CHAPTER 3

REBELLION

The next afternoon, Devon opened his phone to the sound of a calendar chime. REPORT TO BASKETBALL PRACTICE! the automatic alert read.

Devon sighed. It’s not enough for Dad to be all over me at games? he thought. Now he’s invaded my phone too?

Devon quickly scrolled through the rest of his weekly calendar. He had a social studies test on West African religions in two days, but he was barely going to have time to study. He had practice today, another practice tomorrow, and a note for Saturday that just said, Meeting with Dad.

Devon felt overwhelmed. He’d loved basketball once. He was good at it, and he enjoyed the competition. But too often, it took over his life. He missed the freedom of playing for fun.

Speaking of freedom . . . , Devon thought. He thought of the boy he’d seen outside the gym yesterday. He’d ridden his bike with the kind of freedom Devon hadn’t felt in forever.

Feeling inspired, Devon grabbed his own bike out of the garage. The tires were a little flat, but it would do. He decided to bike to practice. He had plenty of time. Maybe he’d get lucky and see that boy outside the gym again.

Sure enough, the boy was in the parking lot when Devon arrived. The other boy popped a wheelie and gave Devon a nod. Then he circled around and rode to the handrail next to the gym.

As Devon watched, the boy jumped his bike into the air. He caught the left pegs on the rail—clink!—and the bike stopped in the air for a second.

The boy looked toward Devon and pushed his pegs off the rail. He did a three-hundred- and-sixty-degree spin before landing back on the ground. Finally, he turned to Devon.

“So you came to see more?” the boy asked.

Devon couldn’t help noticing his heavy Middle Eastern accent. “Do you go to our school? Where’d you learn how to do that?” he asked. “I’m Devon, by the way.”

“Yeah, man, I’ve seen you around,” the boy said. “I’m Jamal.”

“Where’d you learn to do that?” Devon repeated.

Jamal gave Devon an up-and-down look. He seemed to be deciding whether he could trust him or not.

“Yemen,” he finally said. “We had a war, so my brother and I came here. But back home, my uncle gave me a bike. Because of the bombs, there were always obstacles. I learned how to make tricks of them.”

“Dang, man. That’s something. I’m sorry. My family is from Trinidad and Puerto Rico. In this neighborhood almost everyone’s family comes from the Caribbean. They have some violence there too, I know.”

“Not just violence,” Jamal said. “War.”

“Yeah, my bad,” Devon said. “You’re amazing, though! I’d love to learn to ride like you.”

“Takes a lot of practice,” Jamal said. “I’ve been here almost a year now. Got me a good bike now, and I ride in different areas. I’m taking over this parking lot now.”

“Definitely. Do your thing! I’m just going to take notes,” Devon said with a smile.

Jamal pushed his shoes hard into the bike’s pedals and took off. He pedaled toward the end of the parking lot. Just as it looked like he was about to crash, he bunny-hopped, using his strength to turn the bike midair. Then he rode off at a right angle.

Devon was amazed by how strong Jamal seemed to be. The other boy lifted the front wheel high into the air and leaned back as if he was reclining in a chair. He continued riding with no fear of falling. Devon had seen kids in the neighborhood pop a wheelie before, but he’d never seen someone do it for so long.

After Jamal had wheelied around the perimeter of the parking lot, he transitioned into a new trick. He bounced up and down on his back wheel effortlessly. It was almost as if he was using the bike like a pogo stick.

It almost looks like a basketball drill, Devon thought.

But it was so much better than any drill. Jamal was like a ballerina, a figure skater, a break-dancer. He combined death-defying tricks with flashy poses like a true Bronx kid. He rode with ease and flair. He looked as free as Devon used to feel back when he used to play streetball.

Devon couldn’t take his eyes off the scene in front of him. All he could think was, I have to get on that bike.