by Paula Chase
JZ was the star of the team, but Coach Ewing wouldn’t let him enjoy it even for a minute. He felt his legs ready to go rubbery and willed them steady as he passed Coach Ewing, whistle clamped between his lips, ready to blow it at the slightest hint that JZ was slowing down. Several players ran past JZ, forcing him to dig in and catch up.
He was the captain of the team; if any of the players reached the foul line before him, he’d have to run an extra lap at the end of practice.
JZ would sprint-crawl before stopping. He had mad respect for Coach. Besides his father, Coach Ewing was the only other man JZ feared. Tall, lean, and broad across the chest, the thirty-something history teacher had an easygoing demeanor that could turn into mouth-frothing anger at mediocrity in a heartbeat.
JZ was no psychologist, but he didn’t have to be to know Coach’s disdain for weakness had something to do with his own unfulfilled dreams. A former McDonald’s All-American player, he’d been a top college prospect until he blew out his knee, junior year. No knee meant no scholarship, and once the big-name schools stopped calling, he ended up at a small HBCU in Tennessee. He reminded his players often that they should take basketball seriously, but be just as serious about a backup plan.
JZ feared Coach Ewing’s wrath, but he feared the prospect of becoming Coach Ewing more.
Talent down the drain. That would never be him.
JZ pushed harder, outpacing Todd, sprinting past Dave B., and easily overtaking Carlos to reach the foul line on the last sprint. He put his arms over his head and walked off the lightning bolt piercing his sides and chest, until his breath steadied from panting to just plain heavy.
“Well, ladies, look like your captain doesn’t wanna run extra laps today,” Coach Ewing said, the smile in his voice genuine.
JZ’s heart steadied. He’d done good. Coach was happy ... finally.
Coach waved the team over. They huddled around him, the heat steaming off their bodies as he lectured. “That’s the kind of effort I need to see when we play Sam-Well. Not five of you on the court, but one team handling the ball like they’re connected at the hip. One picking up the slack when another struggles.” He leveled a look at JZ. “We got an understanding, Jason?”
JZ nodded. He greedily reached for the water bottle Todd handed over and squirted the cool liquid down his throat, never tasting it.
“I hope so.You try stacking your stats over doing what’s right to getaWin the column, I’ll bench your ass,” Coach said, refusing to look away until JZ nodded again. Once he did, Coach put his hand in the huddle, palm down, and waited patiently while the players followed suit, placing their hands on top.
“Blue Devils go, on three,” he said. “One, two, three ...”
“Blue Devils go,” the team chanted.
The huddle broke up immediately. The team scrambled to run their mandatory laps, forcing their way through it like a sick child taking medicine. Afterward, the losers of the sprint drill gathered the equipment, while the rest of the team beat it to the locker room.
Todd walked beside JZ. He glanced at the back of JZ’s soaked practice jersey, tugging at it slightly, “Dude, did you have a bull’s-eye on your back or something? Coach was just like ... man, on you.”
Not like it was the first time, JZ thought bitterly. He pulled the jersey over his head, wincing at the soreness in his arms, and wiped his face with it.
“You know how he gets,” he said, not really wanting to dwell on it. Coach didn’t play favorites—he was an equal opportunity bitcher—but JZ would be lying if he didn’t admit to himself that the closer they got to senior year, the harder Coach was on him. If JZ didn’t know better, he’d swear Coach Ewing was jealous because so many Division I schools were actively recruiting him. They were calling Coach Ewing’s office daily and flooding him with letters requesting to come out and see JZ play.
JZ was at the foothills of the promised land. Coach Ewing must have been having flashbacks to his own stunted career and JZ was catching hell for it.
It wasn’t anything JZ knew for sure, just a feeling.
“Is it me or is Coach seriously dogging you out a lot more lately?” Todd said, blithely summarizing JZ’s miserable thoughts.
The team’s noise muted around them as everyone hit the showers, leaving Todd and JZ standing at their lockers.
JZ shrugged. He sat on the wooden bench that ran the full length of the locker room and kicked at his sneaker until it worked itself off.
“I’m just saying, you’ve been the golden child and now ...” Todd’s blue eyes clouded with thought. “I don’t know. It’s probably that reverse psychology thing—being harder on the favorite.” He laughed, unaware that JZ was silent beside him. “Man, whatever it is, remind me not to be his favorite.”
“Play like you did today and that won’t be a problem,” JZ said. “All those bricks you threw tonight.”
Todd mimed taking a shot.
“Bonk,” JZ said dully, imitating the ball hitting the rim.
“That’s wrong.” Todd mimed a few more shots as he talked. “Yeah, I was off today, no doubt.”
“Why? Did you finally get some?” JZ asked, chuckling.
“Yeah, right,” Todd said, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “But that’s probably it. I’ve reached my peak. Now the no sex is killing my game.”
“Then you gonna be a no-playing somebody.” JZ stepped his right foot on his left and yanked until the sock came off. “ ’Cause Lizzie ain’t thinking about giving it up.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Todd said. He put his fist out for a pound. “Later, dude.”
JZ banged his fist against Todd’s gently. He sat on the bench until the first wave of guys emerged from the stable of showers, then stood up, stretching, taking his time to the line of open nozzles. He bypassed the empty nozzles and headed to the last one, making it clear to his teammates he wasn’t in the mood to talk smack tonight.
He turned the shower on full blast and let the tepid water quell the sticky clamminess that coated his body, scrubbing until the locker room went silent. Finally alone, he rinsed and toweled off. As he threw on jeans and a tee shirt, jazz played softly from the back of the locker room where Coach Ewing’s office was located. Many days, JZ would stop by and talk with his coach. They talked about everything—JZ’s grades, JZ’s parents’ expectations, random game highlights, and every now and then, girls. But not tonight.
JZ had eaten enough humble pie tonight. Coach was probably in a better mood; he’d certainly been at the very end of practice. But if he wasn’t, JZ would have to stand there, face passive, body language neutral, as Coach went on about JZ stacking his stats or hogging the ball.
Man, fug that, he thought, grabbing his Blue Devils duffel bag and taking the long way around to avoid walking by the office. He trudged out quietly, relieved when he escaped without Coach looking up and sensing his presence.
He squinted in the bright fluorescent shine of the hallway, taking his time going down the long corridor that ran the length of the school’s athletic area. He passed doors to the gym, three mini gyms, the girls’ locker room and weight room before nearing an open door at the end of the corridor. Hip-hop blared from the room, tinny and bassless like someone was playing it on bad or tiny speakers.
That’s my joint, he thought, his head automatically nodding along to the song. He slowed down. He’d never noticed the room before.
Curious, he stopped just short of the doorway and stretched his neck so he could glance inside without being too obvious. His face brightened when he saw Michael inside, hunched over an art drafting table, head nodding to the music.
JZ stood in the doorway. “What up, money?” He laughed when Michael jumped. “My B, Mike. I ain’t mean to scare you.”
Michael swiveled on the tall stool, chuckling. “No problem. I usually shut the door. But it gets mad claustrophobic in here when I do.”
He put his fist out for a pound. JZ was beside him in two strides, connecting his fi
st in a gentle tap.
“Mad claustrophobic is right,” he said, eyeing the cramped room, scowling. “Did this used to be the football team’s supply room?”
Michael nodded. He dropped his pencil on the desk, welcoming the interruption.
“That’s right.” JZ pointed to the back wall. “That area used to be caged in, where Coach kept the balls and stuff. But we haven’t used it since freshman year.”
“Yeah. Last summer, they gave Madame Jessamay permission to use it as a sewing room, ’cause Ms. Epps went off and wouldn’t let us use the Family Life sewing machines regularly.”
JZ chuckled. “Ms. Epps always like that. Remember I had to take Family Life that semester? Man, she acted like those sewing machines was made of platinum.” He nagged in a high-pitched nasal, “Jason, respect school property. This is a sewing machine, not a weight machine.”
Michael nodded. “Uh-huh.” He rolled his eyes. “You know I don’t have no love for Ms. Epps. She got hot with me because I asked her how come we didn’t have more challenging sewing projects.” He scoffed. “How I look, fifteen years old making a stuffed animal?”
He and JZ tapped fists again as they laughed.
“I know that’s right. I only took it ’cause they messed up my schedule and Coach Ewing couldn’t flex no muscle and get it changed.” JZ’s scowl turned into a smile at the memory. “Only good thing was, the class had so many chicks in it who I never noticed before. I hooked up like a bandit that semester.”
“I remember,” Michael said, head bobbing up and down. “I figured it was gonna be an easy A for me. But Ms. Epps got all technical on me. Failed my shorts project ’cause I used a different type of stitch than the one she taught.”
“Son, that’s so foul.” JZ howled. “That sounds like her though.”
Michael grinned. “When I told her I was applying at the Carter for fashion design her mouth practically fell open. She had the nerve to say”—his voice took on a tight, proper imitation of Ms. Epps—“ ‘Well, Mr. James, I hope you follow directions better there ... if they accept you. Willingness to be taught is as important as skill.’”
JZ’s chuckle was snide. “You should have said, Yeah, be-yotch, I know you pissed ’cause I’m doing what you only wish you could do.”
Michael’s eyebrow raised at the venom in JZ’s voice, but his voice remained neutral. “Yeah. But I needed her recommendation. We gotta have three recommendations from people who have worked directly with us in design and I only had two.” He shrugged, grinning. “So I needed the old bird. I’ll tell her off if I actually get in.”
“That’s my boy.” JZ put his fist out for another pound. “Get that revenge. I’m with that.”
Their one and only shared experience about fashion over, a heavy silence settled between them. JZ shifted from his right foot to the left and adjusted his duffel bag, absently. He glanced down at the sketch Michael had been working on, then shifted his eyes to the expected costume dummy in the corner. The partial outfit on the dummy was the same Michael was playing around with on paper.
JZ was surprised to see how similar the two were. He could see the penciled design taking shape before his eyes, even though it was half-finished. He’d seen plenty of Michael’s finished designs but had never seen any of his sketches. Seeing the direct connection gave him an odd sense of pride in Michael’s skill.
He fought the warmness in his chest with his usual arrogant wit. “So, son, if this whole thing takes off”—he gestured casually to the dummy, then brushed at his shoulder—“I expect the hookup. I’m gonna need a fly suit for NBA draft day and then I want your shit hot off the sketch. I’m talking hooking me up with that private custom line.”
He was relieved and happy when Michael extended his hand for a grip. They gripped hands, ending with a pound to the back, the closest they would ever come to a hug.
“You got that, kid.” Michael beamed, his pleasure at JZ’s acceptance obvious. “You know your boy gon’ look out.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” JZ said. He cleared his throat. His voice rose, as he talked over the emotion building in his chest. “Do you, cutty. I gotta dip.”
He tapped fists with Michael once more and turned heel. He was out of the room in the same two strides that brought him in, and in several more, onto the main corridor leading to the front parking lot. He walked briskly, trying to outpace the mix of emotions threatening to overwhelm him.
You Do You
“Wanna see how it’s done? Watch me do me.”
—Rocko, “Umma Do Me”
Michael was vibrating. It had been two days since JZ stopped by the sewing room and given, in his own JZ-way, his blessing, and Michael was still soaring. His hands moved a mile a minute over the new sketch he was working on, a fly men’s suit—never too early to get started on JZ’s draft day gear. He stopped to admire the charcoal gray, pin-striped suit. The jacket had only one button, so Jay could unbutton easily and show the black vest with bold gray stripes, making it contrast crazy with the thin stripes of the dark pants. The thick stripes, at the top, against the tiny ones, on the bottom, forced your eyes to the wearer, head to toe.
JZ would love it. Attention was his addiction.
Playa’, you’re the straight shiggity, Michael thought, swelling with pride.
A loud, old-fashioned telephone ring blared from his computer, stopping him mid admiration. He turned from the sketch, surprised to see Rob on.
Crazylegs: whut up dog?
Michael pushed the sketch aside, happy to chat.
MikeMan: its ur world, son. Thght u had a masters audition 2nite?
Crazylegs: my time got moved up. done 4 the nite.
MikeMan: u rip it?
Crazylegs: LOL if u say so. Any word frm da board yet?
Rob had been more nervous about the masters review than Michael had ever seen him about any audition. Normally, Rob carried himself as if he assumed he’d get any role. Masters review was only about class placement; Michael couldn’t understand his anxiety. His own worries about life at the Carter tickled the back of his mind, as he thought about his portfolio with the school’s admissions board.
MikeMan: no word yet. But damn u mkng me nervous. If u shook like this how im gonna keep up there?
Crazylegs: the mod dance major is mad competitive. im not pressed abt making it, pressed abt getting the right instructor! U get the rgt 1 n seriously once u graduate u practically guaranteed da hookup w/certain schools & contacts.
MikeMan: u gon b alright.
Crazylegs: o I got the job done 2nite, trust. Jus’ sweating my balls off now.
MikeMan: LOL I hear dat.
Crazylegs: u gon’ know what I’m talking ’bout once u do ur live portfolio review
MikeMan: dayum thx dude ... tht don’t make me nervous at all!
Crazylegs: LOL my b. just meant having ur shit on display live is mad nerve wracking. But I get off on the pressure, its all good.
MikeMan: speaking of pressure, finally got one less thing 2 trip abt
Crazylegs: whuts dat?
MikeMan: JZ finally gave me props 4 mine
Crazylegs: thas cool ... it only took him 3 yrs. Better late than never huh?
Michael read the message a few times. As low key as Rob’s response was, in his mind Michael saw Rob’s mouth upturned in distaste. He’d been the one person Michael had been totally honest with when it came to his anger that JZ never acknowledged his design skills. Mina knew, but he always played it down with her. If he hadn’t, it would have only stressed her out to know just how hurt he was. She would have tried bringing him and JZ together to talk it over, kiss and make up or whatever. That was her wishful thinking /fantasy land solution, while Michael knew no amount of “talking” would change JZ’s mind. That’s just how JZ was—stubborn, a little aggressive with his viewpoint. Michael was used to it and letting JZ go with his own flow was why they’d remained friends so long with no drama.
As maddening as the last three
years had been, he was willing to call bygones. It was more important that JZ had come around, and though he knew he shouldn’t have, he admitted it to Rob.
MikeMan: extly, better late than never. It’s swazy. Just glad he accepting that this is me ... it’s what I do. Crazylegs: yeah he accepting thts what u do but he ain’t accepting u
Michael’s heart thumped to his throat. He was here again, caught between his two friends, two worlds. He swallowed anger, treading carefully with his words.
MikeMan: accepting what I do/me is the same thng 2 me Crazylegs: no it ain’t, Mike. Save dat bullshit 4 JZ don’t spit it 2 me. JZ not accepting u cuz he don’t even kno u, son.
Michael stared at the screen, unable to type back. The response standoff went on for five minutes, then Rob blinked first.
Crazylegs: look man, im not tryna dog u out. 4 real. but i can’t let u lie 2 urself. Im ur boy. I would b jus as bad as JZ if i ain’t b real. da only way u gon’ kno if JZ down w/u is if he kno all of u.
It took Michael a second to realize that the tapping in his head was his heartbeat pulsing in his temples. He rubbed the sides of his forehead, wanting to be mad at Rob, wanting to burn the bridge of their friendship so he could stay safely on the side with Mina, JZ, and the rest of the clique. He glanced at the sketch of the suit, caressing it with his eyes.
Didn’t matter if JZ went into the NBA tomorrow or five years from now, the suit was hot. JZ would rock it fierce. He fingered the sketch, pushing it away when his throat tightened.
The computer chirped as Rob continued. Michael reluctantly read the messages.
Crazylegs: im not saying its easy, money mike. But u gotta do u, rght?
Crazylegs: come on, man, don’t ice me like this. Jus tryna have ur back.
MikeMan: thx, son. I kno u lookin out.