ONE MORNING, ON OUR WALK TO SCHOOL, Russ asks me to shoot around in my backyard—just the two of us. He says it could be “our thing.” I ask him why we need a “thing” and he says, “You seem different, distant—not yourself. Maybe shooting around once or twice a week would help?”
He stops by later that night after his practice and I tell him I don’t really want to shoot around with him. “I’m done with basketball,” I say.
“Just take ten shots and if you don’t feel like taking an eleventh, I’ll drop it forever, okay?”
I sigh.
“Come on,” Russ says. “Just ten shots.”
I follow him around the house and we find my ball in the garage.
“I feel bad about taking your position,” Russ says. “Especially after what happened to Erin. Her accident—the way she disappeared… it really affected me. Sort of woke me up. I don’t know why, but that night in the hospital something clicked in my mind, and then it was like I started moving forward again and you started moving backward. Now it feels like we’re moving in opposite directions, and I miss having you around all the time. Everything got messed up for you, and yet things are going so well for me now, or better than I thought was possible at the start of the school year. It doesn’t seem fair.”
I don’t know how to respond, so I don’t. He’s right, of course. I’ve been mulling over the unfairness of my situation for weeks, but hearing Russ state it so matter-of-factly hurts. Part of me is jealous. Part of me is simply defeated.
“The thing is—Coach was right,” Russ says. “Playing basketball’s been really good for me. I like the structure. I like playing. It takes my mind off what happened back in L.A. It’s my future too. I want to thank you for seeing me through my transitional phase.”
Is that what he’s calling his outer-space act now? He’s all but forgotten about being Boy21. It’s like basketball was his cure—his return to sanity.
“I think that playing ball could help you too,” Russ says. “I realize you’re done with Coach, I get that—but maybe you and I could—”
“It’s just a game. Maybe it’s your ticket to fortune and fame—and I’m happy for you—but I don’t care about basketball anymore. I really don’t.”
“Just take ten shots. I bet you’ll want to take an eleventh,” Russ says, spinning the ball in his hands.
“Fine,” I say, and then show a target. He hits me in the hands and I shoot. The ball goes in. Russ rebounds, passes to me, and I shoot again. We repeat the process, find a rhythm, and I start to feel my heart beating, my muscles loosening. I miss shots five and seven, and end up eight for ten.
“So?” Russ says.
I think about it. I understand why Russ needs to play ball. I understand that the game is going to provide him with many opportunities. I even understand why it’s helping him mentally—keeping his mind off the bigger questions. But basketball isn’t going to do the same for me. And shooting around is just a painful reminder that Erin’s no longer here.
“Won’t be taking an eleventh shot,” I say.
“I’m sorry,” Russ says. “I don’t want basketball to be a sore spot between us.”
“It’s not.”
“So what now?”
“I’m going to lie on the garage roof and stare up at the few stars I can see,” I say.
“Can I join you?”
“Sure.”
We use the fence to help us climb up onto the garage and then we look up at the three or so stars we can see through the light pollution and smog.
“You ever feel like you’re not the person on the outside that you are on the inside?” Russ asks.
“Yeah, me too,” he says.
We lie there in silence.
“I’m sorry basketball’s ruined for you,” Russ says.
“I’m glad it’s helping you,” I say, and I really am.