I decided on a whim to walk home. It was only a mile or so, and I was in no hurry to get there. Besides, the weather was so beautiful: black ice on the ground, yellow snow frozen in custardy clumps on the curb, the sky a dumpy shade of pigeon gray. Every day in the New York winter felt like an eternity, but I didn’t mind; I would’ve made it stretch on and on to infinity if I could. After graduation (or “commencement,” since teachers were always bending over backward to convince us that this was just the beginning, like that was somehow comforting), my life would become a big, empty nothing, the future greeting me not with an excited heyyyyyyy or even a casual hi but with that terse, punctuated “hey.” people text when they’re mad at you and want to make you guess why.
I doubled back down to Amsterdam, shoving my numb fingers into my pockets. I wasn’t in the mood for the crowds on Broadway. I walked fast, keeping my head low, just like at school, only now there was no one trying to talk to me, only the sharp, apathetic air that slapped at my cheeks, burned in my lungs, and came out of my mouth in short, crystallized puffs. Everything felt shaky, temporary—like Mom, like money, like my so-called career, or even my confidence lately. I thought we had a vibe, but you teasing me about Joy made me think I’d made the whole thing up. Maybe you really were into Ethan. Maybe he wasn’t the delusional one. I was debating exposing my hands to the elements so that I could dig out my headphones when I heard the dull thud of a basketball on pavement and glanced over to see Diego shooting hoops on the 70th Street playground courts.
“Hey!” I called, grateful for an excuse to lengthen my commute. Coming home at five o’clock had turned into five thirty had turned into six. I could always blame rehearsal, not that anyone bothered asking me to explain anymore.
Diego started, scooping the ball under one arm, but then relaxed when he saw it was me.
“Hey, man, sorry,” he said, as I crossed the blacktop. “I’ve gotten chased out of here a few times by bored cops.”
“Really?” I asked, dumping my bag next to his at the base of the hoop.
Diego dribbled the ball back to center court. “Yup,” he said. “Apparently there’s a thin brown line between playing ball—” he feinted back and made a perfect three-point shot “—and loitering,” he finished.
“Well if you’re loitering then I guess I am, too,” I said.
Diego smiled and tossed me the ball. “You don’t want to go home, either, huh?” he asked.
I dribbled ham-handedly, wishing I had spent more time playing sports like a normal kid instead of sitting in casting offices running lines with my mom. “My dad works late,” I lied, making a clumsy attempt at a layup that hit the underside of the hoop with a metallic clang.
“My mom, too,” Diego said. He nodded after the ball, which had rolled meekly off into a corner as if it were embarrassed to be seen with me. “Want to go one-on-one?”
“You need an ego boost?” I laughed.
“Nah,” Diego said. “I want the company. How about HORSE or something? Just for fun?”
I rubbed my hands together, feeling the tingle of blood starting to flow again. Even if I completely embarrassed myself, at least it would warm me up. “OK,” I said. The last of the light was gone from the sky, anyway, so everything was starting to look dim and pixelated, comfortingly obscure.
“You first,” Diego said, throwing me the ball. He jogged back to the hoop and I trudged over to the free-throw line. “You probably need to blow off some steam after rehearsals with William Fakespeare.”
I laughed, bouncing the ball once, hard, just to feel it rebound into my hands. “He’s all right,” I said. “And Liv gives him so much shit, I actually feel kind of bad for him.” I took a shot, which fell short of the basket by a good inch or two.
“That’s H,” Diego said, deftly catching the ball before it hit the ground. We switched positions. “You can’t say he doesn’t kind of deserve it, though.” He grinned and aimed.
“Maybe,” I said, watching the ball sail through the dark. It spun around the periphery of the hoop a few times before veering off to the left.
“H for me, too,” Diego said. “See, I’m not that good.”
“Or you’re letting me off easy,” I said.
He laughed, brushing the hair out of his eyes as we swapped again. “Sure, I’ll let you believe that,” he said. I dribbled the ball back out to the line just as the lamp came on at the opposite side of the court, sending my shadow stretching out in front of me.
“Must be six,” Diego said. “They’re on some kind of timer.”
“You come here a lot, then?” My next shot miraculously made it through the net—not exactly a swisher, but good enough—and I jogged back to the hoop on a swell of pride.
Diego shrugged. “Beats going home sometimes.”
“Yeah, I know the feeling.”