—I’ve never seen dance.
—Where are you from again?
—Colorado.
He tilted his head in condolence.
—Well, I’d be proud to break your cherry.
—Thao, stop, Kerry said from the other side of the circle. I can see that boy blushing all the way from here.
Thao leaned in toward me, peering into my face.
—Are you blushing? —It’s just the fire.
The group laughed. I had never allowed myself to imagine there might be a place like this at King. Or, I guess I had imagined such a place, but not that I could ever be present at it. I could have sat next to Thao, surrounded by the other boys, mesmerized by the fire, for the rest of my natural life. I wouldn’t have needed food. I could have just lived off the occasional sip of cheap beer and the smell of Thao’s Marlboros.
The porch door slammed. I looked up to find Reshawn standing over me.
—Ready? he asked.
“Skellie” was short for Skeleton and referred to a passing drill that pitted offensive players (quarterbacks, wide receivers, tight ends, and running backs) against defensive players (linebackers, corner-backs, and safeties). It was an ideal drill for the summertime, since it required neither pads nor coaches—the second fact being especially pertinent, since the NCAA technically barred coaches from making us practice during this stretch of the off-season.
Errol ran with the one offense during our first Skellie. Though his athleticism was undeniable—he moved with a loping grace, and his throwing motion was simultaneously fluid and powerful—he was badly out of synch with receivers, lobbing gorgeous arching spirals that died useless deaths five steps ahead of the intended recipients, or bullets that bounced off hands unaccustomed to such drilling velocities. His grasp of the offensive package was shaky at best, and for every play he got right, there were three he flubbed, taking too many drop-back steps or too few, throwing to a receiver he thought was doing a button route who was actually running a hook. All the while he spoke aloud in a feverish stream of consciousness, castigating himself (“Fuck, Errol! Let’s go!”), haranguing other players (“Gotta look that shit in!”), praising the rare successful play (“What I’m talkin’ about, son!”), and then when the next play failed acting like all hope was lost (“Goddamn it, y’all!”). He was equal parts impressive and insufferable, but there was one unequivocal good thing about him—he loved being the leader.
In the shower stalls, Errol asked Devonté when the next scrimmage would be.
—Next Monday? Devonté guessed.
—Can’t, Jimbo said. Got an Ethics exam.
—How about Tuesday?
—Nope, Cornelius said. Goin’ with my girl to Wilmington.
—So let’s do that shit tomorrow, Errol said. I need to get up to speed like a motherfucker. Players laughed.
—And run the same plays we did today?
—Skellie gets boring, young.
—So what, Errol said. Y’all gonna be happy with another four-and-seven season?
I’m still astonished Errol had the gall to say this. He’d been on the team less than a month.
—Try speakin’ on some shit you know, Cornelius said, grabbing his towel and heading back to the cube.
The other vets quietly finished up their own showers. Errol was embarrassed, but persisted.
—So ain’t nobody tryin’ to get better?
—I’ll come, Chase said.
—Aight, McGerrin. That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout. And I know my boy McCoy is ready to put in work.
Reshawn had been showering in a stall on the other end of the room. I didn’t think he’d been paying attention, and was surprised to hear him say:
—Hell yeah! I can never practice enough. Same time tomorrow?
—Hell yeah! Errol said. There’s a man who wants to win!
Jimbo and other vets exchanged uncertain glances. Was Reshawn making fun of Errol? Or was he being sincere?
—Fine, Jimbo said. But I’m serious. Summer’s boring enough without having to run the same damn plays every afternoon.
Errol buttered up more volunteers as we dressed, then enlisted more in the weight room the next morning during workouts, and by that afternoon the offensive and defensive sidelines were full again. Coach Zeller and the other coaches came down from the Hay to watch us, standing at the edge of the practice fields and pretending like they’d just happened to be strolling here at the same exact time we were scrimmaging.
But Reshawn hadn’t shown up. He had never intended to. Of course he’d been mocking Errol to his face.
. . .
The Blenheim Mall was state of the art when it opened in 1984, home to an indoor water park, three-theater cineplex, and upscale stores you couldn’t find anywhere else south of the Mason-Dixon. Designed by a grad of King’s architecture school and pitched to the city council as the panacea that would cure the city of its economic ills, the mall had inspired such optimism that the ribbon cutting was presided over by the Honorable Senator Jesse Helms and featured a taped message from none other than President Ronald Wilson Reagan. But the people of Blenheim would have needed jobs that paid enough to let them shop at those designer stores, while residents of the wider Piedmont would have needed easier access than a two-lane country highway bombed out with potholes, and over the last two decades the mall had devolved into an unwilling microcosm of Blenheim. The water park’s reputation never recovered from an E. coli outbreak, the movie theater became a feeding ground for bedbugs, the high-end stores gave way to bargain-bin joints that gave way to military recruiting centers, and the parking lots grew so notorious for gang activity that Fade and Devonté were once detained by security guards for wearing team-issued clothing, purple being the color of Blenheim’s biggest gang, the Diadems.
Yet it was still the only mall within a twenty-mile radius, the best available shopping option if you were, say, a seventeen-year-old who wanted to look extra nice for the first dance performance of his young life, and on the third Saturday of June I drove there to buy a pair of long jean shorts, a red-and-white-striped Tommy Hilfiger polo, and Old
