Like You Like Me ✔

1

By the time my senior year at St. Mark's rolled around, I had developed what some might call a reputation. Being the star point guard of the Lions meant people expected me to be a certain kind of guy--same went for the quarterback. And I thought I had convinced myself that I was the guy most of my peers made me out to be. So with a couple weeks before September tipped off, I was getting ready for school like I always did: by shooting hoops in the driveway.

A few yellow leaves blew across my path as I dribbled towards the red rim hanging above the garage door. The bouncing sound stopped as the ball left my fingertips, rolling off the backboard, and making a swoosh after hitting the net. I'd finally perfected my left-handed lay-up.

The guys at Citadel High won't know what hit 'em.

I repeated the lay-up several more times, trying out different variations until I was satisfied. Then I moved on to tuning up my fadeaway jump shot and cooled down with some free throws. Everything felt tight and ready for what promised to be my best year of high school.

"Damian James Pryce," my mom called.

"Yes, ma'am," I shot another free throw without turning my head.

"Do you know what time it is?" she said with that tone black mother's possess.

I grabbed the ball, glanced over to the front porch and froze. Mom's hands were on her hips and my little bro, Lewis, was standing next to her, holding a present with his forehead looking like crumpled paper. I instantly remembered I was supposed to drive him over to the Frasers at 4:30 PM; my watch was saying 5:15.

Crap. Should've known the full name meant trouble.

I bolted over towards them, cradling the ball under my arm. But before I could jog up the steps, my mom held out the key to the BMW.

"My bad, Mom," I reached for the black fob. "I got caught up with practising--"

"Because ball is life," Lewis cut in.

I was about to respond to him when Mom said, "Do you have anything you would like to say to your brother?"

Lewis grinned expectantly.

"Ready to go?" I asked sarcastically.

"Mom!" Lewis complained.

"Damian--"

"I'll do better next time," I said before Mom could finish. "We should head out," I turned to Lewis. "I don't wanna make you more late."

Mom's frown was drenched in disappointment as she looked at me; I turned my head like I didn't know what was up. She hugged Lewis and gave him a kiss on the forehead.

As I was walking towards the garage, Mom said, "Oh and Damian."

I turned around. "Yes, ma'am?"

"When you come back, you'll be cleaning your room."

"Yes, ma'am," I nodded.

Well, it could have been worse.

Lewis stormed past me with his head down. I followed behind him and dipped under the door as it slid open. Lewis stood by the passenger side with his back turned, refusing to acknowledge my existence. I set the ball down on the table before unlocking the car. When I hopped in, Lewis was already buckled and looking straight ahead. I pushed the ignition button and set a course for the Frasers.

I tried cracking jokes with Lewis, hoping to get his spirits up, but he just sat there with his bottom lip sticking out like a bad weave. I felt guilty for making him late to his best bud's birthday party, so I decided to repair the damage by making a quick pit stop.

"Where are we going?" Lewis asked. "Peter's house is the other way."

"You'll see," I smiled.

"I'll tell Mom if you--"

"Be cool, man," I cut him off. "You'll thank me later."

I glanced over to see his reaction; he still looked anything but impressed. But Lewis's face lit up the second we got to 7-Eleven. I was in the process of parking when I heard him unclick his seatbelt and open the door.

"Hold up, little man," I called. "The Slurpees aren't going anywhere."

Lewis put the brakes on his run and waited for me. Once we got inside, I had to talk him into getting a medium Slurpee instead one with maximum sugar capacity. He was cool with that, but only after I promised to buy him another one some other time.

With his beverage bought and paid for, we made our way over to Peter's. When I pulled up in front of the Frasers, Lewis jumped out, present in one hand, Slurpee in the next; he kicked the door shut and took off without looking back. If Dad was there, he would've told Lewis to pick the door up before going inside.

"Have a good one," I yelled after rolling the window down. "You're welcome for the Slurpee!"

Lewis stopped so fast, I thought I heard his shoes screech. He turned around and marched back to the car, adjusted his glasses and took a sip of his Slurpee.

"Thanks," he said flatly. "But we could've gotten here a lot faster if you'd dropped me off when Mom and Dad asked you to. And you wouldn't be out two bucks--or five if you count the other Slurpee you owe me--if you had just said you were sorry."

There was an awkward silence. I honestly didn't expect Lewis to say that. I knew he was right, but all I spat out was: "My bad."

Lewis rolled his eyes. "Forget it."

As he walked away, I felt like I'd just been gut-punched. After Mrs. Fraser opened the door for Lewis, she waved at me, and I left.

"Sorry," I muttered as the house disappeared in the rear-view.

On the return drive, I took the more scenic route, hoping the Nova Scotia scenery would numb the sinking feeling cramping my mood. As usual, the thick woods and blue lakes worked their magic. But part of me still wished I had told Lewis I was sorry for making him late.

When I got home, I parked in the driveway and walked over to the porch. The second I creaked the front door open, Mom made sure to remind me that my mess of a room was patiently waiting to be cleaned. I wasn't exactly in a cleaning mood. But when your mom is Mark Cuban level mad and a lawyer, you manufacture some humility and do what she told you to do.

I jogged upstairs and started sorting the mountains of laundry piled up in front of my bookshelves. Given my mom's mood, I knew I'd have to be extra with getting things to look neat and tidy. That's basically the bare minimum when you're in peace talks territory; failing to comply might mean you could die. Hashtag, the life you save might be your own.

I bent down and grabbed an armful of clothes to carry over to the bed and knocked a red notebook off the shelf. I didn't pay any attention to it until I went back over to the erupting hamper. The white pages caught my eye, and the words scribbled in blue ink hit me like a basketball to the face.

A wave of emotions came at me quicker than lava flowing in The Nether. I spent the whole summer trying to convince myself that I hadn't caught feelings for Celia, but those words straight-up called me out. The clothes slipped out of my hands; I leaned down and picked the book up.

As I scanned the pages, all my resolve to forget Celia melted away. I didn't know how, but I was going to get her back. Even though I knew she wasn't my biggest fan at that moment. In fact, I was pretty sure she would've unplugged my life support to charge her phone if given the chance.

What I needed was a game plan. So I shot my boy Connor a text asking if he'd be up for a "drive" later. When things got tight during a game, Connor and I were always able to come up with a winning strategy. And if it worked in Basketball, it should work for winning Celia back...theoretically.