PULL: D-Bow’s High School Hoops. Copyright © 2015 by Kevin Waltman. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written consent from the publisher, except for brief quotations for reviews. For further information, write Cinco Puntos Press, 701 Texas Avenue, El Paso, TX 79901 or call 1-915-838-1625.
FIRST EDITION
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Waltman, Kevin.
Title: Pull / by Kevin Waltman.
Description: El Paso, Texas: Cinco Puntos Press, 2015. | Series: D-Bow’s high school hoops;
[3] | Summary: “Junior year. Derrick ‘D-Bow’ Bowen has worked hard for two years getting ready for this season. He earned his coach’s trust and his role as the starting point guard for Marion East. But dissension and selfishness are threatening to tear the team apart.”
—Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2015024953 | ISBN 9781941026281 (e-Book)
Subjects: | CYAC: Basketball—Fiction. | High schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | African Americans—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Sports & Recreation / Basketball. | JUVENILE FICTION / Boys & Men. | JUVENILE FICTION / People & Places / United States / African American. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / General (see also headings under Family). Classification: LCC PZ7.W1728 Pu 2015 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015024953
Book and cover design by Anne M. Giangiulio.
Bubba always has his opinions, right, Anne?
Special thanks to Rick Ray and John Kitch for their advice and consultation.
You are both good men and good friends.
And thank you, of course, to the good people at Cinco Puntos Press for giving my work a shot. —Kevin Waltman
For Holling Fordham Waltman
Contents
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Part II
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Part III
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
It’s a crime to make us go back to school this early. August 2? Crazy. I bet some sadistic guy sitting behind a desk just hating on people thought that one up. Probably hasn’t been outside in months, gets no female attentions, gets cracked on from his boss, then thinks—Yeah, I’ll show everyone. Kick kids back to school on August 2.
So it’s the last night of freedom for me and Wes. We just cruise. It’s a sweaty, still night. The a/c in this old Nova handed down to me from Uncle Kid can barely keep up.
“Wanna hit 38th?” I ask. “Get our feed on?”
“Nah. Ain’t hungry.”
The summer ripped past us like a driver barreling baseline. Just gone. I tore it up in AAU again, making all the scouts’ eyes bug. But it meant the same old—less time at home, less time with Wes, chasing Jasmine with no good luck. At least I found time to get my license this time around.
“What about the mall? See what’s up there?”
“Nah,” Wes snorts. “What are we, twelve? No mall, D.”
Wes sags down in the passenger’s side, sneering at the night like it’s insulted him somehow. He doesn’t mean it with me, I don’t think, but he’s just always sour. He’s barely got fifteen more pounds on that frame from when we started high school, but it’s like everything he’s added has been attitude.
“Well, what then?” I ask. I sound a little snippy, I know, but hanging with Wes isn’t supposed to be some chore. It’s supposed to be easy. Fun.
He points to his phone, which just thrummed with a text. “JaQuentin’s got something happening,” he says.
Now he’s really killing me. JaQuentin Peggs? I wish I’d never heard his name. It’s like he’s re-shaped my boy Wes into some wannabe banger. And I know what it’ll be at that place—a half-dozen guys blazing up until some worse idea makes its way into one of their thick skulls. I smell it on Wes again, too—weed. Not that anyone gets themselves worked up over that, but I’m tired of picking up Wes and seeing his eyelids at half-mast, tired of that sweet-sick dope smell on his clothes.
We cruise up College, making one side of our square that goes up to 38th and then back down to 22nd. I know where JaQuentin’s is—just a couple blocks over on 32nd if I hang a left, but I’ve got no interest. Then we’re past 33rd—a right there and we’d be at Moose’s place, right at Carrolton. But no more. He’s packed off to Ball State, trying to walk on to the team. His absence just makes the night feel heavier, more oppressive. Every block we pass seems desolate, maybe just one or two people out, sweating on their porches and giving menacing looks as we cruise. It’s the kind of night where one wrong word would be like gasoline on a fire.
“D, if you gonna punk out on JaQuentin’s, then just drop me there,” Wes says.
“What the hell, Wes?” I snap. “Last night of summer and you want to spend it in a bad mood?”
He leans back just a little further in his seat. It takes an effort, but he manages to lodge his foot up on the dash, just to piss me off. I know this car’s a bucket, but it’s still mine. I smack him on the shoulder. “Get your foot down. Have some respect.”
Wes just grumbles and then, the seat squeaking under him, gets his left foot up there too. It’s a crazy uncomfortable position, and I have to almost respect him for going to those lengths just to get under my skin. Still.
This time I reach over and grab