Millport's loss tonight booted them from state championships two games from finals. No one knew it'd be the last game, Neil said, looking back at the court. I thought they'd make an exception tonight, he said. The coach flicked the crumpled butt aside and turned to face Neil. Neil passed him the cigarette and watched as Hernandez ground it out on the concrete steps. Why Hernandez let him get away with it and didn't notify the authorities, Neil didn't know. It was usually easier to break into the locker room and sleep there. If people realized he was squatting they'd start asking difficult questions. His neighbors rarely left the comfort of their couches and daily soaps, but every time he came and went he risked getting spotted.
He'd appropriated one last summer in a quiet neighborhood populated mostly by senior citizens. Millport was a dying town, which meant there were dozens of houses on the market that would never sell. It was more that his living situation wasn't legal. It wasn't that he didn't have a place to live. It explained why no one would ever see the Jostens around town and why Neil had a predilection for sleeping on school grounds. He knew his teachers and coach were tired of hearing the same excuse any time they asked after his parents, but it was as easy a lie as it was overused. I didn't see your parents at the game, Hernandez said. Coach Hernandez propped the locker room door open and sat beside Neil. Neil pulled his duffel closer to his side and looked back. She'd beat him to hell and back if she saw him sitting around moping like this.Ī door squealed open behind him, startling him from his thoughts. He wondered-not for the first time-if his mother was looking down at him. He glanced up at the sky, but the stars were washed out behind the glare of stadium lights. It fell to the bleachers between his shoes and was whisked away by the wind. The jolt went all the way to his fingertips, dislodging a clump of ash. It was at once revolting and comforting, and it sent a sick shudder down his spine. If he inhaled slowly enough, he could almost taste the ghost of gasoline and fire. He didn't want the nicotine he wanted the acrid smoke that reminded him of his mother.
Neil Josten let his cigarette burn to the filter without taking a drag.
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