Last Dance At Lincoln High

"If you miss this shot, I am deleting 4 years of photos," Maya said, looking at Elias as he stood at the free throw line. Elias didn't look up from the free throw line. "You don't have 4 years of photo of me ," he said, spinning the ball. "Yeah, I got the file, you want the password?" She answered with a serious face and one hand placed on her waist. The ball left his hands and went straight to the net. He finally glanced back at the stand and then to Maya. "You're creepy, yearbook Girl." "And you are 0 of 2 from the line tonight. So who's deleting what ?" Elias snapped back. *** The gym smelled like old wood, sweat, and popcorn, same as it had every Friday since freshman year. Maya adjusted her camera strap and slid into her usual seat third row, baseline, right where the light hit the court without glare, year book duty, official reason. The real reason sat on the court below in Lincoln High’s blue and gold, bouncing a basketball like it was part of his hand. Elias Torres, number 23, senior, captain, 22 points per game average. The boy half the girls in school had a lock screen of and the other half pretended not to notice. Maya had a folder on her laptop labeled “E23_Pics” with 4 years of photos, not creepy, documentary, that’s what she told herself. “Move over, Maya.” Jess dropped into the seat beside her, smelling like cherry lip gloss and last period’s math test. “Is he warming up yet? I’m gonna be so pissed at myself if I don’t get at least one good picture of Torres today.” Maya lifted her camera, “He’s always warming up, he’s here an hour early.” On the court, Elias moved through his routine, three dribbles, pivot, fadeaway from the elbow. Net barely moved, again, three dribbles, pivot, the ball left his hands and she could hear the soft “shhh” of it cutting air from all the way up to the net. He’d grown since freshman year. Back then, he’d been all knees and elbows, a scrawny kid who played like he was mad at the ball. Now he was 6’2”, shoulders that filled out his jersey, and that same focused look like the rest of the world didn’t exist when he was shooting. “Still taking pictures of his left ear?” Jess teased. “You’ve been documenting that ear since 9th grade,” She added. “His left side has better light,” Maya said without looking away from the viewfinder, lie, she photographed his left side because that was the side he faced when he ran back on defense. She’d noticed in 10th grade, never told anyone. The buzzer sounded, arm-ups ended. Coach Rivera clapped twice and the team huddled. Elias said something and the whole team laughed, he did that a lot kept it loose until the game started, then his face went blank and serious, game face. Maya checked her settings, shutter speed fast enough to freeze him mid-jump, everything was set. She knew this camera better than she knew her own handwriting. Four years of Friday nights will do that. “Why are you so quiet tonight?” Jess nudged her, “You usually narrate his stats like you’re ESPN.” “Because it’s senior year,” Maya said quietly. “First game, last season.” The words felt heavier than she meant them to. Four years of watching from these seats, four years of “almost” and “maybe next time.” Freshman year she’d been too shy to say hi, sophomore year he’d held the door for her once and she’d replayed it for a week. Junior year she’d worked up the nerve to ask him about his three-point percentage for yearbook and he’d said “49%” and smiled and she’d forgotten her next question. Senior year, last dance. The clock was actually running out now. “Lincoln High! Let’s go!” The announcer’s voice boomed. The crowd stood. Maya stood too, camera up. Elias led the team out. He didn’t look at the stands. He never did before games. Too focused, but Maya tracked him anyway the way he spun the ball once in his palm before the tip-off, the way he rolled his shoulders under the jersey, the way he nodded once at Coach before taking his spot at forward. The whistle blew, ball up, Elias jumped, he didn’t win the tip. Didn’t need to. He dropped back on defense immediately, feet moving before anyone else. That was Elias, defense first, highlights later. First quarter moved fast. Rival school, Central, came out aggressive. Their forward kept trying to post Elias up. Elias kept sliding his feet, hands up, not biting on fakes. Maya snapped photo after photo. Him contesting a shot, him calling out a screen, him grabbing a rebound and pushing the ball up court without looking down. At 2:14 left in the first quarter, he got his first basket, fast break, someone threw him a long pass and he took two steps, rose, and slammed it. The gym exploded, fans cheering and chanting his name. Maya lowered her camera for half a second and just watched. His face when he dunked wasn’t cocky, It was relief. Like he’d been holding his breath and finally let it out. “Did you get it?” Jess grabbed her arm. Maya checked the shot on her screen, perfect, Elias mid-air, jaw set, Lincoln’s logo behind him. “Got it!.” “Put it on the yearbook cover and I’ll forgive you for being weird about him all year,” Jess teased. Maya didn’t answer, she wasn’t weird about him. She was realistic. Elias Torres didn’t date. Not really, girls tried, he was polite, kind even, but he kept everyone at arm’s length. Basketball was his girlfriend, his best friend, his future. He talked about playing college ball like other people talked about graduation, he talked about playing in the professional level, the NBA. She’d learned that sophomore year when she’d finally, stupidly, told him he had a nice jump shot after practice. He’d said “Thanks” and then asked if she could pass him a water. That was it, four years of that, polite, distant, unreachable. Senior year changed the math. Last chance meant you had to take the shot, even if you airballed. Halftime came, Lincoln up by 8, Elias had 11 points, 4 rebounds, 2 assists. Maya had 73 photos and a headache from not blinking. She packed up her camera as the team left the floor. “I’m going to get water,” she told Jess. “Bathroom’s closer,” Jess said. “And you’ll miss” “I’ll be back before third quarter,” she added before taking her leave. Maya cut through the side door behind the bleachers. The hallway was quieter here, smelling like floor wax and old championship banners. She could hear the pep band still playing in the gym. She was rounding the corner to the water fountain when she almost ran into him. Elias, Sweat dripped down his temple. His jersey clung to his chest. He had a towel around his neck and he was breathing hard, one hand on the wall like he needed it. “Sorry…” Maya jumped back. “I didn’t see you.” He looked up, blue eyes, same color as the jersey. He blinked like he was coming back from somewhere far away, game head. “Oh! Maya, right?” He smiled. Small, real smile, not the press smile he gave reporters after games. “Yearbook!.” She nodded, suddenly aware that she was sweating too, and her ponytail was probably messy, and she’d been taking pictures of him for four years and he knew her name and it was too much. “You get good shots tonight?” he asked, pushing off the wall. He reached past her for the water fountain. His arm was right next to her shoulder. She could smell his deodorant and the salt of sweat. “Yeah,” she said, her voice came out higher than normal. “You... you played well. The block on number 31 was good.” He drank, then stood up straight. “Thanks, I missed that shot in the second though, wide open.” He shook his head, like he was already rewatching it in his mind. “You took the right pass,” Maya said before she could stop herself. “Number 10 was cutting, better assist than a contested layup.” Elias paused, looked at her differently for a second like she was a person and not just “Yearbook Girl”. “You watch the games,” he said, not a question. “Yearbook,” she said again, weak, but true. He nodded, wiped his mouth with the towel. “Cool, see you after? I might have time for a pic for the cover if Coach lets me.” Maya’s heart did something stupid in her chest. “Yeah, okay, good luck in the second half.” He gave her that small smile again and jogged back toward the locker room. Maya stood there for three full seconds after he left, gripping her camera strap like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Four years, four years of sitting in the stands and never speaking except for stats and water bottles. And now, first game of senior year, he’d talked to her, really talked, about basketball, about decisions. Last dance, she thought. The clock was running. She pulled out her phone and opened her notes app. Created a new file titled “Chapter 1”. Typed one line: Senior year, take the shot. Then she went back to the gym, camera ready, because the second half was starting and Elias Torres was about to play the first game of his last season. And she was about to play the first game of hers. ***