by Paula Chase
A streak of pleasure at knowing the inside scoop gave him that light, airy, floating feeling. He squeezed his knee to force his attention back to Mr. B’s voice.
“Normally, six years would be a raindrop in an ocean when it comes to getting to the next level. But go-go bands are about raw talent, and that you got.” The paper tapped the bass drum with two firm clicks. “And at this point, you have as much experience as the other band members except for maybe B-Roam and Money Mike. I think they’re both fifteen.”
“Sixteen,” Rollie confirmed. Knowing that made him a stan, probably.
“Long story short, I know the band’s manager and I told him I’d keep an eye out for prospects. I was ready to tell him no go. But I like how you handle the skins.” Mr. B’s eyebrow raised. “They probably have a lot of people trying out, secretly. But you’re the right age for them and even if you don’t get selected, the audition process is the best way I know to help musicians grow. So—” He stretched the paper out, shaking it lightly at Rollie. “Take this to your mother. If she has questions, we can talk. And if she approves, we’ll talk about arranging some private lessons to get you ready for the audition. Cool?”
Rollie couldn’t feel the paper between his fingers. He was sure Mr. B said more, but he didn’t hear it. With a robotic “See you later,” he left the room, then immediately opened the paper to see what magic it held. It was only some type of permission slip, but to Rollie it felt like a ticket to another dimension. He folded it neatly and slipped it smoothly into his jean pocket for safekeeping.
Simp
Everybody’s house had rules.
Rollie’s mother (well, mainly his grandmother) made sure he never missed church. Even during basketball season, on Sundays, he had to roll to church and either get dropped off to the game after or miss it since it seemed like church people loved having a morning and afternoon service.
Bean ain’t have no mother that Simp knew. But her father, Mr. Jamal, had hella rules. Low-key, Simp was scared of Mr. Jamal. He was always on a mission to stop people from rolling through the Cove to buy drugs. He was one of the reasons Coach Tez started using more ’Rauder players as lookouts—’cause Mr. Jamal was calling the cops on the older dudes left and right.
Cappy’s mother was even more strict. Simp had forgotten to take his hat off in her house one day, and she straight went off on him about how disrespectful it was. How it was a shame nobody cared about manners anymore. She lectured him until Cappy reminded her they were gonna be late for practice. It was probably only about five minutes, but to Simp it felt like forever.
All his friends’ parents had rules.
But ain’t nobody have rules like Niqa Wright. ’Cause at least with other people, you knew what the rule was: go to bed at ten or clean your room before I get home. It was never that simple with his mother.
Him and his brothers had learned early that to keep the peace, everything was about not making their mother mad. Which was hard ’cause just about anything made her mad.
I beat your butt if you come in here crying.
I beat your butt if the school call and say you been acting up.
I beat your butt if you break something in the house from playing too much.
From where Simp stood, crying, acting up, and playing was probably the three things little boys did best.
His mother wasn’t that big, and at five foot six Simp had caught up to her in height. But his mother had the hardest hands he’d ever felt. When she slapped, she reared back so far, her hand disappeared behind her head. When she pinched, it felt like a sharp claw trying to wrench your skin off. Still, Simp wasn’t afraid of her anymore. The minute he’d given her money and she’d looked at him like he’d just saved her life, he had stopped being afraid. As long as he’d been lacing her with cash, she hadn’t hit him a single time. Yeah, she still threatened and got that look in her eye when she was mad, but she didn’t hit him.
So why did his shoulders jump when her face, eyes narrowed, mouth a thin line, suddenly appeared in the bathroom mirror?
He scowled, more to hide that she’d scared him than anything. “Dang, Ma. How you just creeping up on me like that?”
She leaned on the doorframe, arms folded. “How I’m creeping in my own house, boy?”
He left it alone. Even though she hadn’t whaled on him in a while, he wasn’t trying to make her homesick for throwing hands on him. He adjusted a gold sweatband around his head, taking his time sliding it into place. When she saw he wasn’t going to answer, her mouth lost its tightness.
“This job on my last nerves,” she said, combing her fingers through her long straight weave.
Simp’s first thought was, What that got do with me?
His mother was a receptionist at a doctor’s office. She answered calls all day and signed in patients. Sitting on the phone didn’t seem all that hard to him. He forced his face to stay neutral and muttered, “Um-hm.”
Her words poured in a stream of steady rain.
“Youno what it’s like, Deontae, out here trying provide for five hardheaded boys.” She paused, eyebrow up, daring him to challenge the statement. She swished hair off her shoulder, like she was mad at it. “And it’s bad enough I’m dealing with rude and nasty patients all day. Now they talking about wanting to add more duties to my job.” She rolled her eyes. “But oun hear them talking about more money. They make me sick with that mess.”
He reluctantly turned away from the mirror and leaned against the sink, gripping its sides like it was every day him and his mother stood in the bathroom chatting about her job. His mother didn’t do random conversations. She wanted something. Even though he just wished she’d get to it, his stomach swerved with uncertainty.
“On top of that, everytime I turn around, y’all outgrowing your clothes.” Her lips pursed at the thought. “And my raggedy-ass car acting like it’s ready go up on me. That’s the last thing I need.”
Before the stack of problems grew any higher, Simp finally asked, “What? You need money or something, Ma?”
Her head reared back as she laughed, but when she looked at Simp her eyes were sharp and curious. “Why? You got money?”
He sucked his teeth. “Ma, don’t play. I’m serious. You need hold something?”
“Hold?” She snorted. “That mean I’d pay you back. I’m your mother. Either you gon’ give me what I need or youn have it. But I ain’t borrowing nothing from you. Shoot, I’m still the one paying the rent up in here.”
Anger bloomed in Simp’s chest. How was she turning this on him like he’d said something wrong?
He sucked in a breath, held it for a second, then let it out as he asked, “I’m just saying, did you need something?”
She smiled. “If you got something.”
Her and all this blah-blah she was talking, like she had to prove she needed money, confused Simp. Usually she didn’t have no problem just asking. He rushed her along.
“Ma, I got go practice. Can you just tell me how much you need?”
Her lips pursed. “Oh, so you the parent now ’cause you giving me a couple dollars?”
Simp slid past her in the doorway and headed to his room, across the hall. He put his ’Rauders jacket over his black hoodie. The hall was small enough for her to stand in the bathroom doorway and still talk to him. She was fussing but the edge was gone. “I need, like, two hundred. You got that?”
Her voice went up a notch on the question.
He smirked to himself. He had it. “I might. But I’mma have to look when I get back.”
“Um-hm, ‘might.’” Bitter doubt edged her words. “How much money you hiding around this house, Deontae? Oun care where you put it. You know if I find it, in my house, it’s mine.”
He knew she meant it, and he couldn’t fight the heat rising in his head. All she had to do was ask and he’d give it to her. But naw, she had to be extra and remind him that she ran things. Things that he helped pay for.
Since he’d been hustling,
he’d helped pay the cable, the electric, and even some of the rent. He squashed the urge to point that out.
He kept money in all types of places—taped under his desk, behind posters on his wall, even behind one of the little outlet plates. Sometimes hiding it was a game, just to see if he could find a new way to do it. Each time he’d go back for the money, he half expected it to be gone. But it was always there. His brothers knew better than to go into his room without asking first. If it ever disappeared, he’d know it was his mother.
Up until now, it had felt like they had a deal. He kept giving her money because she’d never taken it without asking. It showed she respected him.
Now she was acting like him helping her out wasn’t nothing. Or like he ain’t do nothing to earn it. It was never enough with his mother.
Simp stood in his doorway. His jaw clenched as fear and anger boiled in his gut.
He fixed his mother with a blank look. “I ain’t hiding nothing. But it’s my money. I work just like you.” His heart pounded as he waited for her to step to him, palm open ready to slap.
Lips pursed tight, her eyebrow went up a notch. They both stood their ground for a few seconds before Niqa’s laugh trilled in the dim hallway. “Um-hm. You might work, but you don’t work like I do.” She called over her shoulder as she walked away, “Leave the money on the table for me. I need it by tomorrow morning.”
All he could think was, Why couldn’t she just ask for the money and keep it pushing? He would have said yes, no matter what the amount was as long as he had it. But she had to go and punk him. Then she ain’t even say thank you.
He wasn’t even worth a thank-you. That hurt.
All he could do was take his anger out on the basketball.
Ping.
Ping.
Ping.
The ball smacked against the wood then hopped back up into Simp’s palm, like the floor had spanked it. All around him pings jumped off as the team warmed up, but all he heard was the sound of his own ball. He cradled the rock in one hand. Then turned it slowly, feeling its tiny bumps. They made his fingers tingle. Got ’em ready.
He was a beast on the floor. Could see what moves had to be made to get the shot off in his head. Knew exactly how hard to flick his wrist to get the ball through that extra space to get to the basket. He didn’t have to work hard to be good at basketball. It was why becoming a Cove Marauder was his destiny. They were the best select team in the state.
The Cove also had a recreation league ball team, the Cougars. Anybody could play on that team. No tryouts. No cuts. It was just something to do after school for most dudes. The ’Rauders were different. You worked hard to make the team, and once you did you’d do anything for your teammates. They were in the battle with you, every game, mowing down the opposition.
Even among other great players, Simp was special.
The year he tried out, this dude had bet that Simp would score at least fifteen in the scrimmage. Everybody thought it was a sucker bet. At eleven, Simp was skinny and just under five feet tall. No way he was going to outscore the taller, stronger boys. But he had. He’d scored twenty-six points, and the dude had won a hundred dollars. He’d slid Simp twenty.
He’d known then exactly what being a ’Rauder meant. It was everything to some people. Dudes from ten years ago were still talked about as if they’d just played a game. He wanted that love. He wanted that power. The only thing missing was his boy.
He bounced the ball, letting its magic sink into his digits as he watched the door anxiously. TAG ran later on Fridays. But Rollie should have still been here by now. If he was coming.
Simp slammed the ball to the floor to block out the spidery nerves building in his stomach. Rollie needed to come on. He was ready mess up if he didn’t bust in that door before Coach Tez.
’Rauders All Day wasn’t just a motto; it was a pledge. One they all took when they agreed to play. That included practice and making your shift for working the front. Rollie was starting to slip.
Simp dribbled, hoping to quiet his worry.
Ping.
Ping.
Then a whistle screeched.
Coach Tez stood in the middle of the court decked out in a black velour warm-up suit. It was zipped down just enough to show a fresh bright white T-shirt. He rocked a pair of black slides with the tiny symbol of a slam-dunking Michael Jordan shining out in white. From across the gym it was hard to tell, but the flip-flop on his right foot had a slightly thicker sole. All of Coach Tez’s shoes did—custom-made to hide his limp.
Streets claimed he’d been shot. But it was only a rumor. Simp didn’t know a lot about their coach, but he did know Tez had been hurt in a construction job a long time ago. He’d heard his mother say a thousand times she wished she had it like Tez—“out here collecting disability and barely paying any rent ’cause he ‘can’t work.’” She always said it with her lip upturned, like she didn’t believe he was really hurt. But her eyes was always dreamy, like she wished it was her.
If he was faking, he was good at it. Without the special soles, Coach hobbled more than he walked. The only time he limped was when he stood too long. But it was just the start of practice. He was ready to go. He blew the whistle again, letting it shrill longer than he had to.
Simp cast one last look at the door just as Rollie jogged in, out of breath, stripping off his hat and jacket as he crossed the gym floor.
“You pushing it man,” Simp said through a huge grin. He put his hand out and Rollie gripped it in a shake. “Few more seconds and you woulda been doing sprint drills by your lonely.”
“I couldn’t get out the house. My moms was fussing because I forgot to do the dishes,” Rollie said breathlessly as he undid his warm-up pants in one motion. The snaps made a tiny clacking sound. Simp and Rollie walked over and joined the team.
With his boy next to him, Simp felt like he could run the world. He listened, holding on to every word Coach Tez said, ready to will his body to do whatever was asked.
Practice broke into full swing.
The team was run like an army with Coach Tez as the big general and Simp as the little one. It didn’t matter that there were a few older dudes on the team; whoever Tez knighted as the team’s general was the general. Period.
The big general yelled his command and Simp enforced it.
A blow of the whistle meant either stop or go. Get confused on which it meant and they got extra drills: sprint and rebound drills, layups until their legs were noodles, dribbling and juking street ball–style to see how fast they were at keeping the ball away from one another.
It went on like that for an hour, then right into a scrimmage against one another—no matter that the “warm-up” would have been practice enough for any other team. They weren’t any other team. They were the Cove Marauders, five-time ’Peake champions.
The Chesapeake Invitational was a three-day tournament with the top twelve select teams competing to be state champ. At this point, every team was playing for third place. The ’Rauders and Pumas battle for one and two had left the competition littered all over the court. If Coach Tez had anything to do with it, they’d never lose their dominance. The entire season was about the ’Peake.
Captains didn’t get picked until a month before the ’Peake. Starting five was juggled and tweaked specifically with ’Peake domination in mind. They could be undefeated the whole season, but lose at the ’Peake and the team caught trouble.
Coach Tez bragged on their five wins so much that, at first, Simp thought they got money or something. But their number one ranking and the four-foot tall, fake gold statue were the only payment he’d seen.
By the end of practice, the gym was hot and humid and the floor slick from the team’s sweat.
Coach Tez put his arms up and shouted, “Bring it in.”
Some of the boys, their legs exhausted, took their time getting to the huddle. Simp jogged over like he was ready to go more. When he reached the huddle first, he was rewarded with a clap
of the shoulder. He kept the grin off his face as he listened intently.
“All right, y’all looking pretty good out there.” Coach Tez scowled at Reuben, who had enough sense to hang his head. “But some of you look like you tired. What you tired for? If you was a pro, all this—even the scrimmage—would just be the warm-up before a practice.”
Simp straightened up at that. He mean-mugged Reuben.
“I need y’all to look at these next few games like it’s the championships already.” Coach Tez scoured the circle of sweaty dudes, piercing each one with a look. When he made eye contact, the player was expected to nod so Coach Tez knew he understood. “We gotta secure first place at the J. Martins Tourney. That’s the first time we really get to see what our competition look like before the Chesapeake. If we walk away ranked anything less than first, don’t even matter if y’all can climb out that hole at the ’Peake. Oun want nobody thinking we soft. Ya’ heard?”
There were mumbles of “yeah,” “yes, sir,” “yes, Coach.”
Coach Tez smiled. “Good. Y’all got a target on your back, whether you like it or not. Everybody gon’ be at the J. Martins trying scope out our game and keep us from the top spot.” His voice rose with passion, giving Simp goose bumps. “Play big, win big. Anybody slack at the tourney and you getting benched.” Simp gulped as Coach Tez side glanced at Rollie. “Ain’t nobody’s spot safe. Believe dat.” He stretched his hand out into the huddle and the team did the same, piling on top. “’Rauders All Day, on three. One, two, three . . .”
“’Rauders All Day!”
The chant bellowed throughout the gym. While it echoed, the players scattered, talking and laughing. They rushed to get dressed. If Coach Tez hadn’t asked them to stay, no one ever lingered.