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I can determine exactly where to stand to prevent a turnover and when to move to gain an advantage.
What’s better than being able to predict my immediate future whenever I’m on the court? I can predict my opponent’s, too.
My teammates call it a fluke.
My coach calls it a skill.
College scouts? They call it a gift.
What they fail to comprehend is thatIcontrol what happens at every single turn. Which makes me wonder… maybe it’s not the same for everyone. Or maybe playing ball differs from real life. My point is… I wonder if that lady knew she was about to reveal her crazy the moment she stepped up to me. Or, maybe, the lack of self-control is all part of the crazy…
Speaking of crazy… my grandpa’s drunk. Again. Sitting in his recliner in nothing but a dirty white tank and boxer shorts, he looks up when the screen door slams shut behind me, but he doesn’t say a word. He simply shakes his head and shifts in his seat, causing the empty beer cans on the floor to clink together. After taking a swig of his Coors Light, he goes back to watching his old-ass Clint Eastwood western.
My grandpa kind of looks like Clint Eastwood. Not the version of him he watches religiously every Friday, but the version of him now… all skin and bones, white, thinning hair, and wrinkled, dry, leathery skin. The major difference is that Clint Eastwood’s in his nineties, which means he has thirty-odd years on my grandpa. If there was a case study on the effects of alcoholism on the human body, my grandpa would be the scientific benchmark.
I hesitate just inside the entryway, contemplating whether I have the mental energy to even attempt a conversation with him. After a heavy exhale, I rub the sweat from my eyes, but the sweat on my palms only makes it worse. I blink a few times, hard, and then clear my throat. Stand taller. I wish I had my basketball, so I had something to fidget with.
“You gonna stand there like a fucking pussy or you got something to say?” Grandpa rumbles, never once taking his eyes off the television. His voice is rough, his demeanor even rougher.
“People are moving into my old house.” I don’t know if it’s a question, a statement, or an accusation, but the moment he drags his heavy-lidded eyes away from the television and focuses on me, I can tell I’ve fucked up. Somehow. Some way. “Go fuck yourself, kid.”
I nod once, my lips pressed tight, and as quickly as I entered the house, I leave the same way. The keys to my van are always in there—hidden in places my grandpa can’t find, but accessible enough that I can leave in a hurry. Seconds later, I’m behind the wheel, the engine running, with nowhere to go. That’s the thing about living in Rowville. There’s nowhere for someone like me to hide.
I end up at the same place I always do—driving about fifty yards into the tree line until I get to the creek hidden amongst the pine trees. I should’ve planned my exit better, but I wasn’t thinking, and really? Who could blame me? After what had just happened, I was on edge, agitated, unable to think straight. And the worst part? I left my phone and all my handheld gaming devices charging up in my bedroom. Now I had fuck-all to do but get lost in my own thoughts… which, unfortunately, is exactly what happens.
For four fucking hours.
By the time I get back home, it’s after seven and surprise surprise, my grandpa’s passed out, face down, on the living room floor. It’s almost as if his mind wanted to go to bed, but his body just… disagreed. It’s not the first time it’s happened, won’t be the last, and to be honest, I sleep better the nights he’s blacked out.
Stepping over his body, I make my way to the kitchen and open the fridge. Stare at the contents. It’s the same shit that’s always in there—hot dogs, burgers, wings, waffle fries—all curtesy of the five-finger discount I get from working at the skating rink.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m sitting in the living room, eating, with my unconscious grandpa by my feet.
With a hot dog halfway to my mouth, I tilt my head, focus on my grandpa’s back. When seconds pass and I don’t see movement, I gently tap my foot against his rib cage. He stirs, mumbles, “Fuck you, kid,” and for some messed-up reason, I exhale,relievedthat the motherfucker’s still alive. Then, I continue to eat, and between bites, I talk to him, as if this is all completely normal.
“It’s a family. A mom, dad, and teenage daughter… There was another guy there, too. I almost certain he’s the dad’s brother. I saw an eighteen-wheeler when I left… She kicked my fucking ball away—the mom, not the daughter. Pretty sure she would’ve kickedmeif her husband and daughter hadn’t stepped in.” I look down at my grandpa, at his arm twisted in a way that’s no doubt going to hurt him as soon as he gets feeling back. “How crazy is that?” I ask, not expecting a response. “I guess compared to the crazy we’re used to, it’s really not so bad…”
CHAPTERTHREE
Harlow
It’s been a couple of weeks since we moved, and during that time, I’ve learned two things about the boy next door.
One: his name is Jace Rivera, and
Two: he’s the Golden Boy of Rowville.
It didn’t take long to figure these things out. In fact, they were kind of shoved in my face.
The day after the move, my dad took me into Rowville’s version ofdowntown—a gravel road that was home to a whopping three buildings. There was the general store/post office/bar, a second-hand store filled with anything too good to trash but too crappy to keep, and, lastly, a skating rink that looked like someone built it specifically for the set ofStranger Things. On the glass doors of all three buildings were posters of Jace. Standing tall in his high school basketball uniform, the ball held at his side, his dark, empty eyes stared right into the lens of the camera… right into my soul… or, at least, that’s how my dramatic ass felt. This is the problem with having no car, no friends, nowhere to go and nothing to do… I just kind of sit around and think. But the more I think, the worse things get, and sooner than I’m ready, I start tofeelthings.
I don’t like feeling things.
According to the posters, Jace Rivera, number twelve for the Vikings, was about to enter his senior year at Knox Heights High. The same school andgradeas I would be attending.
Starting tomorrow.
Which leads me to why I’m sitting in the middle of my closet surrounded by trash bags filled with clothes. It should’ve been such a simple task—finding something to wear for your first day of school. But the more clothes I pulled out, the more I realized that… it didn’t matter what I wore on the outside.
