“Compromising.” I yawned, then turned toward my house. “I’ll explain later.”
I started up the steps, rummaging in my pocket for my keys. Inside, all the lights were still off, my dad sleeping in for once.
“Want to know what I think?” Dave called out from behind me.
“No.”
“I think,” he continued, ignoring this, “that you’re scared.”
I just looked at him. “Scared.”
“Of my game,” he explained. “My skills. My—”
I walked closer to him, then reached out, easily knocking the ball from his hands. It hit the driveway, then rolled onto the grass.
“Well, see, I wasn’t in defensive mode just then.” He reached around me, picking up the ball and giving it an authoritative bounce. “Now I am. Bring it on.”
“I told you,” I said, folding my arms over my chest. “I’m not interested.”
He sighed. “Mclean, come on. You live in a basketball town. Your dad played for DB, your mom is married to the current DB coach, and I happen to have personal experieve been with your overhand shot.”
“Yes, but basketball doesn’t have the best associations for me right now,” I pointed out.
“You can’t blame the game for any of that,” he said, bouncing the ball again. “Basketball is a good thing. Basketball only wants you to be happy.”
I just looked at him as he dribbled sloppily around me toward the basket. “Now,” I said, “you sound like a crazy person.”
“Think fast!” he said, whirling around and throwing the ball at me. I caught it easily, and he looked surprised. “Okay, fine. Now shoot it.”
“Dave.”
“Mclean. Humor me. Just one shot.”
“You’ve seen me shoot,” I pointed out.
“Yes, but the blunt force knocked my memory out. I need a replay.”
I sighed, then bounced the ball once, squaring my shoulders. Other than that random Boomerang a few weeks ago, I hadn’t had my hands on a basketball in years. But that morning had been all about doing things I had never planned to do again, so I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised.
At first, on the phone, my mom was wary. She knew I’d heard about her lawyer’s call, and thought I was calling to tell her exactly what I thought of her latest move. It was tempting to do just that. But instead, I took a breath and did what I had to do instead.
“Are you still thinking you’ll be going to the beach a lot this spring?” I asked.
“The beach?”
“Yes.” I looked into the fireplace again. “You did say once the house and the season was done you’d be going there a lot. Right?”
“I did,” she said slowly. “Why?”
“I’ll come for my spring break, next month,” I replied. “If you call off your lawyer, I’ll come that full week and four other weekends as well.”
“I didn’t want to have to get the courts involved,” she said quickly. “But—”
“And I don’t want to spend the rest of high school worrying about court dates,” I replied. She got quiet, fast. “So this is what I’m offering. Spring break plus four weekends before graduation, but my choice of when they happen. Do we have a deal?”
Silence. This was not the way she wanted it, I knew. Too bad. She could have my company and my time, my certain number of weekends and my senior spring break. But she could not have my heart.
“I’ll call Jeffrey and tell him we’ve worked something out,” she said. “If you’ll send me those break dates and the other ones you have in mind.”
“I’ll do it today,” I replied. “And we’ll just follow up as it gets closer. All right?”
A pause. It was like a business deal, cold and methodical. So far from those spur-of-the-moment trips to the Poseidon, all those years ago. But nobody went to North Reddemane anymore. Apparently.
“All right,” she said finally. “And thank you.”
Now, I stood there with Dave, holding the ball. He was grinning, in defensive stance—or what counted as such for him—bent over slightly, jumping from side to side waving his hands in my face. “Just try to get past me,” he said, doing a weird wiggle move. “I dare you.”
I rolled my eyes, then bounced the ball once to the left before cutting right around him. He scrambled to catch up, doing several illegal reach-ins as I moved closer to the basket. “You’ve basically fouled out in the last five seconds,” I told him as he batted at the ball, me, the air around both of us. “You know that, right?”
“This is street ball!” he said. “No fouls!”
“Oh, okay. In that case . . .” I elbowed him in the gut, making him gasp, and moved under the basket. In those few seconds, the net clear above, I remembered all the things my dad had taught me as if they’d been imprinted: watch the hoop, elbows tight, touch light, light, light. I shot, the ball arcing up perfectly.
“Denied!” Dave said, leaping up and batting the ball away.
“Interference,” I called out, grabbing it back.
“Street ball!” he replied. And then, as if to prove this, he tackled me and we both went down onto the grass beside my deck, as the ball left my hands, rolling under the house.