch a game, but in the mornings the very topic is banned. Been that way since I started playing.

First thing is the early service at Church of God. Neither one of my parents is super religious, so I’m pretty sure they think church is just a great excuse to get me and Jayson up and moving early on a Sunday morning. Uncle Kid usually attends too, but he never goes with us, always opting instead to slink in a little late and lounge in the last pew.

Anymore, though, while Pastor Baxter is up in the pulpit warning the faithful about the wages of sin, I’m running play-by-play in my head, dreaming up acrobatic dunks and buzzer beaters, plays that send the Marion East crowd into a frenzy. Honestly, when I do pay attention, Baxter isn’t bad. He’s a young, energetic guy, who can build up a cadence and get more than a few Amens from the congregation. He even does his best to tie his sermon into what’s going on now, so it’s not just some musty old history lesson. Every time he sees me after church he asks me about my game before he asks about my faith. But the more he builds up a rhythm on Sunday, the more I build up a rhythm in my head, and I can almost feel the leather leave my hands as I drain a shot over Tagg to win a rematch against Lawrence North in the Sectional Finals. And then I snap back only to hear Pastor Baxter tell us that our intentions mean nothing if we fail to act upon them.

I don’t worry about Hell any more than any other freshman, but when I’m sitting in that dusty pew by a stained glass window, I can’t help but think that it must be some kind of special sin to be imagining whole basketball games as the preacher’s giving his sermon. So, really, the only time I ever think I’m doing something bad enough to send me to Hell is during church itself.

I check Jayson and can tell he’s paying even less attention than I am. He fidgets in the pew and rocks his feet back and forth, like it’s all he can do not to leap up, kick those uncomfortable shoes off, and run for freedom. All it takes is our mom giving him a sidelong glance, though, and he straightens right up. We know from experience we don’t want to earn Mom’s wrath on a Sunday—she’s not above marching us down the aisle and out the doors while giving us a sermon of her own.

At last, Baxter gives us one final, rousing Amen. The congregation echoes it, and we rise for the final hymn. When the singing’s over, I look at Jayson and he gives me a triumphant wink back. We both made it through another service without incident. Our parents linger in the pews and chat with a few neighbors and friends, but Dad gives us the nod to go ahead. So we walk swiftly down the threadbare red carpet and break into a half-run down the stairs and to the daylight of the lobby. Today brings a break in the cold. Though it’s still morning the sunshine feels good, hinting that it might even get up into the 50s, so Jay and I snag our coats and linger on the top steps. We watch people stream out, mostly old people, all of them frowning like they’ve just been convinced again that the world is a wicked place. There are also some younger families like ours. They all look more hopeful, smiling in that rare November sun. There are several with daughters near my age who are looking fresh in their Sunday best.

“She’s fine,” Jayson whispers to me about one in particular. “You should go talk her up.”

“She’s standing next to her grandma, Jay. That’s not the best time.”

“You’re just scared,” he teases. “Man, when I’m your age I’ll have all the girls. I won’t even have to be a baller. Just walk up and start talking game.”

I laugh and tell him he thinks way too much of himself, but the truth is he’s probably right. He sure didn’t inherit it from our dad, who can go days without saying a word, but Jayson can talk—especially to women. He’s too young to have anything come from it, but he knows how to make a girl of any age smile. It makes me think of Jasmine and how she smiles at me in the hall sometimes when Nick’s not around. I know I shouldn’t be thinking of that, but I can’t help it. Truth is, I might not be a talker like Jay, but none of these girls—fine as they may be—are the one I want to be talking to.

I text Wes to see if he can meet up with me later, but he hits me right back saying his mom has him tied up with chores for the next few centuries, so instead I busy myself by asking Jay if he’s so smooth then how come he doesn’t have himself a girlfriend yet.

He pauses and thinks about this, then looks at me, all cocky. “Why limit myself to one woman? I’ve got to be free, D.”

We both laugh, but we stop short when we see Uncle Kid leave church. Our uncle looks agitated, more than usual. Every once in a while he gets this way. It’s never long before we learn about some stupid thing he’s got himself twisted up in. Today, he doesn’t even look at us, just bolts down the stairs and starts looking up the street like he’s waiting on someone. I didn’t see him after the game last night, but I know he’ll have plenty to say—both about how we got drilled by Lawrence North and about how long it took Bolden to get me on the floor.

“Uncle Kid,” Jayson yells. “Uncle Sidney!”

He looks our way and nods, but he still seems distracted and annoyed, as if we caught him shoplifting. “Hey fellas,” he calls. Then he sees what he’s after: a car idling by the curb—that same black Lexus that picked him up at the park last month. He waves at us quickly and disappears inside the car.

The Donut Shop is the best part of any Sunday. From the outside it looks like a place you’d want to avoid. A fading orange sign that says, simply, Donut. Windows that look like they haven’t been washed in decades. A parking lot pocked with potholes. But the truth is it’s one of the best breakfast places in the city, and it’s our favorite destination after church. We walk in that door and Jayson suddenly looks like a five-year-old again, his eyes wide with the dilemma of choosing from all those donuts. Mom keeps a pretty good watch on what we eat, but here she cuts us loose to have our fill—éclairs, jelly-filled, fritters, anything. My parents opt for coffee, eggs, hash browns, but Jay and I eat ourselves into sugar highs.

The rule is still no basketball talk. My dad quizzes us on what we’re learning in school. My mom, maybe out of a sense of obligation, quizzes on the sermon we’ve just heard, and—every single week—acts dismayed at first and then gives up, laughs and asks, “What in the world are you two thinking about during church?”

Jayson answers honestly: “I think about what I want for Christmas.” This makes both my parents laugh, and it’s good times all around. My mom tells us stories about how strict her mother was when she grew up. “One time,” she says, “she took my brother out behind the church and whipped him for breathing too loudly.” She laughs at her own story and then says she’s glad she doesn’t act that way with us. “But start paying attention during the sermons!” she warns.

We finish up then and my dad marvels at the bill and says the same thing he says every week: “Four breakfasts for fourteen dollars. My God, you can’t beat that.”

But when he goes up to pay and Jayson hits the bathroom, my mom tells me to hang in the booth for a second. She waits until my dad’s out of earshot and then gives me a serious look.

“Derrick, I’m going to tell you something, but you can’t tell your brother.”

“Okay,” I say. She has me worried, because the expression on her face is usually reserved for when she’s about to lace into me or Jayson. She must sense it, because she relaxes and tells me it’s not that bad.

“It’s just that a couple places are cutting back on your dad’s hours,” she says. “That means we might have a little smaller Christmas than usual.”

“Is Dad fired?” I ask. He works security part time at two different businesses, and then a couple nights a week for a big apartment complex up on Binford. He used to work full-time security at a college, but they stripped down two years ago and he’s been scrambling to make up for that lost income.

Mom shakes her head patiently. “No,” she says. “It’s just a few less hours here and there. You’re just so sensitive when we keep things from you that I didn’t want you to get upset.”

I check my reaction. First off, I hate to be called sensitive, especially with the tone my mom had. Ballers aren’t sensitive. And I also know my parents aren’t telling me everything from their conversations about Hamilton Academy that they have with Uncle Kid. But if I react badly, it basically proves my mom right, so I just sit there and nod. Try to be a man about it. “Your job still good?” I ask.

“Mine’s fine,” she says. “If that school ever lost me they’d be overtaken by fourth-graders in revolt.”