Hawthorne Heights [Editing]

two [edited]

Milo Cooper Locke

"Ion know why you got them shorts on." Miracle mumbled humorously. "You know we got bipolar weather. Not to mention, they're way too short."

I spun the smooth, old, brown basketball on the tip of my index finger while agreeing with her first statement and ignoring the last. In St. Louis, we never knew what to wear. The weatherman would predict inches of snow one day, and a sudden heatwave the next. This is what my mother called 'pneumonia weather.' To play it safe, I wore a pair of basketball shorts and a long-sleeved white shirt. The smell of Mr. Otieno's lavender incense billowed down the street and into my nose.

I only left out in the first place to avoid my parents. We got into an argument once again about my life. It seemed like they wanted to live for me and let me sit in the backseat. To be honest, I don't even know what I want to do with my life. I just know that my parents want me to be a computer engineer, a lawyer, a doctor, and literally anything that would keep me away from the basketball court.

I groaned, "Fox 2 told me that it would be hot so I'm wearin' my basketball shorts. Problem?"

"Uh, yeah, you look like a hoe! Not to mention, how the boys on the court gon' take us seriously with you looking like that. They might think we like them."

Miracle glanced over at the boys across the blacktop as she played with her small earlobe, yanking it roughly with her thumb and middle finger. Using her other hand, she wiped lint off of her black spandex leggings. The falling sun glinted off of the trickling sweat on her face, making me laugh considering the fact that we had yet to play basketball. 

Mir was the epitome of gorgeous yet she refused to speak on it. Her hair, a mop of kinky curls covering the tips of her ears, distracted everyone from her pursed eyebrows and permanent scowl. Black irises, even in direct light, remained emotionless in every single situation. If she never verbally expressed her feelings, everyone assumed that Miracle was pissed about something. And even with negativity seeping out of her pores like sweat, Miracle remained beautiful. Her mother wanted her to be a model or even an actress, but Miracle preferred dance.

I kicked at loose pebbles on the court and watched cars speeding on the street through the raggedy chain fence surrounding the gray asphalt. A single bench stood off the side holding Miracle's backpack. The city seemed to look over the entire neighborhood that I lived in. Decade old potholes were sprinkled around the narrow streets, abandoned buildings popped up on the block like dandelions, and the stoplights didn't work, so instead of fixing them, the city put stop signs off to the side. If they can't pay attention to our schools, why would they put in an effort to fix up the basketball court?

"My shorts don't have nothin' to do with how I play basketball." I frowned at Miracle with my eyes on the ball. "And nobody's checkin' for any of them. Especially not Harrison's ashy behind."