Excerpt: Courtless

“Good morning, Gilbert…” his dad said, in that half-defensive tone he’d been using with him lately.

Gil gave him a peace sign, but said nothing. He saw the wary look the two of them exchanged, and chose to ignore it.

He ate his breakfast in silence, listening to his mother chattering on about her case and his father rumbling about locker room politics. He was listening, even though his parents would probably have put money down that he wasn’t. He could tell her the name of her defendant (Watts) and the big piece of evidence against him (an eyewitness with a shady past). He knew what his father thought needed to be done with old Coach Wilkinson. He could have parroted the whole conversation back to them. He just couldn’t be bothered to care.

He was just finishing the last of his cereal when his father cleared his throat.

“So, Coach Ellis wanted me to ask you about basketball.”

Gil pushed his chair back without making eye contact with his dad, and took his bowl to the sink.

“What about it?” He turned his back to his parents, but he could feel their discomfort. He wanted to care about it. He really did.

“Well…” his father began slowly. “He could really use a new point guard, and he thinks you’d be a great fit with the team. You were varsity-level last year, and …”

Gil dropped his spoon into the sink with a clang. “I’m not interested,” he said flatly.

His dad sighed. “Gil…”

“No, dad,” Gil said, washing out his bowl and trying to ignore the clanging in his head. It seemed to get louder and louder the more his parents talked, and that kind of rage had no place here.

“Gilbert, don’t you think it would be good for you?” his mother pleaded. “Maybe it would help get your mind off…”

He spun around, his resolve snapping.

“Get my mind off what, Mom? What? Get my mind off one of my best friends dying right in front of me? Get my mind of that??”

It was only when he fell silent, both of his parents staring back at him, that he realized how loudly he’d said it. His mother’s face was white, and he instantly felt awful. He looked down at his feet.

When his father spoke, it was with much more gentleness than it would seem such a big man was capable of.

“Gil,” he said softly. “Francisco’s death was not your fault. You know that, right?”

He looked up, the hardness returning to his eyes. He snatched his keys off the island, and turned toward the door.

“That’s what they tell me,” he muttered, and left without looking back. He could feel their eyes on his back, though, all the way to his car.