by Paula Chase
“Is this legitimate?” his mother asked, handing the paper over to G-ma. “It says that if they pick you, we need to sign a contract.” Her brows crinkled. “That sounds serious.”
“A contract for what?” G-ma scanned the paper with her finger. “What is this, Ro?”
He sat down across from them. They stared at him, his mother looking worried, his grandmother confused, and that’s when it sank in. Mr. B thought he was good enough to try out for a real band. He could be a celebrity. His heart beat proudly as he explained. Even the disapproving head shake of his grandmother didn’t kill his excitement. She said a hasty prayer and scooped food on her plate, signaling it was time to eat whether they felt like it or not.
Rollie’s fork grazed over his dinner as she scolded. “I don’t like this, Vernita. It’s too much. He just got in this talented program.” She fixed Rollie with a look. “How you know this thing is real?”
His grandmother’s word was the last word. If she convinced his mother to say no, it would be no. Period. He looked from one to the other, then focused on G-ma. “Mr. B said you can call him and ask any questions you want. He knows their manager. It’s not like some shady audition he just heard of from the Internet or something. G-ma, the Rowdy Boys been together since they were in elementary school. Remember the paper did that big story on them and they was on the news?”
His heart flipped when his mother’s face brightened. “I knew I’d heard of them somewhere before.” She scooted the paper from her mother’s grip and reread it. “Harold ‘Pee Wee’ Jamison . . . that’s their manager. He was on there with them talking about how good they were and how the boys were self-taught musicians.” She laughed at that. “Ma, remember? Because you said you knew some Jamisons that used to live near center court.”
Rollie jumped in. “I don’t know how Mr. B know him, but maybe they grew up together. It’s real, though. Mr. B connected like that, I guess.”
“And how you gonna keep playing for the youth choir if you doing all this?” G-ma asked. Her teeth clanged against the fork as she shoved a piece of chop into her mouth. She chewed it for a few seconds, then turned to his mother. “He already doing too much. Playing basketball and what not. You should wait till report cards come out, then decide.”
“But they trying to fill the slot now,” Rollie said. He calmed the high-pitched panic he heard in his voice. “G-ma, it’s just an audition. I don’t really care if I make it, for real. But it would be so crazy if I didn’t at least try.”
He hated lying. But, if Mr. B thought he was that good, then making it wasn’t so crazy. His grandmother was on some old-school stuff not wanting him to always be out there “running the streets,” which, to her, was anything but going to church. That was where his mother was different. She had let him play for the ’Rauders because she thought it was better than him just hanging out on the street corner. And Rollie had never told her any different. Never planned to and wouldn’t have to if he could kill the audition. If he got into the band, him playing for the ’Rauders and doing what he did for Tez would take care of itself.
He pressed his grandmother once more. “Please, G-ma? Mr. B already know I play for the church.” He made a face, teasing. “I already told him you won’t ever let me stop that.”
The tiny wrinkles around her mouth disappeared as she smiled. “You got that right.” She lightly jabbed her fork his way. “The Lord gave you that talent, and the least you can do to pay Him back is to play in church. Hmph.” She raised an eyebrow, daring either of them to challenge her. When they didn’t, her face relaxed. “If your mother find out this is real, then go ’head and try out. But be careful.” She moved her attention directly to Vernita. “Remember when Rowena’s granddaughter got caught up in that modeling thing?” She shook her head, mouth in a deep frown. “Sat there and spent all that money thinking that child was gonna be a top model or some nonsense. Then everybody running around trying help her pay her rent and light bill. It didn’t make no sense.”
“You know I know better, Ma,” Rollie’s mother said. She gave Rollie a look, and they shared a smile. “I’ll give his teacher a call and see what it’s about. I got a few questions anyway.”
Satisfied, G-ma went back to eating. She started talking about some drama popping off at the church. For her, the conversation was done. Rollie’s stomach was too full with excitement to eat, but he picked at the chop to avoid his grandmother’s lecture about wasting food. He wanted to share his news with somebody. Somebody who would understand what it felt like to see a door halfway open and feel like if they just ran headfirst they could bust it open and end up somewhere good on the other side.
There was only one person like that. Mila Phillips.
He forced down the last few bites of his dinner, waited for a pause in their conversation, and asked if he could go. Deep in their gossip, his mother waved him on. He was barely up the stairs as he texted Mila:
the wildest thing just happened
He pulled books out of his backpack and stacked them beside him on the floor. He put his phone on top of the books, waiting for Mila to hit him back.
Over the summer two things had happened—one, he was kind of, sort of halfway talking to Metai Johnson, and two, he had run into Mila, in the Woods, while he was visiting his cousin Michael. He wasn’t looking for a girlfriend, but he was feeling both of them. Problem was, Mila and Metai were best friends.
Since Mila was in TAG, he used it as an excuse to hit her up now and then. But real talk, he liked vibing with her. After he promised her that he’d keep their conversations on the low, Mila seemed cool with them talking . . . about TAG, at least. Once Rollie had tried talking to her about a TV show she’d mentioned liking and she went ghost on him. She hadn’t answered another text from him until he’d popped up a few weeks later asking about the TAG dance recital.
It was stupid that he couldn’t just talk to Mila about whatever he wanted. He had known both of them since first grade. But in Tai’s mind, they were already exclusive. So, he took the hint. He didn’t want them beefing over him, so he only ever hit Mila up about dance or drumming.
The smile on his face was genuine when her message came back: what? U and Mr. B going on tour?
He couldn’t help thinking how Tai probably couldn’t remember his TAG teacher’s name. Tai cared about what Tai cared about. And Tai didn’t care about TAG or even his drumming. At least she never acted like it. He loved that Mila knew him well enough to guess something that had to do with Mr. Benson.
He sat with his back against his bed, elbows propped on his knees as he typed back: I know this gonna sound corny but don’t tell nobody pls.
JahMeeLah: cross my
Roll-Oh: Mr. B hooked me up with an audition
JahMeeLah: Roland that is incredible. For real for real. so like a band that you would get paid to be in?
Rollie basked in her excitement. It surged through him like electricity. His fingers danced across the screen: yup. If my mother say yes he gonna help get me ready for it.
JahMeeLah: would she say no?
Roll-Oh: lol my g-ma would fo sho.
JahMeeLah: oh right. Granny don’t play.
Roll-Oh: say word. it ain’t like I think imma get the gig or anything. But I can’t lie, Mr. B thinking I’m good enough to try got me trippin a little
JahMeeLah: if he think u good enough to try then he probably think u could get the job tho. That’s crazy. Good crazy
Rollie read her words over. He was too afraid to believe them. He was too afraid not to believe them. Either way, this audition could change everything.
Simp
Simp held the tiny white Ping-Pong ball suspended above the table. Chris stood across from him, calm. Simp wasn’t fooled. Chris’s eyes shifted quickly from the ball to Simp’s eyes like he could gauge when it would drop. But Simp had him. He’d won points off the last three serves by just waiting.
The rec center was packed with people milling from the foosball table,
past the Ping-Pong table, and to the corner where the TV blared music videos. With both game tables taken, most people piled on the other side of the room, clustered in groups talking or half playing some of the old board games. Music, laughter, and random shouts of dissing mingled together. The few days the rec stayed open until nine were guaranteed to be mob deep, once February hit, thanks to the cold and early dark. Nobody was trying to sit in the house at six o’ clock like it was time for bed. But to Simp, the noise in the game room was far away. He was used to it. Even the squad sitting on the “sideline” calling out comments didn’t throw him.
They had been lucky enough to get into the game room and onto the old lumpy sofas near the Ping-Pong table before the crowd. Mo, Sheeda, and Chrissy sat on one couch, Rollie between Mila and Tai on the other. The only times Chris scored on him was Simp’s own fault, ’cause he’d been sneaking a peek to see if Tai was all up on Rollie. He’d considered losing against Mila on purpose so somebody else could get next and he could slip in on the conversation. Then Chris had yelled out he had next and Simp wasn’t about to pass up the chance to spank him. Once he smashed the ball into his face, it would be his second win.
He faked a tremble in his hand. Chris didn’t move.
Punk getting used to my style, Simp thought.
Plain and simple, he didn’t like Chris. Dude acted like he was too good to kick it with anybody but Rollie. He hadn’t once stepped on the court or the rec by his self. Had never hit Simp up to chill. It was like they hadn’t met the same time he’d met everybody else he seemed so close with.
Didn’t matter. After Simp finished with him he’d have another reason to stay his punk butt home “writing his rhymes.”
Simp’s mouth pursed in concentration.
Just as he relaxed his muscle to let the ball go, Mo shouted, “Man, would you please just serve.” She slammed her back against the sofa, arms folded. “Me and Sheeda would like to play, today. This getting boring.”
Simp ignored her yammering, but Chris’s eyes slid Mo’s way for a second. When they did, Simp dropped the ball and whacked it hard. He pumped his fist as it flew past Chris’s last-second attempt to jab at it.
“Sucker,” Simp muttered. He threw the paddle onto the table.
“That’s game,” Sheeda announced, hopping up. She raced over and reached for Chris’s paddle. “Sorry. Good game, though.”
“It’s good,” Chris said. He sat next to Mila on the little block that pretended to be a table. “Shoot, the game coulda ended ten minutes ago if Deontae ain’t take five minutes between every serve.”
The squad’s laughter pumped annoyance through Simp’s veins. “Don’t be mad ’cause you got gamed, son.” He thumped down next to Chrissy and pulled his cap lower to hide the murder in his eyes. He didn’t need nobody knowing how much Chris got to him. They would think it meant he cared what dude thought of him. He didn’t. Just didn’t like him was all.
Rollie piled on. “It did stretch the game out, B.”
Simp swallowed hard and forced the tightness in his throat to ease back. “So everybody hating my style. huh? Must mean I got y’all running.” He slouched down on the sofa, jaw tight.
“Just jokes, son,” Rollie said. “You the reigning champ.”
Simp stayed looking forward, seeing beyond Mo at the table and at people clustered on the few chairs and sofas surrounding the television. Everybody was with their set, loud and joyful, happy just to be out. He should have felt the same way. But nothing felt the same anymore. They were all together but it still felt off. It had since him and Rollie’s talk with Coach Tez. He felt like he was on the outside looking in at everybody else, not knowing who to trust.
He mentally took count of where he stood.
Him and Tai were getting along better. On TAG days, she was always talking him up on the bus ride home.
And him and Rollie was still cool, weren’t they? He thought so but couldn’t shake it.
Everybody had eagerly agreed to hang out tonight, didn’t they?
Maybe it was just him.
He sighed hard to push the doubt away as Sheeda continued the roll of apologies. “Nobody hating, Simp. But dang, we all want get a game in before they shut down for the night.” She reached for and missed the ball as it lazily sailed her way. “Aww man.”
“Good try,” Mila said. Her big bun of tiny braids shivered as she clapped politely.
Simp caught himself rolling his eyes at her being so nice, then apologized to her in his head. That was just Bean, always keeping the peace. He knew she wanted everybody to call her Mila. She claimed she’d outgrown the nickname Bean. But she was always gonna be Bean to him.
Tai piped in. “For real, though, nobody feel like taking a hour to finish one game of Ping-Pong.” Simp couldn’t see her over his brim but felt her hand tap his elbow playfully. “I’m just playing. Y’all know I don’t care about no Ping-Pong. Rollie keep promising to show me how to play NBA Extreme.”
Her touch made his insides jelly. Simp listened to her go in playfully on Rollie, wishing it was him. He’d known Tai a long time, but the last few weeks was the first time she treated him like he didn’t annoy her. Much as he hated how TAG took Rollie from him, it meant him and Tai rode the bus without the crew sometimes. They were stuck with each other. A distant hope sparked in his chest.
He was about to volunteer to teach Tai whatever she wanted when Chrissy’s soft voice reached him. “I suck at stuff like Ping-Pong. The ball moves too fast.”
He raised his head enough to glance at her from under the cap and had the perfect view of the two small rounds poking out the T-shirt hugging her skinny frame. He stared a few seconds longer, wondering what they felt like. What his hands couldn’t prove his groin imagined. He sat up straight, hoping it adjusted him so nobody saw the peak growing in his jeans.
“You play good, though, Deontae,” she continued.
He shrugged. “It ain’t hard. You just got stay focused.”
She folded her long legs under her. “Chris tries to hit the ball too hard. I don’t like that thing coming at me that fast.” Only a few inches separated them on the sofa as her cushion sagged toward his. She raised her voice over the growing noise. “I like foosball though. When the table open, wanna play?”
Simp held his head back far enough to check the foosball table. Merce and Champ were in a heated game, rocking the table as they spun the silver levers too hard. He doubted they’d finish anytime soon, but he nodded agreement.
He’d never said much to Chris’s twin. Had figured she was stuck-up like him. He raised his head a little more to check her face. They didn’t look that much alike for being twins. She was cute, though. “I could teach you how to beat him,” he said. He was surprised when she squealed, talking over Simp’s head at her brother.
“Oooh, you hear that, Chris? Deontae said he can teach me how to play Ping-Pong so I can beat you.”
“More power to him,” Chris said.
His lack of concern emboldened Simp. He pushed his cap back off his forehead. “Three lessons and you can whip up on him.” He got loud so his voice would carry Chris’s way. “He a lightweight.”
“I don’t know about all that. I could end up being hopeless,” Chrissy whispered, then bust out laughing. Simp couldn’t help cracking a smile.
He stood up. “So what’s up, son? Is it a bet?”
Chris took his time looking up from his conversation with Bean. Simp folded his arms to hide his clenched fist. He met Chris’s bored gaze with a steely one.
“What bet?” Chris asked.
Simp channeled his coach’s patience as he answered, “That I can teach your sister how to play good enough to beat you.”
Chris shrugged. “What’s in it for me?”
Rollie got in on it. “Okay, so if Chrissy lose, then Simp gotta let the girls teach him a dance he gotta do here at the rec in front of everybody.” He put his hand up at Simp’s look of disgust. “And if Chrissy win, Chris got wear one of her
dance outfits next time we kicking it here at the rec. Like, for real chill in it while we hanging out.”
“Man, how I’m gonna fit one of those things?” Chris scowled.
“Wait, a leotard or like a costume from a recital?” Tai asked, sitting up with interest.
Rollie shrugged. “I mean, either one gonna look crazy.”
“He probably wouldn’t fit one of her leotards,” Bean volunteered, reasonably.
“I have a lot of outfits from recitals,” Chrissy said. “I can hook him up.”
“But you might try help him so he not embarrassed,” Tai said. “Let somebody else pick one.”
“He’ll look ridiculous in any of them. I mean, I was a sunflower one time,” Chrissy said, cracking the squad up. “Kind of hard to not be embarrassed in a yellow slip dress with ‘sun rays’ for sleeves.”
“Oh, shoot, I vote that one,” Mo said.
As the squad joked more about Chris in a tutu or dress, Simp’s anger at Rollie for setting the stakes subsided. He couldn’t dance—and only Rollie knew that—but he could teach Chrissy good enough for one round. He raised his voice, stopping all the chatter. “All right, whatever. I ain’t gonna lose. It’s a bet for me.” He raised an eyebrow at Chris.
“It’s dumb,” Chris said, head shaking.
“It’s just for fun,” Chrissy said. “And remember, for real for real, I suck at Ping-Pong.”
Chris sucked his teeth but stuck his hand out. “Whatever. Bet.”
Simp slid his hand over Chris’s and they gripped fingers.
Chrissy popped off the sofa. “You better start teaching me now.”
“Ay, you only get three practices, remember?” Chris said.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Simp said. The first twinge of uncertainty stung him. He turned to push Sheeda and Mo away from the table when he saw Coach Tez standing at the entrance of the rec room looking around. Champ pointed Simp’s way. Coach Tez called for him with a single finger.