Page 52 of Flickerstate

“What’s the point of playing without nav?”

“The point of basketball without nav,” I say, “is basketball. Shoot or forfeit.”

“Okay, boss lady.” He puts too much muscle into the shot: The ball strikes the backstop high up and misses the hoop.

“Strange as in interference,” Vik tells me quietly. Since I turned, he’s behind me now. In the post-rain chill, I can feel his body heat against my back. I stare hard at the basketball hoop.

Griffin snags the ball and chest-passes hard to Vik, playing rough, trying to catch his friend off guard. Vik plucks the ball from the air and waits for my answer.

“Go, shoot—act normal,” I whisper, barely moving my lips.

He walks to the free throw and shoots. Bank swish, perfect.

“What are you two mumbling about?” Griffin asks.

Vik collects his rebound and passes to me. “It’s strange Sam cheated.”

Vik thinks someone interfered with Sam to make him cheat?

Griffin shrugs. “Antoine’s better than Sam. If Sam wanted to win badly enough… Are you going to shoot or what, Supergirl?”

“Three-point swish,” I call. The ball glances off the back rim, so I snag the rebound and pass to Griffin.

“Antoine’s better than Sam,” Vik says. “But Sam’s team is better than Antoine’s.”

“Seriously?” Griffin is in no rush to shoot now that he has the ball. “You’re going to do Jackie and Jae like that?”

“Jacqueline’s tied for valedictorian with a couple kids—”

Griffin snorts. “You and Mir, you mean.”

“—and she might be the best student in our year, but she’s not the best navigator. I’m not insulting her; she’s said that herself. Same with Jae. They belong in Clinic A, but they’re not top navigators like Antoine. Those three formed a team because they like each other, not because Antoine thought his girlfriend and his best friend were his ticket to the Archive.”

“But Antoine might be Jackie and Jae’s ticket.”

“Don’t be a prick,” Vik says fondly. “They love Antoine; they’re not using him. Take your shot.”

Griffin laughs. “Yes, sir.”

When he misses the same three-point swish I did, Vik calls a left-handed layup. He manages it, barely, and tosses the ball to me. I make it; Griffin doesn’t.

“H-O,” I tell him.

“Rude, verging on sexual harassment.” Griffin bounces the ball to Vik, smirking at his own joke.

This time it’s Vik who tries the three-point swish. He makes the shot but hits the rim, like I did. My ball. I call the same shot—and drain it this time.

“Now you’re showing off,” Griffin says.

“Yes,” I say. “Basketball is the point of basketball, and showingoff is the point of H-O-R-S-E. So are you guys going to actually try? Or are you going to lose?”

***

They lose, three games in a row, though in the last game Vik fights me to H-O-R-S before I knock him out with a through-the-legs layup. What surprises me is that losing doesn’t bother them. When I played at the Y back home, even the chillest guys got snippy once they realized a parochial school girl was handing them their butts. Vik shrugs and smiles. Griffin—who cheerfully admits he hasn’t played a sport without nav since second grade—laughs outright. It’s not what you’d expect from a big man on campus, and it’s sort of endearing.

Another nice thing about Griffin’s laugh—it lets me know that Vik is joking when he comes out with deadpan pronouncements. The two of them act like old friends: They get each other’s humor, catch each other’s references. They also disagree about everything. While we play, they argue about which teachers deserve our respect, what’s the best food at the dining hall’s Sunday brunch, and (repeatedly) whether Dr. Langmore is a great teacher or a minion of darkness.

“Her title might be Navigation Program Director,” Vik says, “but we all know her real job is wrangling big donors. The Silicon Valley billionaire who tweeted in favor of literal eugenics. The wellness influencer who scares parents about aluminum in vaccines. Oh, and let’s not forget the oil refinery heirs.”