A Three-Point Shot (July 2019)

My assignment for Round 1 was Suspense, the setting was a rooftop, and the story must include a basketball. 

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Synopsis:  I hate sitting on the bench, waiting for the coach to give me a chance to play.  I try to devote every spare minute to basketball, but I always seem to spend my time helping out my mom and studying my butt off just to keep up in my classes.  

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“Kevin!  You’ll ruin your supper.” 

I twitch but don’t drop my glass of milk.  “Ah, Mom.” I set the glass on the table.  “Okay, now?” I ask.

“You forgot the trash again.  We’ll eat when you get back.”

I bite my tongue and grab the overflowing bag.   Ignoring the cranky elevator, I jog down the stairs.

At least running stairs is good training.  I need to be stronger if I want to do more than sit on the bench while my team plays.

As I lift and push the bag into the bin, the door to the apartment down the hall opens.  Mr. Jefferies, the building Super, stumbles out.

I get the willies every time I see him.  Straggly hair, unshaved, clothes wrinkled.  He smells like sour whiskey and the sewer.    

“Who’s that?”  He shouts, dropping the trunk he’s dragging.  I notice a dark reddish, stain on his clothes.     

“Uh, It’s me, Kevin.  How are you, Mr. Jefferies? How’s Mrs. Jefferies?”  After I blurt that out, I realize I haven’t seen her for two days.

He freezes, then a sly look steals over his face.  “She’s visiting her sister.”  

“Oh, I didn’t know she had a sister.”

 “Listen here kid, I said she’s visiting her sister, don’t question me.”

“Uh, okay.”  I edge away.  “My Mom’s waiting on me for dinner.”

I feel his beady eyes staring after me.  

“Kevin,”  he calls.  “Give you a fiver to help me with this.”

The hair on my arms stands up.  I pretend not to hear and sprint upstairs.

 I try to put the whole experience out of my mind and wolf down my food, under Mom’s disapproving eyes. 

“Homework?”   

“On it.  Uh, I’ve got to practice afterward.  Okay?”

“Absolutely not!  It’s below freezing outside.”

“Great,” I mutter.  I tackle my reading assignment for English.  

When I’m through, I glance in the living room.  The TV blares as Mom naps in her chair.  She doesn’t move as I grab my basketball and slip out.

The hall is dark, and below me, the stairs creak as I step into the hall.  Is someone down there?  I bound upstairs to the rooftop.  I’m careful to prop the access door open to keep it from locking.

That first step outside snatches my breath and blows it back as fog. 

 It’s dark except for a cone of light revealing a basketball hoop fastened to the side of the elevator mechanism tower.   My Dad and I put it up when I was in junior high.  I stand for a moment, staring at the hoop. I still remember him, even though he died years ago.  Sometimes I can almost feel him with me when I’m up here.

I shiver. Geeze, it’s cold.  Got to get moving.  I shoot layups and jump shots, dropping them softly through the center of the hoop.  I can’t throw too hard, ’cause the ball might bounce and go over the edge. 

The access door clangs open.  Mr. Jefferies is standing there, sneering.

“You saw something, didn’t you?  Downstairs.  Now, I got to take care of you, too.”

“What?  I didn’t see nothin’.”  But I remember the trunk and the stains on his clothes.  I realize he must have killed Mrs. Jefferies.   My heart starts thudding in my ears.

He stalks toward me, swinging a wrench.  I stumble back into the darkness outside the lighted area. 

He stops. “You’re faster than me, boy, but you can’t outrun the cold.”  He turns back, stooping to pick up the brick that had held the door open.   “Have a nice next life, Kevin.”   He steps through the door and pulls it shut.

The metallic click of the lock is like a punch to my gut.   

I beat on the door until my hands feel like lumps of ice and my fingers and ears burn with the cold.  My throat is raw from screaming.   I try to keep moving, even jogging in place.  The cold ghosts up my spine whenever I stop.  I circle the rooftop, peering over the edge, looking for anyone outside.    The rusted remains of the fire escape silently mock me.  A fatal choice and a fast way down.

I’m freezing to death, and no one knows where I am except my murderer.  How can this be happening to me?

The closest structure is another apartment building.  It has a row of balconies with sliding glass doors.  All are dark, but one.   

I cut my hands fumbling for gravel and chips of concrete to throw.   Too small.  The sound won’t be loud enough to get anyone’s attention.

It’s hard to think.  My eyes close, I want to sit down, rest for a minute.  

But no, that’s not right, I can’t sit down, I have to keep moving.

I stare at the basketball.  No good.  It would bounce off the window and down to the street.   

I study the balcony.  There’s a cabinet next to the edge on one side.  Maybe?  It would be the three-point shot of a lifetime.   

I hear my Dad’s voice.  “Visualize it,” he says.  I shut my eyes and imagine the ball following an arc, striking the glass, rebounding, striking the cabinet, then striking the glass again.  Over and over, I force my frozen brain to see it.

I don’t remember shooting.  I watch a man open the sliding glass door and look out. “It’s a DAMM basketball,” he yells, picking it up.

“HELP,” I scream at startled faces.  I see him pull out a cell phone, and I feel a sweet sense of relief.  Help is on the way.

Sirens grow louder, stopping below.  The elevator rumbles.  The door opens.

“Hey, you. Come on now.” The policeman’s rough baritone is a warm blanket wrapping around me.

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The results of the judging will be released at 11:59PM EDT on September 11, 2019.