The Girl Who Wore Jordans

Chapter Twenty-One

      “He had it coming,” I swore I heard Justin mutter under his breath, quickly covered by, “it doesn’t even have to be to play basketball; just to talk- away from all the misery.”

      I hesitantly agreed, unsure if there would be repercussions for our rash decisions. It was Justin; I trusted him, and I wanted to talk to him and get my mind off of the innocent boy who had passed.

      We walked away from the church, matching strides, and talking about what had been going on with our lives recently. I told him about Eric and Dylan, and he said me that he was rooting for Dylan because he sounded like the underdog. I told him of how I’d been trying to hide my past, and he told me I was insane even under the circumstances. There was something about Justin that allowed me to pour out everything to him with such ease and effortlessness. I missed him.

      After we had walked a few blocks, passing pedestrians, leafless trees, and cars whizzing by on the road, we finally arrived at a small, very urban park. I saw a basketball court. As tempting as it was, I had to resist the urge to run over to the painted tar, kissing it repeatedly.

      “Yo! Bro!” Justin suddenly called over to a guy with headphones in who was dribbling a basketball.

      The guy looked up, and took off his headphones as I scrunched my brow in confusion. “What?” he said.

      “Can we borrow your ball for a few? I need to settle some stuff with the chick over there,” Justin explained.

      “No, we can’t, we’re supposed to be at a funeral!” I objected, shaking my head vigorously.

      “Sh…” Justin whispered.

      “She’s hot,” the guy commented as if I couldn’t hear.

      “Can I see the ball?” Justin requested.

      “Whatever,” the guy said, tossing it over without a care in the world.

      “Thanks,” Justin said politely, as the guy retreated off the hard pavement. “You ready?”

      “I don’t know if you’ve been listening to me or not, but we can’t play!” I said, crossing my arms over my chest defensively.

      “Okay then,” he said, beginning to dribble at the half court point.

      “Justin!” I called out, hating the fact that he wasn’t listening to my reasonable words. We couldn’t play.

      “Just one game,” he pleaded, “then we can walk back and I’ll explain this whole thing to you.”

      “What’s there to explain? Marcus is dead!” I said shakily.

      “You don’t understand, Liz,” he sighed, dribbling the ball back over to where I firmly stood. “One game, and then I promise I’ll tell the whole story.”

      “Fine,” I finally gave in; it wasn’t hard, considering basketball was my one downfall and the one thing I truly excelled at. I took my shoes off, throwing them to the side of the court, not minding in the slightest about the raw feeling of the cool pavement.

      Justin returned to the half court line, and I got in front of him, matching his bent stance. He lunged to the left, and I moved with him. Using height as an advantage, he stretched his arms, and attempted to shoot. I blocked the shot, knocking it down.

      “Owned!” I laughed lightly. He shook his head as I moved to the spot he had been, and began to dribble.

      “One sec!” he said, holding up a finger, and beginning to unbutton his shirt. Under his black, dress shirt was a white tank top, the type that Dylan so often wore when not in school. He slid the dress shirt off, crumpling it up into a ball between his hands, and throwing it off to the side of the court as if an entity of no value.