Split between having to watch Twon, Rodrigo, and us, Mr. Blackmon positions himself by the other set of doors closer to the eighth-grade wing. Marcel switches positions with him, stationing herself by the doors closest to the cafeteria.

I pass the ball to Nehemiah on the next trip down the court.

“Guard the rock. Guard the rock!” I scream, but RaShawn quickly strips Nehemiah of the ball. Going for an easy layup, he pays no attention to the galloping footfalls chasing him. I catch up from behind and swat his shot out of bounds.

“He vandalized you!” Nehemiah yells, feeling avenged. “He schooled you, son.”

Kutter glances over toward the cafeteria doors.

Marcel nods.

Nehemiah checks the ball up top. RaShawn tosses the rock to Kutter.

“Show me what you got.” Kutter flashes a humorless grin. Dribbling the ball twice, he pounds the ground with it. Regripping it, he presents it to Nehemiah. Daring him.

I step toward Nehemiah to check the ball for him, but he brushes me back. I was about to insist but think better of it, not wanting to accidentally punk him. There are rules to the game. Once challenged, Nehemiah can’t back down or he’d be seen as soft or weak. He wouldn’t be able to play out here if he gets that rep. Or worse, he’d have to do something stupid to shake it. Kutter lobs Nehemiah the ball. Stretching his long arms out, Kutter crowds him. Nehemiah doesn’t have a natural game. He dribbles with a heavy hand, thinking too hard about where the ball lands. Slamming it on the concrete, he moves like a sleepy elephant.

Nehemiah throws a head fake, which fools no one, and drives to the basket. Kutter’s elbow crashes into the side of his neck when he jumps up. I spring to Nehemiah’s side, one shoulder braced toward him to hold Nehemiah back just in case.

“What the hell?” Nehemiah touches his neck, checking his hand for blood.

“All ball,” Kutter says.

“You going to mug me every time I drive?” It’s a simple question, but I didn’t trust the way Nehemiah’s head ticked to the side when he asks it. I recognize those eyes.

“If you’re going to cry about it, take it.” Kutter tosses him the ball.

“No foul. You can have it.” Nehemiah flings the ball to him. Hard.

All eyes land on Kutter. He catches the ball completely unfazed, not bothered by Nehemiah’s anger. He plays to get into Nehemiah’s head. Nehemiah provides an easy target for that kind of plan. In that way, he is the weak link on the team.

Kutter does his strong crossover again. He waits for Nehemiah to not only come for him but commit. Even Twon, from the other side of the playground, would have seen Nehemiah planting himself in position to knock Kutter to the ground on his drive. Kutter uses his crossover move to evade Nehemiah. But Kutter doesn’t take the easy shot. Going from up top, he lobs a floater of a pass. Easily intercepted by Nehemiah, the play is sloppy. Too sloppy. Like he wants to give Nehemiah another crack at him. I push off my man to gain some room. Nehemiah can kick the ball out to me. Two defenders, two of Kutter’s crew, block my path. Like the steel jaws of a bear trap slamming shut, I piece together their play too late.