She laughed and pointed both hands at the hoop as if she’d discovered it herself. Imani cheered with everyone else, not because a child’s easy basket was a championship, but because a court was supposed to have room for that sort of joy. A few months earlier, she had worried there wasn’t enough space for her in rooms built around other people’s name names. On the first day of the tournament, two girls had shoved her across a boundary and expected the humiliation to do the rest. They had been wrong about more than her jump shot. She had teammates who would stand beside her, adults willing to check their facts, and a skill that grew stronger every time she returned to the work.
Imani bounced a ball to Ada and moved to the other side of the painted line. The gym floor belonged to the next possession, the next chance, the next person brave enough to step onto it. She hadn’t needed to shove anybody back to earn her place. She had stayed long enough and played well enough to make the place her own.
