Free Where the Line Bleeds by Jesmyn Ward Page B

each other down the length of
the road. Christophe let his eyes close and his head loll back onto the
headrest, and felt the car stop.

    Dunny had taken him to the basketball court. What he could see of
the grass in the court lights was long and bunched in tufts, overgrown
with weeds. The iron barrels they used as garbage cans were rusting along
the rims. Nobody had bothered to line them with black garbage bags
since the last time they'd been emptied. The small, warped stand of white
wooden bleachers was empty, the swings silent, the small wooden play
set the county recreation board had commissioned without playmates.
Dunny switched off the ignition, opened his car door, and said, "Get that
ball from under the backseat." Christophe willed his arms and torso to
move, grabbed the ball and threw it at Dunny, who ran to the court with
it and made a sloppy, easy lay up. He dribbled the ball, half-walking and
skipping back and forth on the concrete, shooting jumpers. Christophe
watched Dunny on the court. When had he become the one who followed
one step behind, the one who eyed and followed the other's back, the one
who was led?
    Now, he would have to find his way alone. He lurched toward the
court that shone like a snow globe: the pale gray concrete spray painted
with blue gang signs, the halo of the fluorescent lights that cast the scene
in a glass sphere, and all those damn bugs circling and falling like black
snow. He shuffled through the grass at a slow run and the long, blooming
strands bit into his knees, etched fine stinging lines into the skin of his
shins. By the time he reached the court, the high was pulsing through his
head, his arms, and his legs with the beating call of the night insects: in
and out, up and down, over and under and through. Dunny threw the
ball at him, and he fumbled to catch it, his hands clumsy. He dribbled the
ball through his leg; it glanced against his calf.
    "You sure you can handle that?" Dunny asked. He stood with his
hands on his waist underneath the goal. Sweat glazed his face.
    "Nigga, I know you ain't asking me if I can handle a damn ball. I'll
show you some ball handling, fat boy."

    Christophe dribbled the ball again, bouncing it with his fingertips.
Something about his handling was off. It felt like he was dribbling on
rocks; the ball was ricocheting everywhere.
    "What the hell are you trying to do to the ball? Dribble it or flatten
it?" Dunny loped toward Christophe and raised one arm in defense. His
fingers grazed Christophe's chest.
    "Why are you locking your knees? Damn, Dunny, you think I'm that
easy?" Christophe bounced the ball through his legs again. It cleared his
thigh this time, clean and easy. He caught it, wobbled, and smiled. "Just
needed to warm up, that's all."
    "You been hitting the bottle in the car? You got a thirty-two ounce
hid under the passenger seat?"
    "I ain't drank shit and I'm about to school your ass."
    "Chris, I was dunking on niggas when you was still pissing the bed."
    "I ain't never pissed in the bed, bitch."
    Christophe faked to his right, then jerked to his left, leaned back, and
bought his legs together. He crouched and shot a fade away. He felt the
ball roll from his wrist, across his palm, up the spine of his middle finger
and away toward the basket. The release was good, but the shot flew wide.
It hit the corner of the backboard, bounced off the edge of the rim, and
arced back toward the court. Dunny snatched the rebound. Christophe
grimaced.
    Dunny hugged the ball to his chest, breathing hard. Christophe eyed
his mouth, the pouch of fat and skin quivering under his neck. Dunny'd
been good in high school: he'd had a flawless jumper, and he was the goto man for defense on the inside. Christophe had gone to every one of
his home games. Dunny had teased him mercilessly, grilled him, when
he'd begun to play seriously in seventh grade. Dunny had sweated with
Christophe on the court, had been an indomitable