The alarm buzzed on the nightstand at 6:45, but Jamal had been awake for a few minutes already. He'd been lying there listening to the usual sounds of the building: someone slamming a door somewhere, the kid downstairs crying for breakfast, and the steady hum of traffic on Cottage Grove.
It was his first day at Morgan Park High School, and even though he wasn't the anxious type, he felt a little spark inside—like before a game. Not fear, more a mix of curiosity and impatience.
He got out of bed and stretched. The floor was cold, but everything in the room was familiar: the LeBron poster above the desk, Kyrie by the window, and a beat-up basketball in the corner, scarred like it had survived a war.
He opened the closet and pulled out the clothes he'd laid out the night before: a black Nike hoodie with a silver logo, clean loose-fit jeans, and his red Jordan 1s—the ones he treated like treasure. He wiped them with a cloth, part of his ritual. No casual outfit today: first day meant he needed to show up with some drip.
He looked at himself in the mirror by the door. At fifteen he was already six-two (189 cm), still a little skinny, with long arms that made every basket feel closer than it really was. Fresh braids, dark skin catching the morning light, eyes calm but awake.
"Yeah… we good," he muttered, half-smiling.
His mom's voice came from the hallway.
"Jamal! You planning to eat breakfast or you going to school on an empty stomach?"
"I'm coming, Ma!" he called back, shutting the closet.
The kitchen was small but warm. His mom, already in her hospital uniform, was making toast while checking something on her phone. The smell of coffee filled the room.
"You sleep okay?" she asked without looking up.
"Yeah. I'm good."
She glanced at him, tired eyes still managing a smile.
"Behave. And no trouble on the first day, all right?"
"Ma, when do I ever make trouble?"
She raised an eyebrow.
"You really want me to list it?"
Jamal laughed and sat down. While he ate, she fixed his collar like he was still eight.
"You know… your father would be proud of you. Even if he doesn't say it."
Jamal nodded lightly. It didn't bother him to hear her mention him, but he didn't have much to hold onto. His dad had been in prison since before he was born—letters sometimes, calls that always felt months too late, promises that didn't weigh much.
"Yeah, Ma. I know."
He finished, grabbed his backpack, and headed out. The Chicago morning air was cool, carrying that mix of bakery smells, damp pavement, and gasoline he'd grown up with. He walked down the sidewalk with music low in his headphones—Drake—watching the stores open, an old lady sweeping her porch, a group of kids already playing basketball at the playground.
His thoughts drifted: the new school, the basketball team, tryouts coming up soon. He wasn't cocky, but he knew he was above average. Not a generational talent, not the next LeBron—but he had style, bounce, and athleticism. Dunking came too easy for someone his age. His three-pointer was still shaky, but he trusted it. Defense… well, that was another story. Staying with fast guards felt like chasing shadows. But he'd work on it.
When he reached the school, Morgan Park rose against the morning sky—big, crowded, loud in that typical American high school way. Groups greeting each other, freshmen trying to look older, seniors with that "I've seen it all" look.
Jamal took off his headphones, adjusted his backpack, and moved through the crowd. He felt oddly relaxed. A new school wasn't intimidating. It was new, sure, but the world had never been something he wanted to run from.
As he walked in, someone casually slid up next to him—not running, not rushing, just matching his pace.
"Yo, you new around here, right?"
Jamal turned. A Latino guy, maybe a year older, wavy brown hair, a backpack way too heavy for his skinny frame. Blue hoodie, loose jeans, beat-up sneakers.
"Yeah," Jamal said. "Just moved."
"Fresh from the South Side, huh?" The guy grinned. "I'm Rico. Rico Hernandez."
"Jamal."
"Nice. I saw you walk in, bro. You looked kinda like you were… tryna not look lost."
"I'm not lost."
"Man, nobody admits it on day one." Rico laughed softly. "Relax, I ain't judging."
He was chill—talkative but not annoying. And he had the vibe of someone who made friends easily.
"You wanna know where the main hall is? Or you just walkin' wherever the flow takes you?" Rico asked.
"I'm following the crowd."
"Then you gonna end up in the cafeteria."
Jamal sighed. "Aight. Show me."
Rico gestured dramatically. "Follow me, bro. Morgan Park is a maze. They built one part, then added another part that don't match, then tried to connect them. Straight chaos."
As they climbed the stairs, Rico glanced at him again.
"Oh, and if you're thinking about tryouts… yeah, I caught the vibe. You tall as a streetlight, so lemme tell you now—this team ain't a joke."
"I didn't say I'm trying out," Jamal said, though his smile gave him away.
"Sure, sure," Rico said, amused. "Look, I don't play, but I know people who know people. Coach don't want time-wasters. If you're gonna try… be ready."
The bell rang as they reached a classroom. Rico slapped his shoulder.
"Welcome to Morgan Park, bro. See you around."
Jamal slipped in just before the teacher shut the door. The class was half full; the teacher was still setting things up. He took a seat near the window.
A girl two desks away glanced at him. Straight black hair, short bangs, thin glasses. She was doodling in her notebook.
"You're new?" she asked calmly.
"Yeah. I'm Jamal."
"Aiko." She smiled faintly.
"Hope you got a map."
"Why?"
"Because if you take the wrong hallway you'll end up in the music wing and never escape. They're… intense."
Jamal put on a serious face. "Got it."
The teacher started talking—intro to the class, intro to the school. Jamal listened… kind of. Sitting still wasn't hard; after summers full of pickup games, random tournaments, and training, school felt almost relaxing.
When it was his turn to introduce himself, he just said, "I'm Jamal. I transferred from Hyde Park." Some nodded, some ignored him, some sized him up like people do with every new face. Normal.
The next hours went slow. English, history, algebra. Each teacher had a different energy—some too excited, some already tired. Jamal just listened and watched everyone around him. Trying to figure out who was loud, who was quiet, who joked too much, who would smile back if you looked at them.
By fourth period his stomach was growling.
Lunch smelled like school pizza and fried chicken—comforting in a weird nostalgic way.
He was looking for a seat when he spotted Rico sitting with two others. Rico noticed him and waved.
"Yo, Jamal! Over here!"
Jamal joined them.
"This is Karla," Rico said, pointing at a skinny girl with braids, "and this is Malik."
Malik nodded. "What's good."
"Chillin'," Jamal said, sitting down.
They ate and talked. Rico was a born talker, Karla laughed at every joke, and Malik was the type who spoke less but caught everything.
At one point, Rico asked, "Bro, you hoop?"
Jamal pretended to be surprised. "Why you ask?"
"Uh… let me think. You tall, got them long arms, and you look like somebody who thinks he can dunk on people."
Jamal shook his head with a smile. "Maybe."
"So yes."
Karla leaned on her hand. "Tryouts are in two weeks. Coach is always looking for someone who can score."
"I'd rather bring highlights," Jamal said, biting into his pizza.
Malik snorted. "Man, if you make the team, you gotta play defense too. Coach ain't lettin' you on the court if you don't defend."
Jamal sighed. "That's tough."
"So you all offense?" Malik asked.
"Something like that."
"Translation: zero defense," Rico said.
"Nah, bro… it's in progress," Jamal laughed.
They all cracked up.
The rest of the day moved quietly. No embarrassing moments, no teachers putting him on the spot. Just routine, new faces, the smell of books and crowded halls rising and falling like waves.
When the final bell rang, Jamal walked out with the crowd. The sun was high, the sky clear, the breeze carrying a hint of the lake.
Rico caught up to him.
"Aight, bro. See you tomorrow."
"Yeah. I'm down."
"And think about tryouts. Don't be shy."
"I'm not shy."
"You look like the type who wanna say, 'I'm too nice to talk about it,'" Rico laughed.
Jamal shrugged. "I didn't say anything."
"Exactly. That's the point."
They split at the gate.
The walk home felt lighter. Everything had started off right. New school, new people, hellos, smiles, jokes. Nothing hard.
And one thought kept looping in his head: the gym.
No one had seen him play yet. No one knew what he could do. No one had seen him dunk.
He imagined the sound of sneakers on the floor, the bounce of the ball, people watching.
A smile crept back onto his face.
"Yeah," he murmured. "This gon' be a good year."