Rebound Read online

  ’cause all the old folks

  cheered her on

  during the Soul Train line.

  She was short, shy,

  kinda goofy,

  and honestly

  she had no rhythm

  at all.

  But all that’s changed now,

  ’cause Roxie Bell

  is a giant

  with a crown

  of braids, tall

  as a sequoia,

  and she walks

  like there’s music

  in her roots.

  She gets

  in the truck

  with a lunch bag

  in one hand

  and a basketball

  in the other, leans

  over the seat,

  kisses Granddaddy,

  stares at me,

  punches me

  in the arm,

  then starts yapping

  a mile a minute.

  What’s up with girls

  always hitting boys

  and whatnot.

  Conversation (One-sided)

  What’s happening, Charlie-boy?

  I heard you were coming

  to the big city.

  You play basketball?

  HOW ABOUT THOSE LAKERS?

  My father said

  he’d take me

  to see them

  when they play

  the Bullets next season

  if I keep

  my grades up.

  You make As

  or Bs?

  Don’t tell me you make Cs?

  I know Aunt Gloria doesn’t

  tolerate Cs. I got straight-As

  all this year. Booyah!

  I’m only gonna be here

  for half the summer,

  then I’m going to basketball camp.

  I’m playing JV next year.

  Starting center, that’s why

  I’m going to camp, to

  practice my rebounding.

  You know how to rebound,

  Charlie?

  You always gotta be prepared

  to grab the ball.

  That’s what Granddad says, right, Granddad?

  Oh, I’m sorry, Charlie. I’m

  real sorry about

  what happened to your dad.

  I think I liked it better

  when she was shy.

  She Got Game

  As soon as we get to

  the Boys and Girls Club,

  Roxie dribbles her ball

  to the gym

  and starts shooting.

  She doesn’t stop

  for hours.

  My grandfather

  introduces me

  as his grandson Chuck

  to everybody

  who works there,

  including the lady

  who makes the hot dogs

  and sweet tea,

  which she pours

  into a big plastic cup

  for me.

  He sits behind a desk

  at the front door

  and tells me

  to go have fun,

  which is not

  playing Pac-Man,

  since the machine is

  out of order.

  Instead, I head

  for the gym

  take a seat

  in the bleachers

  pull out

  issue #12:

  Meet the Incredible Hulk,

  and pretend

  like I’m not in awe

  watching

  Roxie silently make

  every shot

  before trash-talking

  a bunch of stunned boys

  in a game

  of Around the World.

  HEY, CHARLIE, COME PLAY A GAME WITH US

  Roxie screams

  from the court,

  where she’s been putting

  on a show,

  and of course

  that’s not gonna happen,

  especially in these

  busted kicks I’m wearing.

  Plus, I’d just make a fool

  of myself, ’cause

  I’m no good,

  so, yeah: absolutely NO WAY!

  Four Hours Later

  On the way home

  Roxie tells us

  that she shot

  200 free throws,

  150 lay-ups

  75 jump shots,

  and played six pickup games, then

  she falls

  asleep hard,

  which leaves me

  and Granddaddy

  and boring jazz.

  Jazz

  This is Miles Davis

  at his best, he says,

  snapping his fingers.

  That’s all kinda blues

  under the hood.

  The syncopated rhythms,

  the flatted fifths,

  and just you wait

  till Coltrane’s sax solo

  starts up.

  That’s when the car’s

  gonna really take off.

  VROOOMMMM!

  Roxie—who wakes up

  at the first

  trumpet blast—and I

  both say, at the same time,

  Huh?

  It’s a metaphor, he says

  as we drive by

  several big

  white buildings

  on either side of us.

  Jazz music

  is like an automobile.

  That’s a simile, I correct,

  which makes Roxie laugh.

  Pay attention, now,

  he continues.

  If jazz were a car,

  Miles Davis would be

  a convertible Black Mustang GT,

  Coltrane would be the Corvette,

  and Thelonius Monk, well, that cat

  would probably be

  a vintage Fiat.

  Jazz is smooth.

  And slick.

  And it takes you places.

  Where? Roxie asks, winking at me.

  Anywhere you wanna go, he answers.

  Granddaddy, what building is that? I ask, pointing to my left.

  Chuck, that’s the Bureau of Engraving, where they make the Alexander Hamiltons.

  The what? I say.

  The ten-dollar bills, says Roxie, reminding me of know-it-all CJ.

  The dollars, the cash, the money, Chuck, he continues.

  But there’s no jazz in money,

  and no money in jazz, he says, laughing out loud.

  What if you don’t know where you’re going? I ask.

  Doesn’t matter. Jazz’ll take you there. Just listen to those horns and that piano, he says, turning it up even more. That there is some bona-fide gas-guzzling music for ya.

  Mom calls

  to ask how my day was and to tell me that she saw CJ playing with Old Lady Wilson’s dog. Then she says I miss you, and asks if I miss her and I say, I guess, and then she gets all silent and whatnot . . . So I say, I mean, yes, Mom, I miss you, then I tell her how we were playing Scrabble and Grandma beat us with a word she said describes Granddaddy’s attitude—ornery—and, Mom, I sweat a lot at night ’cause the fan in my room just blows hot air and it’s uncomfortable . . . And speaking of fans, Grandma was washing dishes tonight and the kitchen fan blew her wig right off her head and into the dishwater and she just picked it up, rinsed it out, and slapped it back on . . . And Mom laughs so loud and so long, it reminds me that I haven’t . . . in a while.

  Saturday Morning

  I tiptoe

  in my socks

  to the refrigerator

  to get a snack.

  How he hears me

  all the way

  from the backyard

  I do not know,

  but he does.

  HEY, CHUCK, GET YOUR CLOTHES ON AND COME HERE, he hollers.

  Your grandmother

  is out here folding clothes

  and I’m fixing thi
s shed

  and if you think

  we’re gonna work

  like the devil

  while you lounge

  around the house

  in your PJs

  reading those cartoons

  and eating us

  out of house

  and home

  you got another thing coming.

  Morning, Charlie—you sleep well?

  Yes, ma’am, Grandma.

  He’ll sleep all day if you let ’im. Teamwork, Alice!

  You want something to eat, Charlie?

  Stop babying him, Alice. I swear.

  Can I eat first, please? I say.

  Champions train, chumps complain, Chuck. Love. Work. Eat. In that order. Time to get in the game, Chuck!

  Don’t work him too hard, Percy, Grandma says, walking back inside the house, abandoning me.

  No harder than you work me, baby, he says, smiling.

  What do I have to do? I ask, hoping he doesn’t make me cut down a tree and whatnot.

  Love your family. Work hard. And eat well. That’s all you have to do. Everything else is a want.

  Huh?

  See that apple tree over there?

  Yes.

  Them’s my apples

  he says,

  pointing to

  a towering tree

  filled with

  tiny yellow-green apples.

  Ten should do the trick.

  Ten? Huh?

  Gotta protect ’em from disease and pests. Grab ten apples.

  How?

  With your hands, son.

  I mean, do you have a ladder?

  No, but you got legs. Put ’em to use.

  You want me to jump.

  Unless you’re Superman and you know how to fly.

  My grandfather laughs

  so loud

  the birds

  leave

  their comfortable perches

  for quieter ones

  next door.

  Then, go over to that peach tree back there, he adds, pointing to a smaller tree, and pick a few of those for your grandmother’s pie. And, be careful, so they don’t get bruised. You got it, Chuck?

  I guess, yes, I got it.

  Grabbing

  I try jumping straight up.

  That doesn’t work.

  I try climbing the tree.

  That doesn’t work.

  I stand on a chair

  but it sinks into the ground.

  So I run and jump

  and run and jump

  and run

  and jump

  and RUNNNNNNNNN!

  and JUMP

  and grab apples

  and snatch peaches

  and wonder

  how I ended up

  working

  on a farm.

  Monday Morning

  Halfway to the lake

  we see Granddaddy’s friend

  in the cowboy hat

  walking his

  great big ol’

  black-brown dog.

  Collie Pride’s his name,

  Mr. Smith says, then

  he and Granddaddy

  start laughing

  (at what, I don’t know).

  Collie Pride buries

  his pointed face

  and big ears

  into me, and

  I just pet him,

  till he starts

  barking

  at a boy

  on a bike

  delivering newspapers.

  Grandma, who joined us

  for the walk, says

  I think

  he likes you, Charlie.

  Maybe you can walk him sometime.

  Sure, I say,

  thinking of how

  I kinda miss

  Harriet Tubman.

  Grandma and Granddad talk

  about random stuff, like

  how the trees

  seem taller,

  how so-and-so

  ought to get

  her car fixed,

  and if they should

  invite Uncle Ted

  to the Fourth of July cookout

  after the ruckus

  he caused

  last year.

  He almost got himself

  put in jail, and I don’t want

  these kids around

  that kinda nonsense, Percy.

  I hear ya, Alice.

  I hear ya loud and clear, honey.

  Are you excited

  about going to the Club

  today? she asks.

  Yes, ma’am.

  Then walk faster, son, Granddad snaps.

  We gotta get to work.

  Now put some pep

  in your step.

  I prefer some move

  in my groove, I say, just loud enough

  for her to laugh,

  and him to shake his head.

  Work

  Roxie makes me

  put my hand

  in her face

  while she shoots

  free throws

  in the gym.

  She makes

  twenty

  out of forty,

  which is pretty cool.

  Then she does

  the same thing

  to me, and

  I make

  none

  out of twenty,

  which is not.

  Escape to the Arcade

  After I get

  the top three

  high scores

  on Pac-Man,

  I’m just about

  to eat a Popsicle

  and read

  about how Ant-Man

  helped the Fantastic Four

  triumph over

  their foes

  when

  Roxie dashes

  out of nowhere

  says she needs me

  and literally

  starts pulling me

  off the bench

  I was chilling on.

  WHAT ARE YOU DOING, ROXIE?

  Just come on—we need your help!

  “We”?

  Three-on-Three

  In the middle

  of a basketball game

  going on

  in the gym

  one of the players

  on Roxie’s team—some boy

  named Grover—was

  going up

  for a rebound

  and got elbowed

  in the face.

  His nose

  bled a river

  so now he’s in

  the clinic

  and she needs

  a sub.

  Me.

  On the Spot

  I told you I don’t really like playing basketball, Roxie.

  Of course you do. Plus, you’re tall. Just stand there and catch the ball, then pass it back.

  But I can’t.

  “Can’t” is a word for losers who are afraid to try.

  Don’t call me a loser.

  Then try. We only need two points to win.

  I just don’t feel like it.

  Charlie, we don’t have time for this. The score is tied. First one to eleven wins, and I am not losing to these second-rate villains. Are you gonna help your cousin out or what?

  Or what.

  I’ll owe you. Anything. C’mon, this is really important to me.

  . . .

  Thanks, Charlie. You’re the best.

  I didn’t say yes, Rox—

  Hey, guys, this is my cousin Charlie, she says to the other team before I can argue again. He’s a beast. Y’all better watch out!

  Just don’t expect me to shoot, I say to her.

  Oh, you don’t have to worry about that, Charlie Bell.

  The Score

  is 9–9

  when Roxie brings

  the ball

  up the court,

  showing off,

  dribbling

  between her legs,<
br />
  behind her back,

  the whole time

  talking smack

  to this redhead

  whose teammates

  are screaming

  at him

  to get the ball

  from her

  but he can’t

  ’cause she’s like

  a magician

  and the ball is

  her hat

  and they all look

  at each other

  in awe

  like she just pulled

  a rabbit

  out of it

  when she fakes

  a jumper

  then passes

  the ball

  right between

  Red’s legs

  to HERSELF

  and lays up

  an easy point.

  Now, THAT was awesome, I think, smiling, and

  wishing I could ball like that.

  10–9

  Red inbounds

  the ball to

  the boy

  I’m checking

  but he just dribbles

  right past me

  so fast

  I trip

  over myself

  trying to keep up

  and now it’s three

  on two

  and they pass

  until one of them

  finger-rolls

  the ball right off the backboard

  and into the net.