Page 113 of As You Walk On

“Check and mate.” I chuckle.

Katie’s car waits across the street. She appears to be having her own moment to whatever song’s playing. Thankfully the windows are up. I’ve heard one Zhao sibling sing already. The voice talent runs thin in that bloodline.

“Aleah,” I eventually sigh out.

“Ouch.”

My head whips in their direction. “It can’t bethatbad.”

One of River’s thin black eyebrows practically high-fives the darkening sky.

“Okay,” I groan as thunder growls lowly in the distance. “It’s gonna suck. Should probably get all my affairs in order. Notify my next of kin.”

River smirks.

“Speaking of Aleah,” I say as we cross the street. “I could use a little help getting her to, you know, be in the same place and time as me?”

River glares skeptically. I offer my most earnest, pleading grin.

With one hand on the passenger door handle, just as the sky shatters and the first angry drops of rain fall on us, River exhales, then says, “Why am I always the accomplice in your ridiculous meet-cutes?”

22

UNREAD APOLOGIES ON THE NOTES APP

Brook-Oak’s state-of-the-art gymnasiumis a house of legends. From the ceilings to the innumerable gold banners announcing the school’s sports achievements. Near the electronic scoreboard is a shrine of former championship-winning athletes, their jerseys embossed on cerulean tapestries. The bleachers are stacked accordion-like against the walls. HID lights reflect off the newly refurbished hardwood floors like colossal ivory stars. Painted in the middle of the floor is a fiery gold-and-cerulean bird.

That’s right. We’re the Brook-Oak Phoenixes.We rise from the ashes of adversity!

Or, for most students, the ashes of generational wealth and privilege.

That’s not the case for the one student I find in the gym on aWednesday afternoon, dribbling a basketball twice before making a perfect three-pointer.

I watch from the shadows by the side entrance. An overdue apology awaits. I just need a few seconds to gather my words.

When Aleah breaks away to catch her own rebound, she spots me.

Oh well. No better time like the present, then.

“Hey!” I wave from the midcourt line.

She glowers. The ball’s tucked under one arm. Instead of the standard-issue Ballers practice clothes, Aleah has on a vintage TLC tour shirt, loose joggers like mine, and gold-trimmed, white Curry 8s. They’re fairly scuffed up but still sick.

Long seconds go by. My heart feels inside out. I break from our staring contest first.

“Aleah, listen. I just want to say I’m—”

“I don’t want your apology.”

I pause, grimacing.

Aleah passes the ball between her hands. Her pinched mouth wiggles back and forth in the same rhythm. She’s thinking, her eyes fixed on the wall behind me.

Finally, she blinks. “I want the truth.”

I nod.

“Sure you’re up for that?” It’s intentional, the way she ices me out with her sharp tone, the obvious distance.

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