Perfect Shot

by Debbie Rigaud

  He flashed two more times as the coach on the other team called time-out and my team huddled for one last strategy session. I rushed to the sidelines and chugged down some water. The towel hanging off my seat hadn’t been used so I wiped my face and behind my neck as quickly as I could. I splashed some water in my hands and wiped the blood from my elbow. That should do it, I thought.

  “Now go back in there and finish this up, ladies.” Coach Pat’s jaw was tight and her eyes piercing. She was like a gambler in Vegas and I was happy for her. The lady is addicted to winning.

  “One, two, three—,” our team captain shouted.

  The rest of us stacked our hands on top of hers and shouted back “Go Lady Warriors!” before hitting the court.

  As soon as our victory was handed down to us, we met the other team at the net and shook their hands. They were always fun to play against. It was like we split up wins with them by losing every other meeting. This game broke that streak, since we had now won our last two matchups. It was an exciting thing to happen. Home-court advantage is the truth.

  My teammates and I congratulated one another. It’s great how well we play together. It took a while for me to be able to read them as well as I can now. And with each game, the vibe grows stronger. We have our bad days, but this was definitely not one of them.

  “Go L-Boogie!” I heard Pam shout from the stands.

  I put my hand up, gave her a number one sign, and smiled.

  I saw no sign of Brent. I’d forgotten about the bad timing of his lens somewhere during the last ten minutes of the game as things got intense and I got back in the zone.

  It was a good thing he was gone. I wouldn’t have wanted to face him now. I was too excited about the win, and thinking about an out-of-my-league crush would’ve spoiled my buzz.

  I showered and then threw on a pair of jeans and a fresh jersey. I slung my black gym bag over my shoulder and pushed my way through the heavy locker-room door to the hallway.

  I came face-to-face with Brent. He was waiting in the hallway. For an airheaded second, I wondered who he was waiting for. Does he know anyone else on my team? I wondered.

  “Hey, London.” He walked toward me, his hands in his pockets and his camera equipment on his shoulder. He looked cute. He was wearing another button-down shirt, but this time he’d left it open and paired it with a graffiti-scribbled T-shirt and jeans. His hair looked freshly touched-up, like he’d just come back from the barber shop. And his brown face was glowing as if he’d smoothed it down with some cocoa butter. He looked like he smelled good.

  “Hey,” I said, my voice trailing a bit. I cleared my throat and switched my bag to my left shoulder. I wanted to keep the sweaty scent wafting from the dirty uniform far away from him.

  “Great game.” I was glad he was in more of a talkative mood than I was. “I got some crazy shots of you.” He sounded a bit more enthusiastic than someone talking to a gold medalist of the Sweat Olympics should be.

  “As wild as I was looking out there?” I half-joked and half-fished for a compliment. “That can’t be.”

  “I’m tellin’ you.” His energy surprised me—and made me smile in spite of my nervousness. “If you don’t have to be anywhere, can I show some of them to you?”

  Now that caught me off guard.

  “Uh, okay.” I didn’t want to let too long of a silence follow his question. “But we have to clear out of here pretty soon.”

  “Yeah, I heard the ‘no loitering’ announcement.” The dimple on one side of his smooth face deepened when he smiled. “I was thinking maybe we can walk to a spot on the Ave?”

  He was thinking we … ? How long had he been thinking we? I wanted to do the “chicken noodle soup and a soda on the side” dance. But he couldn’t tell that by looking at me—until my eyebrows twitched one after the other like they were doing the wave at the Super Bowl.

  “Cool.” I’d had to say something nonchalant to cover up that display.

  Apart from my “thank you’s” the few times he held open the heavy doors, we walked in complete silence. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, but rather a polite one, if such a silence exists. By the time we exited the front door of the school, there were only a few stragglers and cars left.

  “Hey, London!” I heard Pam shout from across the street. She and her boyfriend Jake were about to get into his beat-up blue Corolla. “You wanna ride?”

  Heaven bless her, but Pam had the worst timing sometimes. She meant well, but I wanted the extra time to be alone with Brent.

  “Uh, nah, that’s okay,” I called out, turning away from Brent so only Pam could view the exaggerated “not now” expression on my face. “I’m not going home. Thanks, though.”

  “Where you headin’?” Pam kept digging. I’d forgotten who I was dealing with. Even if I had climbed a lamppost to shine a light on my expression, Pam wouldn’t have been able to clearly see it. She’s not nicknamed Batgirl for nothing.

  There was no way to play this but to answer her questions. I took a few steps closer to the curb so I didn’t have to put my business on blast.

  “Just to the Ave.” I made it sound like it was no big deal to walk the four residential blocks. Which it wasn’t.

  “It’s getting dark,” mama Pam answered. “I’ll take you.”

  I looked at Brent, who seemed amused by the back-and-forth. Pam’s boyfriend didn’t add anything to the conversation. He doesn’t disagree with her much. The jury’s still out on whether that’s out of fear or respect.

  “Do you mind hopping in with me?” I asked Brent.

  “Not a problem,” he answered like a trouper. “Cool of her to offer.”

  When I got into the car, Pam continued in her mama mode.

  “Hey, London,” Jake greeted me as I stepped in the car.

  “Wassup, Jake.” I buckled in.

  “Aren’t you gonna introduce us to your friend?” Pam asked, her rearview mirror reflecting the mischievous grin on her face.

  “Pam, Jake, this is Brent, a photographer with the contest.”

  “Oh!!” Pam, in true signature theatrics, bounced so high out of her seat, her head bumped the car ceiling. A piece of torn lining that had been discreetly tucked was knocked unraveled and now hung next to her head. She excitedly twisted around to face us.

  My eyebrows were trying to send Pam all sorts of messages in Morse code or with smoke signals or flashing lights (read: through my eyeballs) or anything else I could send off undetected. Please resist that drama gene, they were screaming. Brent shifted in his seat as if nervously preparing to be put on the spot. He was probably thinking of the safest way to roll out of a moving car.

  And like a hooptie miracle, Pam rebuked the drama, but suddenly looked like a deer in headlights. “I don’t wanna embarrass my gurl London,” she began, on a desperate hunt to find the right words to play off the whole reaction. I took a few cautious breaths. “But it’s just that I … uh … I adore Cynthea Bey.”

  Good save. I quietly exhaled.

  “No, I can understand.” Brent’s jaw relaxed. “My sister feels the same way about her. I’ve got some candid shots of her posted up on Flickr. You should check it out.”

  “I will. I’ll look up your page.”

  Pam wouldn’t start up an embarrassing conversation from there. And she didn’t. Not because of any lack of curiosity. Her silence had as much to do with her having my back as it did with the loud reggaeton thumping from the speakers. I caught her looking at me in the rearview three times in the short ride.

  “Thanks,” I told Pam when we got out the car; I meant it in more ways than one.

  There was a smattering of people strolling the Ave. I suggested we go to Juiced! juice bar. It’s a cute little spot I like to hit after a game. Forty-five minutes of intense volleyball usually makes me feel like I can down all the fruity fluids in the world.

  “Thanks,” I said as I walked through yet another door held open for me by babelicious Brent. But “No thank you” is
what I swiftly replied when he offered to carry my shoulder bag of funk. The boy was a black belt in the art of being a gentleman. He flexed his gallant swag in subtle, unannoying ways. Like, thank goodness that when we climbed out of Jake’s ride from both sides of the car, Brent didn’t scurry over like Quasimodo to open my door and assist me out from my side.

  Not willing to get too excited about his kind gestures, I reminded myself of the lesson learned from Pam’s past crush story. The moral of that one was that a guy’s thoughtful or polite acts do not necessarily signify he’s wooing you. Offering his seat is not synonymous with offering his heart. Some of them actually do it because they want to, not because they want you.

  The inside of Juiced! is set up like a fitness gym. The cashiers dress like personal trainers and wall sconces that resemble barbells hang next to wall mirrors, lockers, and a ballet barre.

  “Wanna grab that table by the window?” Brent asked. “I’ll go get the drinks. Let me guess—you’re a Pineapple Delight kind of girl?”

  He was offering to pay? I couldn’t let him do that.

  “No, I—”

  “My bad,” he said, cutting me off. “I didn’t peg you for the açai and pomegranate type.”

  “That’s not what I was saying no to.” I chuckled.

  “Aw, c’mon. I owe you at least two dollars—remember?” Brent smirked recalling my lame opening line. “And you’re the star player of the night, so it’s my treat.”

  “Medium mango smoothie.” I gave in.

  A few minutes later, Brent returned carrying my smoothie and what appeared to be a large Strawberry Protein Blast for himself. It’s a shame that I can identify all the drinks in this place. This is the type of shop I’d feel more at home working in. Unfortunately, when I was job hunting, the Juiced! manager told me they had a hiring freeze.

  Brent raised his drink and saluted me with it. “Here’s to your digs, kills, and shanks.”

  “Wow, you make it sound like I’m skilled in prison yard activities.” As I laughed, I hoped there was nothing stuck in my front teeth.

  “Well, somebody needs to call the guards on you—you’re a beast on the court.” He smiled and looked at me with his deep-set, dark eyes. I wondered whether Brent’s sense of judgment was more Paula Abdul or Simon Cowell.

  “Let me show you,” he said.

  Brent ruffled through his leather case and pressed a few buttons on his camera before leaning across the table to share his LCD screen.

  It was a shot of me jumping up for a block at the net. I’d had no idea Brent was snapping at that moment. My hands were about to make contact with the ball, and my feet seemed so high off the ground, it was like I was levitating. I hadn’t known I could do that. I was amazed.

  “Wow,” I told him. “That is nasty!”

  He looked proud.

  “And check these out.” He started scrolling backward, looking for more action shots. There was another one of me in midair with the ball inches away from my open palm. In the next frame, I was spiking the ball with all my might. It was a relief to see that the sweat dripping off my face during the game was picked up as healthy, glistening skin on camera. Brent also got a shot of me nailing a dig. I was bent on one knee with my other leg outstretched to the side. My lips were pursed in determination, my arms were extended, and my hands were clasped in a tight fist.

  “You sure these are for Face and not Sports Illustrated?” I asked Brent, impressed with his work. “These are dope! And I’m not just saying that because they’re of me.”

  Brent nodded as he chuckled. “No, I really am as amazed as you are.”

  His honesty was surprising. Someone like Unslick Rick would never admit that they weren’t 100 percent in control.

  “Really? I took you for a photographer heavy into his game.” I had slipped too quickly. I didn’t want to let on that I had noticed him so closely that day at Art Attack. “It’s just that I don’t know anyone my age with an internship at a big company.” I said, trying to recover from my last comment.

  “It was wild how I got that job,” Brent started. “I work at a barber shop on the other side of the Ave. I’ve mostly been sweeping up hair off the floors there for about a year. But a few months ago, I started taking crazy-angle portraits of client hairstyles and my boss put them all over the shop. Turns out one of our regulars works in Face’s production department. He liked the shots so much, he mentioned me to Didier.”

  “And the rest is history,” I added with renewed fascination in this cutie.

  Brent pressed buttons on his camera, resuming the presentation of game-time pics. There were a lot of them.

  When I leaned over the table to get a closer look at his slideshow, we accidentally bumped heads.

  “Oh, sorry.” We apologized at the same time and chuckled sheepishly.

  “You okay?” Brent sounded concerned, like he was holding back the urge to rub my forehead for me.

  “I’m fine.” I smiled, lowering my eyes to the screen.

  “Maybe I should sit next to you so you can see better,” he offered.

  I didn’t protest.

  By the time I scooted over, Brent was already out of his seat and next to me. I was glad my smelly gym bag was underneath the table and zipped all the way. But then again, the bag of funk could’ve proven a much-needed distraction. I was all types of nervous having him so near. Not knowing what to do with my hands, I held on to my cold drink glass. My grip around it tightened when Brent’s shoulder softly grazed mine during the slideshow.

  “You know,” he continued, not seeming as affected by our intimate seating arrangement as I was. From this close, I could see the tiny black flecks in his dark brown eyes. “Ever since I found out about photographer Gordon Parks, I wanted to be just like him.”

  “Gordon Parks of the seventies blaxpoitation films?” I wanted to make sure we were on the same page.

  Brent paused to smile at me. He looked impressed that I knew something about his hero.

  “Yes, that’s the one.” He moved aside his drink to make room for his enthusiasm. Once he got going, this shy guy could talk.

  “But Gordon Parks was a legend in more ways than old ‘Shaft’ movies. He was a photographer who shot famous portraits and fashion features. He was the first black photographer to work for Vogue.”

  “Wow.” Now it was my turn to be impressed. It was so cute watching Brent talk about something with so much passion.

  “The guy was phenomenal. I wanted to be just like Gordon and follow in his footsteps,” he said. “That’s why I’m interning at Face. Their portraits and fashion photography are cutting-edge.”

  “I have to admit that even though I’m not the creative type, I love their site,” I agreed.

  “Yeah, but hearing the crowds today, timing the shots just right, and anticipating the action on the court got me amped. I was pumped like never before. And now I’m looking at these shots I took like, ‘Whoa.’ ”

  “So, are you thinking maybe of switching gears?”

  “Well, all I’m saying is I like how this felt and I want to do more of it. See where it takes me.” He was being honest about his uncertainty. I could definitely relate to that.

  “What about you?” He studied my face. “Plan on going pro? You were doing your thang out there. You’re a natural.”

  My cheeks tingled and got warm.

  “Well, it would be a dream to represent the U.S. at the Olympics, but I’m not sure I’m ready for the big time.”

  “Why not?” He said, challenging my doubt.

  “Let’s just say, my skill level is not worthy of shining that division’s shoes. But my plan is to go to a summer camp where I can train with some of them.”

  “Oh, really?” He genuinely seemed interested. “When?”

  “This summer. That’s why I’m busting my butt working part-time. I need to raise the tuition so I can go.”

  “Well, I hope you do get that shot.” Brent’s voice got softer as he fumbled with hi
s camera. I looked down to the screen and saw that he was zooming on my face in one of the photos.

  I swallowed hard.

  He continued, “Because you really look good out there.”

  I wasn’t sure if he meant that in more ways than one. A hurried sip of my mango smoothie slowed down my quickened breath.

  When I put down my drink and glanced up at him, he was staring intently at me.

  Six

  “How was the game, honey?” my mom called out from the kitchen when she heard me come through the front door. Dad was sunk deep into the chaise lounge as he watched the evening news—all six feet, four inches of him.

  My parents usually try to make it to my games, but lately Warren and Wyatt’s after-school schedule was hemming them up in car-pooling duties. The latest craze was shuttling Warren to spelling bee trials and Wyatt to Little League.

  “It was great.” I stopped shouting when she walked into the living room. My dad plucked himself out of the quicksand chair and sat up. The poor thing tried to look interested even though he was dead tired and half asleep. “We won!”

  “Excellent.” Dad got a second wind and held out his fist for me to dap. “That’s what I’m talking ’bout. It’s the old Abrams touch,” he boasted.

  “That’s okay,” Mom teased, doing her happy two-step dance past Dad. “Because she gets her smarts from the Vincent half of her genes. Haaay!”

  After seventeen years of marriage, Mom still didn’t think of herself as an Abrams. Who can blame her when my grandmother always acted so salty to Mom? The two just never got along, mostly because Grandma Abrams couldn’t bring herself to respect a woman who let her husband outcook her.

  Dad half-smirked and gave my mother a playful tap on some body part I didn’t want to be a witness to. I turned away and headed to my room where it was safe.

  “Wait,” Mom called after me. I stopped at the first staircase step, resting my elbow on the banister. “Guess who I ran into today at the supermarket?”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “Mrs. Fletcher. Remember her? Kelly’s mom?” I braced myself. “Why didn’t you tell me Kelly’s also taking part in this model ing contest?”