Page 1 of Off the Rim
CHAPTER 1
ASHTON, AGE 5
“But why can’t I play with him?”
“Because it isn’t proper. You wipe those tears now, Ashton. You know your daddy doesn’t like to see you cry.”
I understood well enough to know I wouldn’t be getting any further explanation from Miss Lucy. Grownups didn’t understand what friendship was about. All they cared about was making money and telling kids no.
They didn’t understand that the little boy with dark, messy curls, big ears, and an even bigger smile was my new best friend. He shared his shovel and pail with me, and I shared my new excavator. We’re both five years old and we both like the color purple, even if Daddy told me boys shouldn’t like girl colors. I told my new friend that I say my favorite color is blue, but it’s still really purple. He promised not to tell my secret.
Cheese pizza is Marcus’ favorite food, just like mine. We had so much fun in the sandbox today, but when I asked Miss Lucy if we could make a play date, she looked up from her phone and made a funny face. She smiled nicely at Marcus, but when she saw Marcus’ mommy, her face changed from a smile to a frown.
She ripped the excavator from Marcus’ hands and pulled me from the park without even letting me say bye to my new friend.
I was so upset I fought Miss Lucy when we were getting in the car. She told my daddy about my bad behavior, and I got my new excavator taken away as a punishment.
I overheard Miss Lucy telling my daddy she was sorry for letting me play with that boy. When I walked in, he was making her feel better with a hug and a kiss. He let her go home early after that, then let me sit in his office until Mommy got home. The chairs in front of Daddy’s desk are big and ugly. They make me feel small. So does Daddy, when he stands next to me and looks down.
“Why can’t I play with that boy, Daddy?” I asked in a small voice. “He was nice.”
“You have lots of nice friends, Ashton. Nice friends who have good parents. When you get older, you’ll understand that some people are not as good as you are. And if you lay with dogs, you’ll get fleas.”
I was so confused. “Marcus has fleas? He didn’t tell me he has a dog.”
“It’ll make sense when you’re older, son.”
I didn’t ever want to grow up if I couldn’t be friends with people who smiled at me the way the little boy in the sandbox did.
CHAPTER 2
ASHTON, AGE 12
I almost didn’t recognize him. He ran by me towards the court and I stared, trying to pinpoint why he looked so familiar. It was his ears, then the last name on the back of his jersey that made me remember.
Marcus.
I’ve seen him a handful of times since that day in the sandbox, but I never did get to play with him again. As we got older, I understood more of the divide between our families. When I was younger, I thought everyone lived in giant mansions and had nannies to care for them like I did. I've learned over the years how very different our lives are. Even our neighborhoods, and the schools we go to, feel like entirely different worlds. Whenever my team plays one of the public-school teams in the area, my teammates remark on how crappy the facilities are. Comparatively, the gym for Pinecrest Middle School seems like it's dirty and falling apart next to our brand new, polished, state-of-the-art everything.
It doesn't make me less curious about the boy I remember. If anything, it makes me more intrigued. There hasn’t been a word spoken between us, but I weirdly feel like I know him. Likethe one-day friendship that two five-year-olds struck up meant something.
I wonder if his favorite color is still purple.
Shaking myself out of my thoughts, I try to pay attention to my friends and teammates. Kent Richards and I do the handshake we made up during our first season playing in the Amateur Athletic Union when we were eight. It’s corny as hell, but it’s good luck. We’ve been champions nearly every season, and since many of my teammates and I have played together in the AAU, we're pretty tight as a team and play well together. I don't mind sounding cocky and saying we're the best in the state for a reason. We're awesome.
Not that I'm helping us live up to our potential right now. I don't know why, but every time I get out on the court and see Marcus, I get distracted. Even when our teams are on our designated opposite sides, listening to Coach Vander lay out our next plays, my attention drifts across the court. I'm looking at a mop of messy curls and a shy smile as he talks to a guy with freckles and red hair. For whatever reason, I want him to turn that smile my way. I want to be the center of his attention, have him laugh at whatever I'm saying the way he's laughing with the red-haired kid. When he notices me staring, his eyebrows furrow, and he averts his eyes, ears red with embarrassment.
We win the game—barely. The Timberwolves gave us more of a run for our money than we’d anticipated. I played terribly, oddly intimidated whenever Marcus approached me. I didn't mean to give their team an advantage, but it's like I forgot how to dribble whenever he was near. My shoes were suddenly too big for my feet, and I tripped over them whenever I tried to pursue the ball.
Both teams line up to high-five the other team. Players on both sides say the obligatory, "good game" as we pass each other down the line, slapping hands one by one. Even though they're clearly disappointed by their loss, not one of the players from the losing teams acts anything other than gracious, even though we beat them on their own turf and are being total turds about it. Some of my teammates have been known to cross their arms and refuse to shake hands when they experienced a loss, but these guys are taking it in stride. I direct my focus on the last player in line. He must be the captain of his team, too.
It feels like time slows as we approach each other. I get a better look at him, seeing the little kid inside the almost teenage boy. His eyes are still bright blue and captivating, his hair still flops over his forehead the same way. When his eyes meet mine, there's a flash of something there.Does he remember me?His forehead crinkles.
When our hands make contact, my hand curls involuntarily, trying to grasp rather than slap back with a flat hand. Our fingertips take longer to release, as if they don't want to let go.
I turn and watch as Marcus jogs over to his team huddle, shooting confused looks over his shoulder at me as he goes. Their coach, a big, gruff looking guy that reminds me of a grizzly bear, gathers them in with a smile on his face, even though they lost. They put their hands in to yell their team name and send each other off with high fives. It's weird, like we're in some kind of wholesome sitcom.
Marcus runs over to a couple I assume are his parents. He looks like a perfect mix of both of them. The woman has long, curly dark hair and dimples, and the man has the same protruding ears and bright blue eyes as Marcus. Both parents hug and pat him on the back, proud of him for playing well. Which, despitetheir loss, he did play very well. He gave me, and my team, a true challenge. If the other players on his team were up to his level, I have no doubt they would have easily won.
