Page 7 of Deafened By Silence
“Again!”
I scoop the ball from the floor, dribbling it across the empty court and shooting it into the basket for the hundredth time. Sweat pours down my forehead, my damp hair falling forward into my eyes as Coach shouts orders at me from the side bench. I’d be pissed about being stuck in here so late in the evening, if I wasn’t fucking loving it. As long as I can tune out Coach’s voice, I relish having the court to myself. The smooth wooden flooring, the fluorescent lightening and citrus scent of recently cleaned bleachers. Luxuries I could have only dreamed of whilst locked up.
I hadn't planned on having a criminal record before turning twenty, but life doesn’t give a shit for the plans of the poor. We get tossed aside from society, our only two options being drugs or crime. Although it wasn’t my fault I ended up in a youth detention center, at least I used that time to my advantage.
I took every crumpled worksheet on offer, read every faded textbook whilst working in the miniscule library, encouraged myself to be better when everyone else had given up on me. Using the hallway’s dim light filtering through the tiny window,I filled out the scholarship application and used my commissary to buy the damn stamp.
The ball slips through the net with another clean whoosh, landing straight back in my hands. I dribble between my legs, weaving around invisible teammates as I race down the court and back. I fake a chest pass, laughing quietly to myself, before I spring up and sink another perfect shot. It’s too easy. Who needs anyone else? The thought hits harder than expected, dragging a shadow from the past into the light, and my grin fades.
Coach’s whistle snaps me out of it, a harsh sweep of his hand ordering me to join him on the bench. Passing him the ball and pulling the jersey over my head, I wipe my face and chest with the black material before taking a seat beside him. My last name is printed across the back in yellow, with a large number seven in the center. A sight which should fill me with pride, if it wasn’t for the overriding guilt I can’t shake.
“That was good. You’re as ready as you can be for Friday’s game. But eventually, good won’t cut it. You could be a great addition to this team, if only-”
“I’m not the one who needs to hear this pep talk.” I interject, feeling the instant clench of my shoulders. Just like that, all of the stress I’ve been trying to exude comes rushing back. “I can’t be on a team with someone who doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”
“I know,” Coach breathes, then instantly looks around wide-eyed as if he didn’t mean to say that out loud. I shake my head knowing it’s pointless. Rhys is untouchable and he knows it.
Joining the basketball team was supposed to help. Work off some frustration, maybe make a couple of friends. But then that entitled prick added his name just below mine on the sign-up form and all of my hopes went up in flames. I’m sure he did it just to mess with me, being the scholarship jock. Now I’mtrapped in a vicious cycle. Unable to drop out and let him win, but also unable to stand being near him without raising my fists.
It took me a whole three seconds to figure out Wavershit when I first met him. The classic rich kid yes, but beneath the bullshit there’s something darker lurking. He starts fights for sport, picking on the weak and vulnerable who don’t stand a chance. He smiles in the face of pain, getting off on himself being hurt just as much as when he hurts other. No conscience or concept of remorse, no sense of authority. He is backed and fully supported by his father’s title and wealth, which makes him far more dangerous than people realize.
Coach is just another pawn playing his game. I rise from the bench without waiting to be dismissed and stride towards the locker room door. My footsteps echo against the lino, bouncing with finality that my reprieve is about to end. I throw open the door, recognizing a moment too late that the hairs on the back of my neck have prickled. I pull up short, assessing the empty room in the same way I used to gauge the JDC rec rooms. There was always someone waiting to jump you from behind or hold a handcrafted weapon to your neck, and those instincts still ride me hard now.
The air is thick with disinfectant, a discarded mop bucket suggesting the cleaners were in recently. Fluorescent lights buzz against metal lockers lined in uniform rows, the room hollow in the center aside from a single, wooden bench. The showers are tucked out of sight around the corner.
Nothing jumps out immediately. No sound, no movement, yet the unease tightens in my gut like a fist, coiled and ready to strike. I visually sweep the room again, slower this time, allowing my eyes to catch on the one detail that doesn’t belong. My grey locker, number seven the same as my jersey, is cracked half-open, the metal lock I’d secured hours earlier now hanging useless and open on the vinyl tile below.
I don’t call out to ask who’s there. Instead, I ease into the room with a measured, predatory pace, hugging the edge of the room. My shoulders are drawn tight with tension, my hands curled into fists at my sides, ready for whoever’s dumb enough to hide in here and think I won’t find them.
Keeping my breath measured and my steps silent, I ignore the desire to check my lockers contents, keeping my shoulders bunched and fists at the ready. At my back, Coach’s office is empty and cloaked in darkness behind a metal grate. A perfect hiding place if it weren’t for the chunky lock on the exterior. That only leaves the showers.
Crouching slightly by the last corner to investigate, a shaky exhale sounds from behind and I grin. Gotcha. In one swift pounce, I’ve pivoted around the corner and closed my fingers around a scrawny neck as an actual squeak leaves my stalker. I slam him into the tiled wall. A pair of glasses fly from a freckled face and shockingly red hair catches my attention.
“Kenneth?!” I bellow, tightening my grip on his throat for a millisecond before releasing him. He stumbles to the floor, coughing and scrambling after his glasses. I follow behind, retrieving the frames much easier than his blurred vision can manage, and press them firmly into his sweaty, trembling palm. Once my roommate has adjusted himself, I step back to fold my arms across my bare chest and stare him down like I’m deciding whether or not to snap his neck.
“What the fuck are you doing creeping around in here?”
“Um, well, see it’s almost ten o’clock.” Kenneth points to his Velcro strap watch on his equally freckled forearm as if that explains everything. His eyes flick to the clench in my jaw and widen, a jumble of word vomit falling from his lips.
“I didn’t see you in your usual spot in the library and then you weren’t in our room and it was getting late so I thought mmm, Where’s Clayton? So I checked the calendar on youremails but they were blank and then I thought I know! I have the tracking app linked to your phone which said you were here, so I ran to the cafeteria and have put dinner in your locker-”
“Stop,” I hold up a flat palm and then push my fingers against my temple. There is so much wrong with everything he just said. “You’re giving me a headache. How did you get into my locker?” Pushing his glasses back up his nose, Kenneth’s bulged eyes flick between me and the lock on the floor behind me.
“The code is your mom’s birthday,” his voice trails off as I stare at him dumbfounded. How in the hell…actually, I can’t even deal with this tonight. At the mention of food, my stomach growls on cue and a low pounding starts to settle at the base of my skull. I need to eat, shower and sleep in that order.
Backtracking across the room, I remove the takeout box from my locker along with my clothes and slam it shut. Kenneth appears by my side, pulling one of my black beanies from his coat pocket as I quickly change.
“We are going to have a serious talk about boundaries later,” I grumble, snatching the hat from him and stuffing it over my sweaty hair.
Pushing the takeout box, which smells heavenly by the way, into his hands, I shove my arms into my military style jacket and head for the exit. Kenneth shuffles along behind me, remaining unusually quiet for the entire walk. Even though I hate people tampering with my stuff, I find I’m not as pissed at him as I should be. Ignoring his creepy stalkerish ways, it’s been far too long since someone has looked out for me. Everyone from my old neighborhood turned their back on me the day I was incarcerated, which is fine. But what I can’t forgive is how they turned their back on my mom too.
My eyes prickle with sentiment ever so slightly at the thought, which has nothing to do with the sub-zero temperature of the night. Reaching the entrance of Bolton Halls severalseconds before Kenneth manages to catch up, I tell him to go ahead with a scowl.
His scrawny legs have climbed the first staircase before I pull out my phone and hit the call button for mom’s care facility. I’m sure the dial tone is about to cut to voicemail when the grouchy voice of the receptionist snarls the opening hours at me for the dozenth time but patches me through anyway. Despite most likely being tucked up in bed, my mom’s sweet voice echoes through the speaker on the third ring.
“Is that you Jellybean?” I smile, ignoring the painful tug in my chest.
“Yeah mom, it’s me. How are you keeping?”
