Page 5 of The Close-Up (Hollywood Renaissance 1.50)

“Whatever she tells me to do. Sweeping. Washing and drying towels.” I beam with pride. “I just started shampooing.”

“You still thinking about skipping college to do hair?” he asks, grabbing his school uniform blazer from the back of his desk chair.

“I’m thinking about going to community college to do hair. I need training. Just because it’s not a four-year degree doesn’t mean it’s not what’s right for me. You’re planning to skip college to ball in the league as soon as you can, right?” I wait for the nod I know is coming. “What’s the difference? We both know what we want and see the path to get us there.”

“Well, I’m guaranteed one and done. I’ll be drafted after my freshman year.” He slips Air Force Ones onto his feet. “I just don’t want you to settle and be stuck here all your life.”

“What’s wrong with Houston?”

“Nothing, I guess. It’s just where we grew up. What we’ve always known. If I had to stay here forever, not see anything else, not be anything else, I’d suffocate. It’s the dream of getting out that keeps me motivated.”

“What if you get drafted by Houston and your butt ends up staying right here after all?”

“If I’m playing ball, even here ain’there. I’ll be at a different place in life. Traveling all over the country, all over the world. Nothing but money and opportunity. You think I’m being scouted now? Wait’ll we win the big game.” His mouth hardens. “So Naz can forget playing time. I need every minute on the floor I can get.”

“Well, I’m sure you have nothing to worry about. You the best, right?”

“Damn right.” The irritation clears from his expression. “You know wherever I end up, there’s a place for you with me.”

“What? With your groupies? No, thank you.”

“I’m serious, Tee.” He pulls me in for a side hug. “If I’m good, you good. I mean that. I’mma always make sure you straight.”

“I know.” I loop an arm around his waist. “You may be a pain in the ass.”

“Excuse me?” he asks, pulling back to glare/grin down at me.

“But you’re my pain in the ass,” I finish, giving him one final squeeze.

“Kira!” Mama’s voice booms from downstairs. “Cliff! Get down here. Somebody just pulled into the driveway.”

“Here we go,” he mutters, heading out the door and down the stairs.

A steady stream of towering boys invades our house over the next twenty minutes. Mama may have grumbled when Cliff first asked if he could host a pre-championship party at the house, but she’s in her element, surrounded by hungry people. Her smooth brown skin shines with a light sheen of perspiration from living in that kitchen all day. The more people who crowd into our house, the wider her smile grows.

“I know we’re still getting our plates,” Cliff says, standing at the mantle over the fireplace, “but I wanted to say a few things before we get lost in my mama’s food. Y’all thank her for a taste of the West Indies.”

All the boys whoop and holler, some pretending to bow to her.

“Awww, thank you, sweet boys,” Mama says. “But it wasn’t just me. Takira helped.”

I feel the weight of all eyes on me, and I smile stiffly, sliding my hands into the back pockets of my jeans. A few of the guys sneak glances at my bare midriff and down the length of my legs. It makes me want to cover myself, to hide myself, but I stand still despite the discomfort.

Like I said. The boyest boys.

“Yeah, thank you to my baby sister,” Cliff says, slipping a little steel into the mild words to warn them off. I’m surprised he didn’t douse me with a pesticide to keep them away.

Myron, one of Cliff’s first friends at St. Catherine’s, offers a mocking salute. “We hear you loud and clear, Cap. Hands off.”

My cheeks heat, and I shuffle my feet uncomfortably. Passing around plates, Mama pauses long enough to glare like she might take her shoe off and throw it at anybody she catches looking too hard at me.

“You got that right,” Cliff says, looking each of his teammates in the eyes. “But we’re not here to talk about how I’ll break your hand if you even think about it.”

He pauses for the nervous laughter before going on. “We’re here to celebrate the best season St. Catherine’s has ever had,” he says. “And party like that trophy is already ours.”

They whoop and high five, which to my thinking is premature since that trophy isn’tactually theirs yet. Cliff walks through life with this sense of inevitability, like his success is only a matter of time. I try to forecast everything that could go wrong, whereas Cliff seems to expect that nothing—at least for him—ever will.

When the doorbell rings, Mama, who just sat down, rises from her recliner in the corner.

---