that they seemed to be stretching way above their heads to the sky.
Then he drew buildings and fire escapes and a milk crate with no bottom tied to one of the fire escape rungs. However, the game ended when Bruce's mother called him home, shouting his name from the next yard.
Ronald bounced toward Amir and peeped over his shoulder. He pointed at the drawing and laughed. "This ain't me and Bruce. Who are these people you drawing? Where is this?"
"Where I used to live, in the city," Amir said. "A Hundred and Sixty-third Street in the Bronx. These were some of the guys who used to play basketball. I'm going to put you and Bruce in this neighborhood. It'll be like you took a trip."
Ronald's eyes grew wide. "Yeah? What's their names?"
"Yellow Bird, Big Russell."
"They play as good as me and Bruce? Their legs that long?" he asked in amazement.
Amir smiled. "That's just a style of art. They're older than you and Bruce, so they have more experience playing."
"What kind of hoop is that?"
"A milk crate that they made a basket out of."
"That's stupid. Draw a picture of me playing ball. Just me, and make my legs and arms long like that."
"What about Bruce?"
"Draw him tomorrow."
Amir smiled. "Okay. You know our mother and father and all of us used to live in the city."
"How come you don't play ball?" Ronald asked, skipping around Amir's comment.
Amir wondered how many times Ronald would ask him the same question. "I never learned how."
"Why didn't you learn how? Why didn't Yellow Bird and Big Russell teach you?"
"I don't know why I never learned. I wasn't good at it. Right now I'm trying to draw you playing ball like you asked me to."
"Make my legs look real long. And draw me doing this."
Amir had a hard time drawing because Ronald was making him laugh so much as he spun, twirled, and dribbled, leaping as high as he could.
Amir drew a little boy with elongated arms and legs reaching for a basket as high as the sun. He turned the sun into a bright red-orange ball and drew silhouettes of Ronald in various moves and positions.
Amir sketched quickly and intensely, now that he had his design in mind. He felt as though he was inside his own drawingâbolting, leaping, hurtling, and flying with Ronald. Time flew as well. Amir didn't even hear Mr. Smith drive up and put his car in the garage.
part three
Memories
Mr. Smith walked into the yard shouting his familiar greeting, "Hey, everybody, Big Papa's in the house."
Ronald dropped his basketball and ran over to him. "You mean in the yard, Papa."
Amir looked up from his drawing and smiled. "Hi, Mister Alvin," he said, forgetting to say sir or Mr. Smith.
Alvin Smith threw his large head back and laughed loudly. So did Ronald, though he didn't know what he was laughing at. Grace Smith opened the screen door. "Let me in on the joke, too," she said, kissing her husband lightly on the cheek.
"Boy, Amir just said something that I haven't heard since I was a kid in the South. He called me Mister Alvin. We used to call all the grownups Miss or Mister." His wide face grew even wider as he grinned and bowed, tipping an imaginary hat. '"Good morning, Miss Idabellmae,' we'd say, or 'Good afternoon, Mister Charlie,' or 'How do, Miss Grace.'"
His wife tapped him playfully on the arm."Go on with your foolishness." She saw how embarrassed Amir looked and hushed her husband, who was still chuckling and laughing.
She turned to Amir. "Your parents taught you to say that?"
Amir nodded, feeling confused, not sure if he sounded ridiculous. Or if he'd said something wrong.
"It just slipped out. My mother used to tell us that if there are adults you feel close to, it's okay to say their first name, but you had to put a title to it. Out of respect."
Grace put her arm around Amir's shoulder. "That's right. I had to do the same thing in Ohio."
Alvin took out his handkerchief and wiped his sweaty face. Pieces of cement still stuck to his hands. "Well, son, that's better than sir or Mr.
Then he drew buildings and fire escapes and a milk crate with no bottom tied to one of the fire escape rungs. However, the game ended when Bruce's mother called him home, shouting his name from the next yard.
Ronald bounced toward Amir and peeped over his shoulder. He pointed at the drawing and laughed. "This ain't me and Bruce. Who are these people you drawing? Where is this?"
"Where I used to live, in the city," Amir said. "A Hundred and Sixty-third Street in the Bronx. These were some of the guys who used to play basketball. I'm going to put you and Bruce in this neighborhood. It'll be like you took a trip."
Ronald's eyes grew wide. "Yeah? What's their names?"
"Yellow Bird, Big Russell."
"They play as good as me and Bruce? Their legs that long?" he asked in amazement.
Amir smiled. "That's just a style of art. They're older than you and Bruce, so they have more experience playing."
"What kind of hoop is that?"
"A milk crate that they made a basket out of."
"That's stupid. Draw a picture of me playing ball. Just me, and make my legs and arms long like that."
"What about Bruce?"
"Draw him tomorrow."
Amir smiled. "Okay. You know our mother and father and all of us used to live in the city."
"How come you don't play ball?" Ronald asked, skipping around Amir's comment.
Amir wondered how many times Ronald would ask him the same question. "I never learned how."
"Why didn't you learn how? Why didn't Yellow Bird and Big Russell teach you?"
"I don't know why I never learned. I wasn't good at it. Right now I'm trying to draw you playing ball like you asked me to."
"Make my legs look real long. And draw me doing this."
Amir had a hard time drawing because Ronald was making him laugh so much as he spun, twirled, and dribbled, leaping as high as he could.
Amir drew a little boy with elongated arms and legs reaching for a basket as high as the sun. He turned the sun into a bright red-orange ball and drew silhouettes of Ronald in various moves and positions.
Amir sketched quickly and intensely, now that he had his design in mind. He felt as though he was inside his own drawingâbolting, leaping, hurtling, and flying with Ronald. Time flew as well. Amir didn't even hear Mr. Smith drive up and put his car in the garage.
part three
Memories
Mr. Smith walked into the yard shouting his familiar greeting, "Hey, everybody, Big Papa's in the house."
Ronald dropped his basketball and ran over to him. "You mean in the yard, Papa."
Amir looked up from his drawing and smiled. "Hi, Mister Alvin," he said, forgetting to say sir or Mr. Smith.
Alvin Smith threw his large head back and laughed loudly. So did Ronald, though he didn't know what he was laughing at. Grace Smith opened the screen door. "Let me in on the joke, too," she said, kissing her husband lightly on the cheek.
"Boy, Amir just said something that I haven't heard since I was a kid in the South. He called me Mister Alvin. We used to call all the grownups Miss or Mister." His wide face grew even wider as he grinned and bowed, tipping an imaginary hat. '"Good morning, Miss Idabellmae,' we'd say, or 'Good afternoon, Mister Charlie,' or 'How do, Miss Grace.'"
His wife tapped him playfully on the arm."Go on with your foolishness." She saw how embarrassed Amir looked and hushed her husband, who was still chuckling and laughing.
She turned to Amir. "Your parents taught you to say that?"
Amir nodded, feeling confused, not sure if he sounded ridiculous. Or if he'd said something wrong.
"It just slipped out. My mother used to tell us that if there are adults you feel close to, it's okay to say their first name, but you had to put a title to it. Out of respect."
Grace put her arm around Amir's shoulder. "That's right. I had to do the same thing in Ohio."
Alvin took out his handkerchief and wiped his sweaty face. Pieces of cement still stuck to his hands. "Well, son, that's better than sir or Mr.
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