Not good enough

On Tuesday some new pictures went up in the hallway outside the art room, from the senior art class. Six drawings of a glass roof. Leo’s glass roof, the one at the old train station, the one he’d been drawing for three years. Drawn by a guy Leo only knew by sight. Every strut was right, and the light on the glass was so soft you wanted to touch it. Leo stood there until the bell rang. His sketchbook stayed in his backpack for the rest of the day.

Saturday was the semifinal. Leo’s name was on the roster, but not with the starting five. “You shoot before the play is done,” the coach had told him on Friday. “Twice in practice, three times last week. You’re starting on the bench today.” Leo had nodded, the way you nod when what you actually want to do is throw something.

He sat at the end of the bench, his jacket over his knees, tape on two fingers, and counted along. First quarter, second quarter. Near the end of the third he got four minutes, made one pass to John, John scored, the coach nodded, and Leo sat back down. They won by six. Everybody jumped around, and Leo jumped too, a second late. Up in the bleachers his dad cheered the loudest. Leo smiled for the parents’ phone pictures and wished he were anywhere else.

On Sunday evening Mila rode her bike past the outdoor court. Leo was out there alone in the dusk, shooting over and over. She stopped at the fence. “Okay if I hang out for a bit?” He shrugged, which for him meant yes. She sat on the low wall. He shot. Missed. He shot again.

“You should have played,” Mila said. “You guys won, and you made the most important pass.” “Four minutes.” Shot. “And your drawings are just as good as the ones in the hallway.” She’d seen him standing there on Tuesday. Leo caught the ball. “No, they’re not.” “Yes, they are.” “Mila.” Louder than he needed to be. “They’re not just as good. He’s been taking art for years. He knows how to do glass. All I know how to do is lines.” His next shot didn’t even hit the rim.

Mila stopped saying nice things. She could tell her compliments were hitting him like a ball off the rim: they bounced off and rolled away. She waited. Then she asked, “What actually bugs you more? The bench or the hallway?”

Leo opened his mouth and shut it again. He bounced the ball, once, twice. “The bench is fair,” he said finally, slowly. “I shoot too early. I know that. Coach has been saying it for a year. If I finish the play, I play. That’s a line I have to get across. I can see it.” “And the hallway?” He sat down on the ball. “Nobody said anything there. Nobody said I have to be better than some senior. I told myself that. In about two seconds.”

“So who decided you’re not good enough?” Leo looked at her like she’d moved a wall in a house he knew by heart. “Me,” he said. “Using his measuring tape.” He gave a short laugh, not happy, but not hard either. “He’s three years older. He probably didn’t draw like that at fifteen either. Probably.” “Probably,” Mila said. “You could ask him.” “Ask him?” “How he does the glass. I ask when someone takes a better photo than me. Most people like talking about it.”

Leo made the face he made when he was working out a structural problem. Then he stood up, grabbed the ball, and walked to the three-point line. “Okay. Two things.” He held up two fingers, the tape still on them. “Practice Tuesday: every time I want to shoot before the play’s done, I count to two and look for John. Every single time. Even if it looks dumb.” “And the second thing?” “I draw the roof again. Not like him. Like me, just with softer pencils. And then I put it next to mine from last fall. Not next to his.” “And asking?” He made a face. “Maybe. About the pencils. Not about everything.”

He shot. The ball dropped clean through the net, and Leo didn’t celebrate. “That one doesn’t count,” he said. “It was too early.” Mila laughed and covered her mouth with her hand. They stayed until the court lights went off at nine. Mila didn’t take a single picture.

On Thursday she walked past the art room again. The senior’s drawings were still up. Stuck under the last one was a small yellow note, written in pencil: “What hardness for the glass? 6B?” No name. On Friday there was an answer underneath, in different handwriting: “8B. And a lot of patience.” Mila didn’t take a picture of the note. She knew who’d written the question anyway.