Ship of Souls

basketball practice every day until four p.m. On Tuesdays and Thursdays he will go straight from practice to the library. You can tutor him there.”
    “Yes, sir,” I say. Then I turn to Keem and hold out my hand. “I’m D.” I hope he just gives me a regular handshake and not some five-step homeboy greeting.
    Keem just stares at me for a moment, but before his father can yell at him again, he pulls his hand out of the hoodie’s front pocket and shakes my hand—once. “Keem.”
    “So…what sort of math problems are you having trouble with?” I ask.
    Mr. Diallo throws up his hands. “Everything! He needs help with everything!”
    Keem sulks but dares not look his father in the eye. “I said I’d do better.”
    “How can you do better when you don’t even know what to do?” Mr. Diallo turns to Mr. Powell. “With my two jobs, I simply don’t have time to tutor him myself. I thank you for your assistance with this matter.”
    “I’m happy to help. And your son’s in good hands—D’s the brightest student I’ve ever had the honor to teach.”
    That puts a wide grin on my face until I catch a glimpse of Keem—he’s looking at me like I’m something he just scraped off the bottom of his size-twelve shoe. Mr. Diallo puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “You bring honor to your family, young man.” That wipes off what’s left of my smile. There’s no one left to be proud of me.
    Keem pulls the hood of his sweatshirt back over his head and follows his father down the hall. Mr. Powell and I go back into the classroom. I bury myself in the college-level algebra problem that’s scribbled on the board.

4.
    O n Tuesday I stand in front of the library and wait for Keem to show up for his first math lesson. He’s a few minutes late, but I decide to let it slide. I want to say, “My time’s valuable, you know.” But what else do I have to do? Besides, there’s this girl—Nyla—who hangs out with the kamikaze skater kids who flip their boards off the library’s front steps. She watches them and I watch her. When Keem finally shows up, I see him watching her, too. He’s slick, though. Keem knows how to watch a girl and not get caught. Maybe he’s got something to teach me after all.
    We go inside and find a table in a corner of the youth wing that’s not too rowdy. I’ve already decided on a few topics of conversation and so jump right in. “You know, ‘algebra’ comes from the Arabic word Al-Jabr . In the Middle Ages, Muslims introduced Europeans to a lot of important mathematical concepts.”
    Keem looks at me like I’m nuts. “I didn’t come here for a history lesson. You’re supposed to help me with math.”
    Small talk is tough.
    “I know,” I say, “but math has history.” I seriously doubt Keem and I have anything else in common, so I decide to try my next topic: religion. “So…when do you pray?” I ask.
    “What?”
    I fight the urge to duck. Keem looks pissed, so I follow up with a quick explanation for my question. “It’s just that—well, I thought Muslims had to pray five times a day. You can’t really do that when you’re at school, right?”
    Keem just stares at me for a moment. Then he says, “ Qadaa . I make it up later when I’m at home.”
    I nod and think about saying, “That’s cool,” but decide to just keep my mouth shut.
    “We should probably get started,” Keem says in a neutral voice. He opens his binder and takes out his most recent test. “If I don’t boost my grades, Coach’ll have to bench me.”
    The first thing I see is the big red D at the top of the page. I’m no miracle worker, and I don’t want to make any promises I can’t keep. Besides, I always thought the rules were bent for star athletes. “They say you’ll probably get drafted before you graduate.”
    For some reason, Keem doesn’t take this as a compliment. “I’m going to college. And I’m going to graduate from college.”
    “Yeah?”
    “Yeah.”
    I want to say, “What if some team offers you ten million dollars to play for them?” But I decide to play it safe instead. “I guess it’s good to have a backup plan in case you get injured or something.”
    Keem nods, then surprises me by saying, “People think basketball’s my world, but…I got other skills.”
    “Yeah? Like what?”
    Keem fidgets a bit and looks around before answering. “I cook.”
    “Food?” I ask like a moron.
    “What else?” Keem replies. “My dad—he’s from Senegal. But