The Only Good Indians(80)

“And you do?” Shaney says back, getting light on her feet for what she must think Denorah’s move is about to be.

“I am,” Denorah says, and pushes hard with her forehead, nudging Shaney back just enough to clear some space.

She uses it to launch up and back, up and back. It’s improper form, is even poor practice, as it’s nearly impossible to replicate all the variables of a fallaway like this, but you can’t always go by the textbook, either. Some games, you are Reggie Miller. And, if you’re really good, you’re maybe even Cheryl.

Denorah rises and rises, falling back at the same time, Shaney lowering her arms to swing them up together, extend enough to block this shot, but that smidge of time it takes to lower and jump, gather and push up, it gives Denorah just enough window to release the ball through.

Still, because of Shaney’s length, Denorah has to adjust at the last instant, arc the shot even higher than she’d wanted, make it even more of a prayer.

It just clears Shaney’s fingertips.

Denorah lands on her ass in the snow a full second before the ball catches the front of the rim, shudders the whole thing, and then—bounce, bounce, jiggle-jaggle—it drops through. Denorah rolls over three times in celebration, snow and dry grass all over her. She’s spent more hours on the court than off, she’d bet, and played against girls her age and older, guys, too, on Sunday nights when the gym’s open, she’s even had the ball at the end of the game more than anybody on her team, but still, this shot, this one lucky roll, it’s better than any of the rest of them.

“Two,” she calls out, because that’s how they’ve been playing, and Shaney’s pissed enough she rips the hair tie from her ponytail, runs to the edge of the concrete to throw it as far as she can. It’s a scrunchy, though. Too much air resistance. It flutters, dies, doesn’t go anywhere.

“You can’t beat me,” she says—growls, really.

“Eighteen,” Denorah says, standing, keeping a close eye on Shaney.

Riled up like she is, there’s something almost animal about her. In a game it’s the kind of thing Denorah could use to get to the free-throw line. Out here miles from anybody, it’s more likely to earn her an elbow in her ribs.

It’ll just mean she’s winning the real game, though.

Shaney gives her the ball, bodies up close enough that Denorah gets a bug’s-eye view of her knitted-together, scarred-up forehead, and Denorah fakes back like to repeat that Hail Mary fallaway but Shaney doesn’t take the bait, is all over her when she puts the ball down to drive.

Still, Denorah gets the step—you can always get the step, if you want it bad enough—runs the ball as far out in front of her as she can to flip it up at the last possible moment before her next foot touches the ground.

It’s pretty, and it’s on target, but Shaney’s been on this ball since the moment she checked it. She doesn’t just slap it down, either, she smothers it, she collects it, she wraps around it like a fullback, falls hard enough back into the pole that rotted wood from the backboard rains down over her.

She waves it away from her face, shakes the pain off, her hair almost completely hiding her face now, her teeth flashing in that black shroud.

“You all right?” Denorah says.

“Check,” Shaney says, leaving the ball behind her as if disgusted by it.

Denorah uses the toe of her right shoe to flip it up to her hands, a move Coach would be all over—hands, hands, basketball players use hands—and, on the way to the top of the key she chances a look back to the dead fire, the smoldering lodge, the horse pens, all the empty trucks. The camper, the outhouse. The whole reservation as backdrop.

“Where are they?” she says, kind of just out loud.

“They’re not going to save you, little girl,” Shaney says, already in her place.

Not even a dog has made it back, though? And what happened to the windshield of her dad’s truck?

“I’m not a little girl,” Denorah says.

Shaney starts to say something about this but swallows it.

“My mom’s coming back by in about fifteen minutes,” Denorah adds.

“She can play winner, then,” Shaney says, clapping twice for the ball.

Denorah rolls the ball to her slow enough that the lines don’t even blur.

Shaney snatches it up the moment it’s close enough, follows through on that forward dip of her body, twitches ahead like enough with the bullshit finesse, this time she’s going through Denorah.

Because she can’t get too banged up for the other game she’s playing today, Denorah flinches back, ready to give ground, sacrifice a point to save her body, but then at the last moment Shaney breaks right, the exact same move Denorah just used on her: get the first step, then stretch out, flip it in.

The reason it didn’t work for Denorah was Shaney’s length, which Denorah doesn’t have.

One blurry dribble and then Shaney’s flipping the ball up.

It catches the backboard high and comes down slow, flushes down and through, the net popping up behind it exactly like an old man’s lips after he’s leaned over to spit.

“Good one,” Denorah says, chocking the ball under her arm.

Her legs are trembling, spent, her lungs raw, her heart beating in her temples. This is no way to prepare for tonight’s game. Still, if her mom’s car crests over the cattle guard, she’s going to hold her hand out, tell her to wait, she’s got to finish this.