The Wizenard Series

by Kobe Bryant

  He had debated asking Rolabi, but the professor seemed a little . . . frosty lately, especially toward Reggie. Somehow, despite Rolabi’s full, if negative, attention, grana’s taunting, and his ever-growing assortment of training creatures, Reggie felt more and more alone. More . . . isolated.

  He picked up the box, running his hands over the wood grain. His mother had wanted him to have it. He had thought it was simply to hide the note, but why was that symbol carved into the wood? There had to be a reason. Did she want him to store something inside? He didn’t have anything valuable enough to belong in that elaborate box.

  He put the book in a drawer and the box back on its usual perch. If only he could ask them. Without thinking, he looked toward the door, as if his parents were sitting outside it in the living room, talking, watching TV. He moved toward the door, and then caught himself, and felt his stomach go hard, his limbs heavy. The memories came and went in waves, and he just turned back to his bed, willing them away. They were gone, and the box was empty, and Reggie had to make do alone.

  Or did he? He’d asked Gran about the box and the hidden note before, but she had always been stalwart that she didn’t know anything and that the note could have been about anyone . . . not necessarily Talin. Reggie was sure she wasn’t telling him everything, but she insisted. He did have the book now and the matching symbol, so he supposed it was worth a try.

  He scooped up the book and went out to find Gran tidying up some last dishes before bed.

  “Look familiar?”

  He laid the open chapter out on the table. Gran eyed him for a moment, and then picked up the book, leafing through the pages.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “Library. Gran, it’s the symbol on that box.”

  She put the book down and returned to her tidying. “Coincidence.”

  “Are you sure Mom and Dad didn’t say anything about it?”

  Gran kept her eyes on the dishes. “I don’t believe so.”

  “Gran . . .”

  She dried her hands off and turned to him. “I’ve seen this symbol before . . . even before I saw the box. But I had no idea what it was either. I didn’t know about the note, and I still caution you not to read too much into it. It might have been hidden in that old box for a hundred years before you found it.”

  Reggie tucked the book under his arm. “I’m going to figure it out, Gran.”

  “There’s nothing to figure out.”

  He scowled and went back to his room, looked through his book again, and waited until Gran had gone off to sleep. He was angry she was holding back, but he was angrier at Talin. This was his fault, Reggie was sure. His parents had published stories about how terrible Talin and his government were, and he had had them killed. It was the only explanation of the crash that made sense. His parents were too smart to just die in some accident. That wasn’t possible.

  Hatred roiled and flopped like a fish in Reggie’s belly.

  He checked the alarm clock. It was late—well after midnight. That meant that Gran and P were fast asleep. Reggie hesitated, then slipped out of bed.

  He did it once or twice a month, and only at night. He threw on a coat, eased out of the apartment, and ran the five blocks to Finney and Loyalist. Or more accurately, to the statue that dominated the intersection. Reggie stopped in front of it, sparing a quick look around. There had been lights ringing the pedestal once, but they had long since burned out. Now the huge bronze statue of the president looked over the city in darkness, lit only by a last few streetlights nearby.

  Reggie was alone. That was for the best.

  He scooped up a rock, cocked it, and rang it off the statue’s big forehead. He did it again and again, and only when he heard voices did Reggie take off running through the night, not stopping until he was bathed in sweat.

  Reggie doubled over, hands on his knees, and then walked back to the apartment.

  He didn’t feel any better. But it was something. Sometimes, he needed something.

  * * *

  He spent six more hours training on Sunday. The shadow, the tar-like floorboards, and the parrot all returned, along with a new addition: a giant sandbag slung over his shoulders to keep him low in his defensive stance. Despite it all, he managed to force more and more stops, and he hit his five hundred shots. He also had a calf cramp, a rolled ankle, and three jammed fingers, and he grimaced when he finally lay in bed that night, feeling all the aches and pains at once like he had been lowered into a steel vise. When he slept, he slept like the dead.

  The next day, Reggie went back to Fairwood before school. He had to wake up at five in the morning to do it, but he got in a solid hour of training, then jogged all the way home to shower and get ready to leave again. When he stepped out of the bathroom, P was standing there, shaking her head.

  “You’re crazy,” she said.

  “Probably.”

  She walked past him. “You going to win Friday with all this extra practice?”

  He hesitated. “It would be nice.”

  “We’ll see. Try not to get suspended!” she said brightly.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he muttered.

  That night, he arrived two hours early to practice. By the time the rest of the team arrived, he had already completed a full workout on his own and gotten his five hundred baskets. He was exhausted, but he was ready to play again. A mindless, desperate need to improve drove him.

  Twig came over to give him props, then stopped, eyeing him.

  “How long you been here?” he asked suspiciously.

  Reggie shrugged. “A little while. Why?”

  “Because you stink,” Twig said, and they both burst into laughter.

  “Maybe more than a little while,” Reggie admitted.

  Twig seemed to consider that. “Was it my pep talk?”

  “Yours was one of many,” Reggie muttered.

  Twig grinned. “But mine was the best. I know. Don’t say it. I’m just so inspirational—”

  He was cut off as a ball smacked into the back of his head.

  “Sorry!” A-Wall called.

  Reggie patted his friend’s arm and went back to his warm-up. “Deeply inspirational.”

  Rain fell in beside him, pivoting into a turnaround jumper. “Ready for Friday?”

  “Yeah. Got to make up for the last few weeks. I won’t mess this one up.”

  Rain left his rebound and turned to him. “You’re pretty hard on yourself, huh?”

  “What?”

  “You’re a good player, man,” Rain said. “You have all the tools.”

  Reggie snorted. “If I do, then I definitely don’t know how to use them.”

  “Or won’t,” Rain said.

  Reggie looked at him, forced a smile, and went back to his warm-up. Won’t? Was Rain implying that Reggie chose to be bad? That was ridiculous. Of course Reggie wanted to be good. He wanted to be a great ball player more than anything. This had nothing to do with choice.

  Nothing in his life had been chosen. The world chose, and he got to react.

  Rolabi arrived fifteen minutes later and called the Badgers to center court.

  “This week we have the Trenton Titans,” Rolabi said. He fixed his gaze on Reggie first, then the rest of the team. “They are well organized, long, and efficient on the offensive end. It will be difficult.”

  There was a stir across the team. Reggie knew all about the Trenton Titans. They had placed third in the conference last year and made nationals. The Badgers had an atrocious schedule: the Titans this week, and last year’s conference champions the week after. It wasn’t a coincidence. All the good teams liked to schedule Bottom games. It was usually an easy win.

  “The Titans made the national tournament,” Twig whispered.

  “This will be our biggest test thus far,” Rolabi said.
“Win this, and we send a message.”

  “What message?” Peño asked.

  “That the Bottom is back,” Rolabi replied simply. “Individual talent will not get us through this game. The Titans are big and physical. We will need to match their physicality with fight and effort.”

  “From everyone this time,” Peño said, looking around at the team.

  “Here we go,” Vin muttered.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Jerome asked.

  Reggie knew a few of the guys had exchanged words on the way out of the game Friday. Sitting in his street clothes as a spectator, he’d had the time to focus on those little exchanges. He had figured it was normal frustration, but there had been some definite tension in the air since.

  Peño shrugged. “Some guys just aren’t fighting out there.”

  Big John laughed derisively, waving him away.

  “Like who?” Vin asked Peño. “Everyone but you?”

  “I’ve been fighting,” A-Wall said hotly.

  Lab held his hands up. “Just relax, guys—”

  “No,” Vin said. “He was talking like this last week too. What you saying, Peño?”

  Reggie felt a tingle on the back of his neck, like the drape of a feather. He shifted uneasily. The air suddenly seemed warm. Humid. He caught the whiff of wet sock. It was as if Fairwood was reverting to its former self. He frowned. Was the team doing this? He looked at the far wall, where the fresh white paint was beginning to flake away.

  Twig glanced at him. “You all right?”

  “Yeah. Fine. Do you smell anything?”

  Twig sniffed. “No.”

  “I’m just saying we need to be dogs out there,” Peño cut in loudly. “We need hustle.”

  “I thought we were badgers,” A-Wall muttered.

  Vin was shaking his head. “Starters always blaming the bench. Typical.”

  “Today we scrimmage,” Rolabi cut in, eyeing the team. “Starters versus bench.”

  That was unusual—Rolabi hadn’t started a practice with a scrimmage since the first days of training camp. Rain nodded at him and began to jump on his toes, clearly getting pumped up. Reggie felt a nervous flutter. When Rain got going, he was tough to stop.

  “Begin,” Rolabi said. “First to twenty. The losing team runs fifty laps.”

  “Fifty laps?” Big John said. “Bench team . . . we are not losing to these starting punks.”

  Lab snorted. “The starters don’t lose to the bench, bro. That’s why we’re starters.”

  “You lost us the last two games,” Vin pointed out, taking a noticeable step toward him.

  Reggie looked around. Now there was more than tension in the air. It felt like open hostility. All around him, the paint continued to peel, the rafters creaked, and the heat began to steadily rise. But no one else seemed to notice. He chewed his lip nervously . . . this could get bad.

  “Maybe a bit more support would help,” Peño replied. “Give us a few breaks.”

  “Maybe you need a long break,” Vin said. “Like a full game on the bench.”

  The whole gym seemed charged now. Reggie noticed that even Twig had his eyes narrowed. In fact, everyone seemed to be glaring at one another. He supposed an 0-4 start had begun to affect the team. Maybe they had all been waiting for the same magical beginning to the season that he had. Disappointment was sliding into anger.

  They split into their respective teams, and the bench players fell back into man defense as the starters advanced. Reggie tracked Rain to the perimeter and was surprised when Rain immediately went to the post instead. Rain got low, anchoring himself and then slowly driving Reggie back toward the hoop. Reggie was knocked off balance, and by the time he found his footing, Rain was firmly on the block, and Peño hit him with a quick pass for the layup.

  Reggie scowled and ran up the floor. He wasn’t sure why everyone was in such a foul mood today, but he felt it seeping into him as well. The frustration of the last two games. The suspension and the missed opportunities. The realization that nothing at all had changed for him.

  This season was supposed to have been different.

  Reggie should have known. Nothing came easy in the Bottom.

  “Strength on the court comes from our positioning,” Rolabi instructed from the sidelines. “We stay low. We gather power from our legs and core and transfer it into our point of impact, wherever that may be. Shoulders, arms, hips. On offense, we use this collective power to carve out our space to operate. On defense, we use it to make our opponents work to earn their own. Reggie was defeated because he was not ready. If we are not ready, then we are preyed upon.”

  Reggie grated his teeth. It was always him. Why did Rolabi have to go after him?

  “Run a three!” Vin called.

  Reggie tried to get to his spot—he was supposed to set a screen at the point for Vin—but Rain was on him in a second. He bumped and tugged and fought with him the whole way, throwing the timing off and allowing Peño to easily stay with Vin on the cut. Jerome swung the ball back to Reggie at the point, and Reggie held it safely back, surveying the floor.

  Everyone was fighting with their check. Big John and Twig were nearly wrestling. Lab and Jerome were hand-checking each other so hard, it looked like a fistfight. Reggie’s eyes went to A-Wall, who had cleared some rare space on the block against Cash and had his hand up for the ball. But as Reggie prepared to lob it down to him, Rain closed in, slapping the ball free.

  Rain picked it up and sprinted down the court for the easy layup.

  “These turnovers, man!” Vin called, glaring at Reggie. “They’re killing us.”

  “How many you have last game, Vin?” Jerome said. “Five in four minutes?”

  Vin scowled. “Let’s just get a bucket.”

  The bench players attacked again. This time, they got the ball to Big John on the block, who took a step back, swinging his hips at the same time. He connected with Twig’s stomach and sent him sprawling onto the floor. Then he turned and laid it in, staring down at Twig with a cocky grin.

  “You better step it up, Stick Boy,” Big John said.

  Peño raced over and shoved Big John back. “Step away.”

  “What you gonna do?” Big John asked, bumping his chest into Peño’s face.

  Reggie glanced at the sidelines, expecting Rolabi to step in, but the enormous professor sat still, his expression unreadable.

  Big John and Peño eventually broke apart, and the scrimmage began again. Rain was playing hard on defense . . . bordering on dirty. Reggie felt his temperature rising with each uncalled foul, but he kept quiet and tried to play through it, avoiding the smack talk and confrontations and hostility. He didn’t play that game. He didn’t like challenging people or getting heated. Over time, though, the physicality began to wear him down. Players were wrestling on the post, talking trash, and fighting hard for every loose ball.

  At 15–14 for the starters, Reggie came off a screen and found himself in open space. Eyes up, he drove for the hoop and leapt for the finger roll at the rim. He didn’t make it. Rain chased him from behind, and Cash came flying over at the same time for the block. Stranded in midair, Reggie slammed off of Cash’s barrel chest and hit the ground, rattling his teeth.

  He lay there for a moment, winded, furious.

  Reggie was tired of being pushed around. No one had called a foul, and the ball had gone out off Reggie, so he backed up on defense, watching as the starters fanned out in attack. When Rain got the ball, he closed in hard, not giving an inch. Rain tried to back him up, but this time Reggie got low, straining his legs and putting everything into the point of contact on his puffed chest. Rolabi had said he needed to channel his emotions after the fight—and now he understood. He let it pour into his defensive stance, into his ready muscles, and into the single-minded determination to stop Rain.

  �
�Not this time,” Reggie growled.

  Rain swung the ball away again and rotated to the far side. Reggie followed, but when Peño drove to the hoop, Reggie leaked off and swatted the ball away.

  He grinned wolfishly as it flew into the bleachers. His heart was beating madly.

  “Boom!” A-Wall shouted. “How’s that for the bench?”

  When they ran down the floor, Reggie called for the pass on the wing. He backed Rain up, grinding for every inch, and then spun around and laid in a hook shot. He slapped his chest.

  “Let’s go!” Reggie said.

  As he ran back on defense, he realized he had never acted like this before. But today, in this heated gym, he didn’t just want to play basketball. He wanted to win. He wanted to beat them.

  The two teams launched into battle. Every point was contended. At 19–19, Lab missed a jumper from the corner, and Reggie dove onto the floor to recover the long rebound. He rolled away from Rain and tossed it to Jerome on the break, who laid in the transition bucket for the win. Big John grabbed Reggie’s arm and hauled him back up again.

  “Beast,” he said, patting Reggie’s chest. “Who woke this man up?”

  “Game,” Rolabi said. “Starters, fifty laps. I will see you all tomorrow.”

  Reggie stood still, feeling the heat coursing through his body. He let the competitive fire recede with slow, even breaths.

  As the starters ran their fifty laps, Reggie changed his shoes alone at the end of the bench, thinking about Rain’s challenge to him. Gran had questioned his commitment. Rain had questioned his pride. They wanted the best from him. Or for him, in Gran’s case. But could he live up to it? He’d had many good practices in his life, even great ones. But when the game started, and the lights got bright, he faded. What was different now? How could he change that?

  Twig plopped down beside him, drenched in sweat. The starters were finished and all getting changed as well. “Did you hear any of that?”

  “Any of what?” Reggie murmured.

  “Didn’t think so . . . you looked a bit preoccupied. Probably not the best time to ask everyone, really. You know, with the tension. Mom says I have an issue with social timing—”