Dust To Dust

"Ooowee Johnathon is gonna try and take you off the set for sure after this," an older boy whispers to Tariq as they grab water from the cooler at the south end of the tennis courts.

"I don't even know what that means," he whispers back, trying to be inconspicuous as he watches Coach J. R. not so quietly remind Johnathon that the freshman new kid outshined him in a practice match. PRACTICE.

"It means when Coach blows that whistle, you should be the first one out that door," a different boy adds. Tariq thinks the boy's name is Shawn, but he honestly can't remember.

"I'm not trying to be fighting some dude over tennis sets," Tariq says, finding himself perplexed by the conversation.

"Not those kind of sets. Where you say you from again? They don't bang where you from or sum'n?" the first boy sneers.

"Sometimes the best way to win a fight is to avoid it." Shawn whispers, reaching at the cooler for some more water. "I'm not calling you no punk or nothing. I'm just saying since you're new and all. Johnathon is definitely gonna try and take you off the set as soon as Coach lets us out."

It's only week two at Willow Park South and day three of practice on this new tennis team that, frankly, could use a lot of work, if you asked Tariq. And he wouldn't even say that as a criticism. Tariq could hardly remember a time when he didn't have a tennis racquet in his hand. The last five years of playing with Wisconsin's private school elite had turned him into a force. What it hadn't done was make it any easier for the former homeschooler to interact with other students, private or public.

He lets out a long sigh, before downing the rest of his water, and tossing the paper cup into the overflowing trash. The warm afternoon sun is beaming down on them and although there isn't a cloud in the sky, Tariq feels a storm brewing as the other teammates whisper among themselves.

"You sighing like you not almost six feet tall. You easily the tallest freshman here. I wouldn't even be worried 'bout Johnathon Wiste if I had reach like you," the other boy continues before heading in the direction of the trainer.

"Don't listen to that instigatin' ass nigga. He just love to see a good fight. Just get gone, man. Don't pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars," Shawn chuckles before he too throws his cup away, picks up his racquet, and runs over to a couple of sophomores practicing their backswings.

Tariq mumbles a thank you to the ponytail of bobbing locs before picking up his black and gold racquet and sliding it into the monogrammed case his mother got him on his last birthday. The last birthday they spent together. Or would ever.

He shut his eyes tightly at the thought. He resents the fact that he's at this school in the first place. On this team, at this court, in this state. He shouldn't be here. He doesn't belong here.

At least he didn't before everything changed. Before his mother died and his father was too stricken with grief to be a dad anymore. Before his dad decided that seeing Tariq's face every day was too much, or whatever made him ship him to his grandparents here in Willow Park. He sure didn't bother to tell Tariq, and Tariq didn't bother to ask. They hadn't spoken in three weeks. And Tariq didn't plan to speak to him ever again. If he could let Tariq go, then good riddance.

But Kansas is not Wisconsin. And his grandparents are not his parents, as much as he loves them all. No one is his Mama, and he didn't need distance or time or space to tell him that.

The sound of the whistle cuts through Tariq's reverie, reminding him of Shawn's warning. Zipping his bag and putting his cell phone into his back pocket, he slides past teammates and coaches, then through the gate that leads from the dismal tennis courts to the patchy east lawn and gym entrance. That whistle is synonymous with freedom for Tariq, even if that freedom is only ten minutes before the bell releases the rest of the students.