Читать книгу Slump - Kevin Waltman - Страница 7

1.

Any other sixteeen-year-old gets invited over to his girl’s place to watch a movie and it doesn’t mean they’re going to “watch a movie.” But with Jasmine, it actually means that’s what we’re doing—sitting on the couch in her living room, her tablet between us, checking out Jackie Robinson and 42. She chose it with me in mind, I know, because otherwise no way does Jasmine get a sports movie. But I’m not feeling it. Baseball. History. Whatever.

What I’d feel is some alone time with my girl. Maybe hit pause and see what happens live-action on this couch. But it would be easier to uproot Roy Hibbert in the post than to get Mr. and Mrs. Winters to leave their precious Jasmine alone with me on a Saturday night. Her dad in particular doesn’t seem to trust me. Every time I glance his way, he lifts his eyes from the book he’s reading and gives me this dead stare, like he can see right into my heart and tease out all my desires. Every time I come to the house, he says, “Hello, Derrick,” like he’s greeting his sworn enemy, and then he just watches me in silence the rest of the time. Jasmine’s mom, at least, asks me how I’m doing, even has the courtesy to talk to me about the upcoming season. But every time I answer her questions, she gets this strange look on her face, the way a teacher listens to an answer that’s not quite right. Then maybe she’ll wonder aloud if the city should be shelling out millions of dollars just to keep the Pacers here.

What it means right now is I have to sit inches from Jasmine—hear her soft breaths, smell that wild scent that always seems to cling to her—and behave. Once, when her dad got up to answer the phone, I dared so much as put my hand on her knee. She swatted at it with the back of her hand like there was a bug on her, said, “Come on, Derrick,” and tilted her head toward her mom.

My mind drifts. I gaze around the living room. There’s nice sturdy furniture all facing inward toward an area rug. Hardwood floors without a speck of dust. No television to be found, but three heavy bookshelves stacked with serious-looking literature. They live in an old two-story just off Fall Creek. From the looks of it, they’ve pumped some money into the place. Around them, the other houses and apartments show years of neglect, structures that must have been prizes way back when, now sagging into city decay. Sometimes I come here, and I think Jasmine’s parents are single-handedly trying to lift up the neighborhood. Other times I think they’re just trying to show off how much better they are. I also wonder what they thought of her last boyfriend—Nick Starks, the point guard before me for Marion East. If they think so little of basketball, I bet they’re confused about why Jasmine keeps bringing home ballers.

Jasmine must sense me drifting because she glances up at me, then back down to the screen. So again I try to invest myself in the movie. Oh, it’s good. I guess it even matters. But what really gets me invested again is that Jasmine edges just a centimeter my way, enough so our legs touch. Then she leans into me. It’s a soft, slow movement. I can almost feel her muscles easing one by one. I loop my arm around her and pull her in as tight as we can dare with her parents watching. She nestles her head against my shoulder and chest, and her curls brush just for a second against my mouth and chin. Damn. I’m surprised she can hear the movie over my heart.

The thing is, I know that’s kind of pathetic—getting all heated up just by sitting so close. I mean, my boy Wes has been hitting it with Iesha for months. All summer. All fall. I know he runs game about it like any other guy—an exaggeration here, a little lie there—but if half of what he says is true, he’s way past getting sprung over this kind of thing.

Jasmine’s dad clears his throat and says something to her mom about a school board election. It’s just a little noise to remind his precious girl he’s still watching. And it works. She straightens back up, and we watch the rest of the movie like we’re nothing more than good friends.

They underestimate their girl though. In truth, it wouldn’t matter if we had the house to ourselves for a whole weekend. No way Jasmine’s letting me get very far. Even later when we’re in her car, she’s not taking me anywhere but straight back to my house. As we approach, I try to drum up some conversation just to keep the night from ending.

“Movie was good,” I say.

“Mm-hmm.”

“You know all that stuff? Like, before watching the movie?” I ask.

“Most of it.” She comes to a full stop at Patton, probably the only person in the city who doesn’t just roll on through here. I always get tensed up when she’s driving me around. I got so wrapped up in hoops this summer—running on the blacktop with Moose, then with my AAU team so I could play against organized competition, the best of the best—that I didn’t have time to get my license. She rolls up to our house and then hits me with it again. “Be nice if I didn’t have to be your chauffeur and your girlfriend,” she says.

“Aww,” I say, starting to protest. “You know how it is.”

Jasmine laughs. Just tilts her head back like she thinks she’s hilarious. “Oh, Derrick,” she says. “I love how you’ve known me for a year, and you still don’t know when I’m putting you on.”

I smile back at her. “It’s not like you make it easy.”

“Where’s the fun in easy?” Then we sit there, the night silent except for her running engine. “Besides,” she says, “I’ve got to keep you on your toes about it with the season coming.” Then she leans over and kisses me. It’s a brush of a kiss, so brief it seems almost accidental, but even in that split second there’s a jolt. “Go on,” she says, motioning toward my door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Then, in a blink of an eye, I’m on the sidewalk watching her go. It makes me feel played, all of it—the teasing, the relenting, the tempting little send-off—as played as if I’m on the court trying to guard some jitterbug point, the kind who’s all zig and zag, faking and faking until you’re turned in circles and jumping at phantoms.

Soon. That’s all I can think. Soon with Jasmine.

And soon, a season to dig into. A slate of games. A shot at Hamilton Academy and Vasco Lorbner, the team and the player that bumped us last year. If I close my eyes I can still see his shot that sent us home. And I can see him from the AAU circuit, where he showed out—not just the best big in Indiana, but in the whole country. He seemed even cockier this summer, telling me every time we crossed paths that he was looking forward to beating us again come winter. The player, his legend, his ego, growing and growing into some giant I’ve got to knock down.

Jasmine’s taillights flash as she stops again at the corner. Then she’s gone.

I’m a coiled spring.