Howdy,
#NaNoWriMo (550) — Day 20
(Unedited, or only slightly)
(Editor’s note: back a few days I posted an editor’s note inserting the idea I’d change the storyline to make Jake’s dad more present, a decision against a previous direction for the Jones family context. Receiving some in-motion feedback, which was cool in itself — and helpful (feel free to Contact Me with story ideas/insight as we go!) — I’m returning to the previous direction with the thinking it may offer more juice and payoff for the storytelling in obstacles, conflicts, and resolutions for our main character, Jake. We’ll see what we do with Jake’s family, dad in particular, as I jump back onto the original track …)
Continued …
Nothing bothered Jake Jones the rest of that school day.
Surely other kids exhibited that extra bounce known to existing on Fridays. Especially Friday afternoon. Welcome to the weekend!
But Jake didn’t notice anyone else’s mood after the lunch period. He existed in the gymnasium. Out of body his mind hung back, keeping companion with the game Jake loved, going over and over the bounce of the ball on the wooden floor, the indoor basketball springing off the breakaway rim on missed shots, rebounds coming off the glass, competing in three-on-three with others, competing with CJ, and the basketball swishing through the net: the unweathered net singing fresh notes, soft and sweet, calling to Jake.
The biggest part of him gave attentive audience, as that’s what Jake heard the rest of his Friday, the swish of long, thick nylon preserved, unbleached by sun.
On outside courts the Day’s Orb, like Jake, delighted in shooting, and scorched the net with its rays at the rim.
Inside, Jake could feel the coolness in its comforting call. The Song of the Swish. Inside the gym.
He sat in class, not remembering how’d he’d gotten from inside the gym to inside his next classroom, but finding himself sitting in his correct desk.
It was time to shoot some baskets.
Shoot.
And shoot.
And shoot.
Shoot to be ready for next time on the inside court. Conduct his own Song of the Swish with the flick of his wrist.
A rehearsal.
A performance.
Listening for the echo, Jake would stroke the net all weekend. Shot after shot. Firing up notes to fuel a swish he could feel when he heard it.
No, nothing bothered Jake the rest of that Friday afternoon. Nope. How could it? At the end of his deft dribble-drive he’d swished his shot, vanquishing CJ, in a buzzer beater, before then floating off the court in awe of the place.
On Saturday Jake dribbled from home to the closest court, early. Before his dad and grandpa had left.
Fall’s fluctuated temperature — swinging so far from the A.M. to the P.M., from the P.M. to the A.M., and undecided from week to week — reminded him how early.
The brisk morning brought less sweet singing swish than it did bricks, and the clanging added a percussion that he could not include. No place for it in the score.
He practiced, by himself, most the day. His right arm wearying before he tired of shooting.
Contemplating calling it a day during a break for water, Jake heard a basketball bouncing his way. No, two basketballs coming to the court. It didn’t bother him; the court had two hoops. He looked up, into a surprise.
Michelle dribbled one of the basketballs. An older boy bounced the other back and forth through his legs as he strode over the patchy, faded sideline onto the court.
“Hi, Jake,” the girl from school said.
Jake lifted his left hand for a wave. “Hi.” His greeting came out quieter, more shyly than he’d aimed.
She dribbled her way right over.
Jake swallow another take from his water bottle and tried again, you had to give him credit for that. “Hi, Michelle.”
“Whatcha doing out here?”
“Shooting.”
“Okay, cool,” she said.
She was cool.
“Come here often?”
“I guess.” He set his bottle down, dutifully steadying it, careful it didn’t tip and clatter on the concrete. Drawing attention. In front of her. Not able to sidestep a nag to give more, he said, “I live close, so … yeah.”
“Me, too. We live around the corner.” It wasn’t long that Jake had to wonder who all we included, like we generally, meaning I — her and her family, or we who? Who? Who was the guy? “Code, come meet Jake.”
Code raised his arm high in the air, a high school hello apparently.
“No, Cody, come here. Jake’s from my school.” He kept shooting.
Looked rude. To Jake, though, it actually didn’t feel exactly that, more like Cody wanted to keep shooting, get his game going after just arriving and taking the court. Jake could understand that.
“Come on.” Michelle grabbed Jake’s arm and yanked him onto the court, in the direction of the boy a few years older. Cody. Or, Code. “If my brother’s too big to come over and meet one of my friends, we’ll go meet him.”
Brother. Friends?
To be continued …
—Billy
Reading. Writing. Living.
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