Free Buck by M.K. Asante Page A

fix me, damn it! How can you fix someone who isn’t broken? I’m aching, I’m in pain, but broken—no!
    No one knew that I was in the sanatorium, just Chaka and Malo. My mom didn’t know. What happens when a person disappears for two months? What do you say? I didn’t know because I wasn’t the one doing the telling. I was being fixed! One of the patients at the hospital asked for something and was denied. She said, “For nine hundred dollars a day, I should be getting more than Jell-O and a blanket.” It was funny to me at the time because I agreed. It was also funny because the young woman was so rational in such an irrational place. I had enjoyed taking walks around the grounds. I could think. I could control those walks. I was safe. Safe but not fixed.
    Years ago, I straddled Chaka, beating him in the face, telling him how much he had broken my heart. His response was “That’s it, I am gone.” He didn’t leave that night, but it is just a matter of time. What do I do with “You are sewn into my gut” and “You are the smartestwoman I have ever met”? I treasure his words as always. He had come home late that night, very late, and it was too much. How much more could I take? I didn’t know what to say to him but I wished I had said, “Remember, just remember!”
    God, give me strength.
    Amina
    ----
    * “Trading Places,” AZ, 1997.
    † “Unfortunate,” RAM Squad, 1996.
    ‡ “Panther Power,” 2Pac, 1991.

12
The Line
    “Winning is the deodorant that covers all stink,” Coach says. Tells me as long as we keep winning, he’ll keep Roach away from me. That’s our deal.
    It’s the fourth quarter and we’re down by three—54 to 57—to our rivals, Hilltop. Big game. Like twenty seconds left. I’m dribbling at the top of the key.
    Championship banners hang above my head like quilts on a clothesline. Bleachers full of parents and friends. Nia’s here with one of her girlfriends. Amir’s standing with Ryan near the exit.
    Basketball clears my mind, takes me away from the bullshit. On the court, I’m the judge.
    I play my heart out.
    My Jordans squeaking across the blond wood. It’s like a high-pitched language—call and response—I speak with my sneaks. They’re repeating the lines from a Jordan movie that Uzi got for me a few birthdays ago.
    “Once I get the ball, you’re at my mercy. There’s nothing you can say or do about it. I own the ball. I own the game. I own the guy guarding me. I can actually play him like a puppet.” I love Jordan’s heart, his determination. I remember Game 5 of the NBA Finals against the Utah Jazz, he had the flu and he played anyway. During every time-out, every dead ball, you could see the sickness in his eyes. The end of the game, tie game, he hit a three to win it. They had to carry him off the gym floor, he was so weak.
    Later, they asked him about it: “I didn’t want to give up. No matter how sick I was, no matter how tired I was, no matter how low on energy I was. I felt an obligation to my teammates and the city of Chicago to go out and give that extra effort.”
    I’m dribbling, crossing over, spinning, faking, pumping, passing … I get the ball back—dribble, spin, hesitate, reverse, penetrate … driving hard to the paint.
    Foul.
    I’m at the line. Season on the line. Everything on the line.
    Coach calls a time-out.
    “I need you to come through,” he says, both hands on my shoulders. “It’s on you. I know you can handle it.”
    I step to the line, my toes kissing the stripe. The ref, whistle hanging out of his mouth like a Marlboro, bounces the rock to me. I spin the ball in my hand. Bounce, spin, bounce-bounce,spin. Spread my fingers across it like a phat ass. Let my fingertips find the crack, settle in.
    The ball leaves my hand
    It’s up in the air …
    Dear Carole,
    I spent the night in my car. It was funny sleeping in Fisher Park. I come home in the morning and see Chaka as he’s leaving for work. He doesn’t speak and