Training Camp

by Kobe Bryant

  “Oh boy,” Alfie murmured.

  Climb high. Fall far. Go off in seek of truth.

  Alfie leaned back and descended with little jab steps.

  “If I die, tell my story,” Big John said, gasping.

  “From falling in a hole or dying of a heart attack?” Vin said.

  “Either one.”

  When they had made it through five laps of constantly shifting obstacles, Rain stepped forward to shoot. Alfie was thoroughly drenched with sweat. He could have wrung out his shorts.

  Thankfully, he knew the drill would end here. Rain never missed a foul shot.

  Rain stepped up to the line, and Alfie anticipated his routine. Bounce, bounce, bounce. Deep breath. Everything as usual. But as he released, he jerked. The ball thudded away off the rim.

  “No,” Big John breathed.

  “Everyone, grab a drink,” Rolabi said. “The laps will continue shortly.”

  Alfie grabbed his bottle and watched as Rain slammed the locker room door behind him. Was he that upset over one miss? He didn’t know much about Rain, other than that his life seemed pretty perfect. The best player, the coolest, the one with a real shot. Rain had it easy.

  “What’s that about?” A-Wall muttered.

  “No clue,” Peño said. “But I’m sure Rolly Weird-in-ard has something to do with it.”

  Twig took a gulp of water and glanced at the professor. He stood like a statue at center court, his eyes on the banners. Alfie thought of another part of the old book:

  And they told Pana that Wizenards are old as stone. Some live for a thousand years. Theirs is the oldest and most important job . . . to remind the rest of the world what they really are.

  “The floors . . . They were moving, right?” a deep voice asked.

  Alfie turned to Devon, surprised to hear him speak. “Yeah. Or . . . I think so.”

  Devon nodded. “Just checking.”

  They ran again. As before, the gym changed with every turn, and the missed shots began to add up: Lab, Vin, Big John. The team could barely keep running.

  “Twig,” Reggie said, gasping at the next stoppage. “You go.”

  Alfie glanced back and saw the rest of the team hunched over. No one volunteered, so he gulped and walked out onto the court. His legs felt stretched like old rubber bands. He took a deep breath.

  Nice and easy, Alfie thought, dribbling the ball and wiping his sweaty hands on his shirt.

  He copied Rain: bounce, bounce, bounce, deep breath. Then he prepared to shoot.

  But as he went to lift the ball, it suddenly felt incredibly heavy. He saw that he was now holding a black lead sphere, like the ones prisoners used to have chained to their feet. He strained to lift it, spreading his feet to get better positioning. His whole body felt like it was being crushed into the floor. He gritted his teeth and kept pushing, lifting the ball overhead.

  “He’s so weak,” Lab said.

  He looked back at the team, but no one seemed to be talking.

  “He can’t even lift the ball,” Big John said, laughing.

  “It’s . . . it’s heavy,” Alfie said.

  “This is embarrassing,” Rain replied. “His dad must be ashamed.”

  But their mouths weren’t moving. Were they? Alfie turned away from them.

  Again, he fought to lift the ball, shifting beneath it like he was doing a dead lift, and then heaved it forward. As soon as he let it go, the lead ball immediately turned back to a normal one. It flew in a straight line and crashed into the backboard, rebounding right back and almost hitting him in the forehead. Alfie heard groans of disbelief from his teammates, and his cheeks burned.

  In a daze, he rejoined the group. They ran five more laps, facing more strange obstacles at every turn. Alfie was staggering now, his legs almost giving out. Mercifully, Reggie hit his attempt, and the team let out an exhausted cheer.

  “Water break,” Rolabi said as he strode to center court. “Bring your bottles over here.”

  Alfie grabbed his bottle, thinking about the weight of the ball. He hadn’t just seen it. He’d felt it. It was tangible. Real. Again he thought about the book. Pana had learned that it wasn’t the Wizenards creating magic—they were just using the grana that everyone possessed.

  One of her main lessons was that she was creating her own world.

  Aren’t you?

  Twig whirled around, dropping his bottle and scrambling to pick it up again.

  Not used to that yet, he thought sheepishly. Talking in my head like this . . . is this grana?

  Everything is.

  He downed some water and joined the seated circle around Rolabi, who fished a potted flower out of his bag and set it down. It was a beautiful, stark white daisy—Alfie had only ever seen flowers like that in books.

  Do you want to see grana?

  Yes, Alfie thought excitedly.

  Then watch the flower grow. Be aware of every detail. See the imperceptible.

  Alfie frowned and stared at the flower. He refolded his legs beneath him and tried to focus. The first minute or two he actually tried to see something. But it remained a simple daisy.

  Soon sounds disrupted his focus: the ticking clock, frustrated sighs, and the rustling of people shifting uncomfortably. He tried to see the flower growing, but nothing was happening.

  Why are you rushing time?

  I’m not, Alfie thought, glancing at Rolabi.

  All you want is change. A new body. A new life. What have you done to build the one you already have?

  Alfie looked away. When he turned back, the daisy had withered, and he was alone in the gym. A shiver ran down the nape of his neck. Was this scene real? He crawled over to the pot and reached out to touch the daisy. It collapsed into dust and ash. He stared at it, confused, strangely sad. It had been so beautiful.

  “When we look for more, we forget what we have. What’s ignored then withers away.”

  Alfie looked up and saw Rolabi looming over him.

  “I’m trying to be better,” Alfie protested.

  “It is wise to grow what you are,” he said. “Not to wish you are something else.”

  Alfie blinked, and he was sitting in the circle again, surrounded by his teammates. Rolabi was tucking the flower back into his bag. Alfie stared at him, unnerved.

  “We have one more lesson today,” Rolabi said.

  His green eyes darted to Alfie.

  It’s time for the Twig to grow.

  Alfie climbed to his feet with the others. Rolabi began to set up a training circuit around the gym. He threw the cones without looking, and they fell into perfect zigzag patterns. Reaching into his bag again, he withdrew ridiculously large objects: a hoop on a metal base, six-foot-tall poles, and ever more cones. It was enough equipment to fill the bed of a pickup truck. As if that weren’t enough, he finally pulled out three more basketballs and placed them in a line.

  “Am I seeing this correctly?” Reggie murmured.

  “I don’t know anymore,” Alfie said.

  When the team had gathered in front of the three basketballs, Rolabi turned to them.

  “You will complete the circuit. A layup on the first hoop and a shot from the elbow on the other. When you return, pass the ball to the player who is first in line. Three may go at a time. You may begin.”

  Rain went to grab the first ball and unleashed a bloodcurdling shriek. He grabbed his wrist, dropping the ball, and Alfie watched in astonishment as he continued to scream madly. Frantic shouts went up from other players, and with something like grim reluctance, Alfie looked down.

  His right hand was gone. His wrist ended in a flat, skin-colored wall of flesh. Alfie stared at the missing limb, dumbfounded. He poked it with his left fingers and felt nothing. He heard shouts and complaints and cursing, but he could barely process the sounds. His hand was gon
e.

  “I’m the only one who lost it!” Lab was shouting.

  “I don’t have one anymore,” Alfie said numbly.

  Lab stared at him and then turned back to Rolabi. “This isn’t possible.”

  “Possibility is notoriously subjective,” Rolabi replied. “Shall we begin?”

  No one said anything for a moment—there were just whimpers and muffled curses.

  Then Rain picked up the ball with his left hand and started the circuit. Everyone reluctantly followed suit. Alfie missed his layup badly and barely made his way through the cones. He lost the ball twice, though he passed a frustrated A-Wall before subsequently being passed by Jerome. When Alfie tried to throw the ball through the vertical ring, he missed by ten feet, then took an absolutely terrible one-handed jump shot that sailed wide. As he grabbed the rebound, by now thoroughly embarrassed, another shot ricocheted hard off the back of his head.

  “Sorry, man!” Lab said.

  Apologies seemed to be a common theme around the gym.

  “Watch out!” Peño bellowed, smacking Vin with an errant pass.

  “This ain’t dodgeball, bro!” Vin said, rubbing his cheek.

  The circuit continued. Alfie was hit six more times, including once in the nose. He sank about a third of his left-handed layups and didn’t make a single jumper or pass through the ring. It was humiliating. When Rolabi finally called an end to the practice, Alfie sank down, exhausted. He was sweating so much, his eyes stung with salt, and he could barely open them.

  “Can we have our hands back now?” Rain asked.

  “Tomorrow we will be working on our defense. They will be helpful then,” said Rolabi.

  With that, he scooped up his bag and began walking directly toward a brick wall.

  “He knows there isn’t a door there, right?” Peño said.

  The lights flashed like mini supernovas, bathing the room in blinding white. Alfie heard something—waves, maybe. A howling alpine wind. He caught the whiff of a salty ocean breeze.

  “The Kingdom of Granity,” he whispered.

  The lights flicked on and off. Rolabi was gone.

  He slowly picked himself up, and the floor made a suctioning plop. He looked back and saw that it was already perfectly dry. It was impossible. Alfie knelt down again and felt the hardwood. The wide slats were slowly pushing apart, and he ran his finger along the spacing.

  An image flashed in front of him. Thousands of silvery veins and arteries ran beneath his feet, snaking up the walls and over the ceiling. They were pulsating. Beating. Pumping sweat.

  The gym looked alive.

  “A heart,” he whispered.

  The image faded, and Alfie realized he had spilled backward onto his butt. He hadn’t even noticed. The veins and arteries were gone, but he could almost hear the heartbeat.

  “You okay?” Reggie said, sticking a hand out to help him up. “Besides the hand.”

  “Yeah,” Alfie said, accepting gratefully. “Thanks.”

  “Crazy stuff, huh? You can see mine, right?”

  “Yeah. It must just be an illusion for one person.”

  “I don’t get any of this stuff,” Reggie said. “I would love to know what’s happening.”

  Alfie opened his mouth to mention the book, then hesitated. He didn’t want to be laughed at, and even though Reggie was nice, it was a kids’ book. So he just nodded and forced a smile.

  “Same.”

  They started to the bench together, and Reggie glanced at him. “Where did you get those scars on your cheeks, anyway?” he asked. “Meant to ask you.”

  Alfie put a hand to his face. The skin picking had marked his cheeks with little white spots and divots where he had picked too much. It gave him a grizzled look, like an old soldier. He thought it was hideous, but he couldn’t seem to stop.

  “Born with it,” he said.

  “Oh. Just thought you were getting more of them lately—”

  “No,” Alfie snapped.

  It came out sharper than he intended, and he looked away.

  Reggie flushed. “Sorry. Just making sure you were good.”

  Reggie continued to the bench, obviously embarrassed. Alfie chewed his nails, thinking that he couldn’t afford to lose his one friend on the team. He didn’t want to talk about the scars . . . but he could tell him about the book. Maybe Reggie would see it as a sign of trust. Alfie chewed some more.

  “Can I show you something?” he called after him.

  Reggie turned back. “What?”

  Alfie led him over to the bench, looked around to make sure everyone else was occupied, and then pulled out the book with his left hand and showed it to Reggie.

  “The World of Grana,” Reggie said slowly. He seemed to sound out each word with care. “I think my gran read this to me when I was little. It looks familiar. Why did you bring—”

  “Just read it. You can borrow it tonight if you want.”

  Reggie frowned, and then opened the book, resting it on his lap and turning the pages gingerly with his weaker right hand. The first page was a painting of the island and mountain.

  The book began:

  Once, in the Kingdom of Granity, there were a great many Wizenards . . .

  “Oh,” Reggie said quietly. “I see.”

  ALFIE CHECKED TO make sure no one was looking, then reached down with his left hand to press the button on either shoe—both of which sealed comfortably. The others were all struggling with their laces, and he didn’t want to draw any more attention to himself. He could sympathize, anyway. Since yesterday’s practice, he had almost swallowed his toothbrush, dropped a glass of milk, and completely given up on reading a book. It was shocking how useless he was with his left hand. It might as well have been a pirate hook.

  His parents never said a word about it. They could see his hand. Alfie just had to try and tough it out. That’s what his father always said. A cold? Tough it out. Bullies? Tough it out.

  Tough it out. He didn’t even know what that meant. Don’t complain, or don’t get sick in the first place? Don’t cry about bullies, or don’t let them pick on you? What was considered tough?

  “Some night, huh?” Reggie said, plopping onto the away bench after a few quick laps around the gym. They were the first ones as usual, but a few guys had started arriving. “Oh, here.”

  He took the book out of his bag with his one hand and gave it back to Alfie.

  “How many times you read it?” Alfie asked dryly.

  “About twenty,” he said. “Kind of identified with Pana, you know?”

  Alfie almost smacked himself in the forehead. Of course. Reggie was an orphan too.

  “I didn’t even—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Reggie cut in. “The point is . . . it all looks pretty accurate now.”

  Alfie glanced at him. “Yeah. You mentioned anything to your gran?”

  “Nah. She’d tell me I was nuts. She’s pretty old-school, you know?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “No complaining. No talking back. She wouldn’t believe in magic. Or grana.”

  Alfie nodded and tucked the book back in his bag. “Same with my dad. How long has your gran been watching you?”

  “Seven years this October. Since I was six.”

  Alfie hesitated. He shouldn’t ask. He knew he shouldn’t. But he really, really wanted to.

  He was never good with self-control.

  “Your . . . parents?” he asked.

  Reggie was silent for so long, Alfie was sure he had gone too far. He was already preparing an apology in his head. He was so stupid sometimes.

  “I don’t know,” Reggie said finally.

  “What do you mean?” Alfie asked, unable to stop himself. “They . . . left?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Reggie s
ighed and looked down at his hands as if the answer were written there. “They were in a car accident.”

  “I’m sorry,” Alfie murmured. He couldn’t imagine losing his parents.

  Reggie glanced at him. “That’s what the police told me, anyway. But I never saw their car. No pictures. Nothing.” He paused. “They were both reporters. They spoke out about the president.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Alfie murmured.

  He felt a tingle of nervous energy. What was Reggie saying? That the government killed his parents? He looked around the gym to make sure no one else was listening, but they were all warming up. It was dangerous to even think something like that.

  “No one on the team does,” Reggie said.

  “But you told me.”

  “Yeah,” Reggie said, nodding. “I trust you to keep it between us.”

  Alfie nodded. “Of course. And . . . I’m sorry.”

  “Me too,” he whispered.

  The doors swung open, and Rain walked in. Freddy trailed behind him, his eyes flicking nervously around the gym. Alfie guessed at once what was happening: Freddy was here to fire Rolabi Wizenard. Alfie had seen Rain talking in low voices with some of the other players before they left yesterday, but he hadn’t been included. Clearly the decision was made.

  “Might not have to think about Wizenards for much longer,” Reggie said quietly.

  “Did they ask your opinion?”

  Reggie snorted. “Of course not.”

  Alfie listened in silence as the team complained to the owner. Freddy clearly didn’t believe any of it—missing hands that everyone else could see, tilting gyms, voices. But he just fidgeted and listened and agreed to fire Rolabi. Ultimately, if Rain wanted something done, Freddy would do it.

  Alfie wished he could argue for keeping Rolabi, but he didn’t even try, and shame flooded through him. He really was a coward. His dad knew it. The team knew it. And worst of all, Alfie knew it. He stayed silent.

  Freddy peeked at his phone. “All right, well, he should be here soon—”

  “Were you on any of these teams, Frederick?”

  Alfie spun to the voice. Rolabi Wizenard stood below the line of multicolored banners.