After the Shot Drops: Chapters 1–20

The politician at the mic is still carrying on, for some reason talking about one of her new initiatives.

The school sits there with its fancy stonework, a statue of its patron saint perched above the main entrance.

Five or six arrows stick out of his body, but he’s got this smug look on his face like he’s about to say something.

It’s pretty late, and I don’t have the energy to figure out how to respond to all the disparate threads of conversation he’s laying down.

Technically, he’s like a second or third cousin. I don’t really know how that terminology works past a certain point. He’s the son of one of my dad’s cousins, so whatever that makes us.

I finally text back, ignoring his scattershot slew of previous messages.

Maybe it’s because I’ve been thinking about Bunny, or maybe it’s because I’m racking my brain trying to figure out how to help Wallace avoid his impending eviction, or maybe it’s because of the ending of that book, which was, like, the saddest goddamn thing in the world.

The popular crew, the nerds, the athletes, the theater kids, and so on. It really is like a cliché from a teen movie, but I guess there’s a reason something becomes a cliché.

The dank, sour smell fills the car.

Brooke sidles up next to me, all smelling like shampoo.

Her athletic body is poised with perfect posture, looking real good.

If this were one of those teen movies, there’d be a heavenly light shining behind her as her hair wafted gently in the breeze.

The bell above the door jingles as I step inside, and the scent that hits me is the smell of my childhood: old books and incense.

Not being arrogant, but recruiters already have their eyes on me—lots of people made that clear at every AAU game I played last summer. As soon as they can, schools will be talking to me left and right. I know that’ll make some of the guys resent me even more.

Wallace is always trying to get me to wager on things like if he can throw a piece of trash into the garbage can from the other side of the room. I’ll take him up on some of those small bets, but I’ve never been into it beyond that.

I throw some broken Chewbacca action figure he has on the front seat for some reason into the back along with my bookbag and take a seat on the ice-cold, cracked upholstery.

His face lit by the glow of the screen, he grins at me across the open seat between us. The “buffer zone,” as he calls it.

A ragged-looking guy, face hidden in shadows, skulks toward them.

Wallace and I linger on the curb, because he doesn’t remember where he parked and my head’s still reeling too much to recall either.

I flip through the rest of the mail idly and come across a couple of unpaid bills.

Wallace leaves his hood up and saunters to the counter.

I imagine the seedy dealings going on back there.

Wallace lets out an exasperated sigh.

“I was awake in English class for a couple minutes the other day,” he says, feeling the weight of the egg, “and Mr. Okoye started talking about something called catharsis. You know what that means?”

I turn to go, but his free hand grips my wrist like a vise.

I pull one of the cutting boards out from the cabinet where they keep them and slide a knife from their little knife holder thing. I set to mincing the garlic like Mr. Blake taught me when I was younger as he gets the rice pot.

It’s like how when you’re a little kid at the beach, you chase the receding water, except that next wave’s never coming.

And even though he’s expressed similar sentiments before, his words feel laced with a new level of malice.

And even though he’s expressed similar sentiments before, his words feel laced with a new level of malice.

“Let’s get her home,” he says, shedding his sullenness for concern.