Boy21 - By Matthew Quick Page 0,2

early in the morning. Erin wouldn’t be caught dead in a cheerleading uniform and I’m not talented enough to play more than one sport successfully. Besides, I want to give my all to basketball.

When we finish, we’re soaked in sweat. Little strands of blond hair stick to Erin’s face, and her cute little ears have turned red. I really like it when she takes off her practice jersey so that she’s only wearing the sports bra. Her bellybutton is a beautiful mystery.

We take a short break as we wait for the school to open up, because the custodians are late again. My muscles are warm and my body feels loose.

We don’t talk much.

Erin’s one of the few people I know who is okay with silence and, since I don’t like talking, it makes us a perfect match. I don’t stutter or anything like that. I just choose not to speak so much.

We sit in the grass silently for a time.

“You think girls’ll win states again this year?” Erin asks me, because she feels pressured to repeat.

What she’s really asking is if I think she’s good enough to carry her team all the way to another state championship, because our other star girls’ player—Keisha Powell—graduated last year and now plays for the Tennessee Lady Vols. None of the other remaining girls’ basketball players are even half as good as Erin.

Concern wrinkles her forehead, so I nod and smile enthusiastically.

Erin’s probably the best girls’ player in the state—no exaggeration.

When they’re being crude, which is always, my teammates sometimes say that if Erin had a penis (they use a different word), I’d be riding the bench, which isn’t the nicest thing to say, but when I watch her dominate a game I sometimes do wonder if my girlfriend actually could beat me out for my position, which is saying a lot.

I know I’m probably not going to play college ball anywhere, not even at the division-three level. I’m a role player on my team, not a star. I’m okay with that. But Erin has a real chance to make a good college team and earn a scholarship, which is another reason I love training and playing off-season b-ball so much: It’s a chance to help Erin.

We just want to get the hell out of this town somehow—together—and Erin’s basketball career might be our best shot. We talk about leaving Bellmont all the time, moving past the history of our families, breaking free. We’ve seen too many people make mistakes and get stuck here—like Erin’s brother, Rod, and my pop did.

Sitting there on the grass, looking at her beautiful stomach, I start to think about making out with Erin, running my hands up and down her abs. So I have to think about where my pop’s legs end just below the thigh—his stumps, because that always wipes the sexy thoughts from my mind—and, just like that, my head’s right by the time the custodian opens the gym door and says we can come in.

Inside the gym, we run all sorts of sprints and shooting drills and practice free throws.

And then we go out to the stadium and run up and down the steps for twenty minutes of chest-pounding, muscle-screaming, lung-burning action.

Back in the gym we’re shooting more patterns when the football team comes in for a bathroom and water break.

Terrell Patterson—chief carrot dumper, starting quarterback, and star shooting guard—yells out from the pack of football players, “Yo, White Rabbit, why you practicin’ your jump shot, boy? You ain’t never gonna shoot in a game. You know this! Your job is to get me the ball. Period.”

In between shots, I point to Terrell and smile.

I’m the point guard so it’s my job to get the ball to the scorers. Terrell averaged twenty-three points a game last year, and I racked up many assists by feeding him. He probably wouldn’t say I’m his friend, but he’s my teammate and so I consider him a brother.

I’ve been the starting point guard for two years now.

Terrell smiles, pounds his fist against his chest two times, and then flashes me the peace sign.

“How you doin’, White Rabbit’s lil baby?” Terrell yells to Erin, which makes all the football players laugh.

Erin gives Terrell a dirty look and yells, “I’m not anyone’s lil baby, Terrell!”

“Damn! The girl mad at me! Shoot!” Terrell says, making everyone laugh again, and then they all follow their coaches into the locker room.

Erin’s passes are harder and crisper after Terrell leaves, which lets me know she’s