BETWEEN WORLDS - Chapter 4
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Khalil Johnson moved through the crowded hallway with a singular focus. The lunch bell abruptly interrupted Mrs. Henderson's lecture on symbolism. Now, nothing stood between him and the double cheeseburger he'd been thinking about since breakfast. The rest of his thoughts, like basketball plays, tomorrow's chemistry test, and wondering if Leila Matthews had been looking at him in Spanish class, would have to wait.
"Slow down, man. The food’s not going anywhere," Raffiel called from behind him, his twin brother's voice carrying that patient tone of someone who'd watched this same hunger for seventeen years.
Khalil kept pace. "Man, if I’m hungry and hungry. And they better not run out of curly fries or I’m blaming you."
"The tragedy," Raffiel caught up effortlessly. Their six-foot-three frames waved through hallway traffic with the awareness from years of reading basketball courts and each other's moves.
Students cleared a path, not from fear but understanding. You simply don't block the Johnson twins from lunch.
Nearing the cafeteria, food smells hit Khalil. His stomach growled, making Raffiel laugh.
"You ate like half a dozen eggs at home," Raffiel said, pulling out his phone to check a text. "Damn. Sis texted. She needs us to grab some things for dinner tonight."
"After practice?"
"Coach canceled practice."
Khalil frowned, his steps faltering. "Wait, what? Since when?"
"Since about ten minutes ago. Check your messages, fam." Raffiel showed him the group text from Coach. ‘Meeting came up. Practice moved to tomorrow morning, 6 AM sharp. No excuses.’
"Six AM? Is he serious?" Khalil groaned. "What could be more important than practice? We've got the jamboree in three weeks."
As Raffiel entered the cafeteria, his voice was drowned out by the lunchtime buzz. The room buzzed with chatter and laughter and plastic trays clattering on tables as people took their seats.
Khalil checked out the lunch line. Eight people deep, which wasn’t great, but workable. They joined the line. Khalil was already planning his order, while Raffiel kept scrolling.
"You hear about that new kid?" Raffiel asked, looking up. "People chatting."
"What new kid?" Khalil grabbed a tray, his focus split between talking and the burger patties behind the counter.
"Man, your brain and stomach are the same thing." Raffiel put his phone away. "Rashaad texted during history. Says there's a transfer in his English class. Some guy from Highland Prep."
The tray suddenly felt heavy in Khalil's hands. "Highland Prep?"
The words triggered a memory, one of the championship game. He watched helplessly as the Highland guard rose above Zahair’s fingers, the ball arcing through the air, the buzzer, and then silence. The kid was as smooth as water in his game. That moment disrupted his summer workouts, drove his early mornings, and haunted his dreams.
"Yeah," Raffiel continued, missing his brother's energy change. "Didn't get a name, but Rashaad said it's someone from their team."
Khalil's jaw tightened as the line moved. The cafeteria noise faded as he focused on one burning question: Which Highland player? The cocky point guard who'd talked trash for four quarters? The senior forward who'd snagged offensive rebounds? Or—
As they approached the counter, the thought vanished. Khalil placed his order without hesitation while his mind replayed snippets from that February night. The sound of sneakers squealing on the polished hardwood floor. Coach’s timeouts. Their home crowd's stunned silence as Highland Prep returned from a five-point deficit.
And above all, the face of the sophomore who shouldn't have been the hero but somehow was.
"Earth to Khalil," Raffiel bumped his shoulder as they moved down the line. "Your burger's getting cold while you're spacing out."
Khalil blinked, coming back to the present. He paid for his food and followed Raffiel toward their usual table near the windows, where several teammates had already gathered. But lunch period now felt charged, like something had shifted at Langston Hughes High School.
"You got that look," Raffiel mentioned while walking between tables.
"What look?"
"The one you get when you're about to jack up a contested three with fifteen seconds still on the shot clock."
Khalil offered a half-smile. "Just thinking."
"Dangerous pastime," Raffiel said, but his eyes conveyed the understanding from sharing seventeen years and knowing how differently they might react to the same thing. "Try not to overthink it. Whoever this Highland kid is, he's probably just as uneasy being here as we would be over there."
Khalil sat at their table, his appetite now gone. Instead, he looked around for an unfamiliar face.
"There," Raffiel called out, knowing where his brother's mind wandered to.
Khalil followed his brother's gaze to where Rashaad Williams had just entered, flanked by his usual group of admirers. However, it wasn't Rashaad who caught Khalil's eye. It was the guy next to him. Lean, with dreads drawn back and standing tall in a manner that screamed "not from around here." A face that had tormented Khalil's basketball dreams for months.
The Highland Prep shooter. The buzzer-beater. The championship-stealer.
And now, apparently, a student at Langston Hughes High School.
The burger on Khalil's tray felt like cardboard. Standing quickly, he caught Raffiel's warning look but couldn't look away from the approaching figure. The conversation promptly ceased as others realized who had his attention.
"What is he doing here?" Khalil whispered, his words barely audible but heavy with meaning.
DeAndre leaned in, voice low. "Is that--?"
Marcus nodded slowly. "Highland Prep boy. The one who—"
"I know exactly who he is," Khalil cut in, recalling that final shot. The sophomore who shouldn't have been on the court in those crucial minutes. The player they had underestimated until he picked apart their defense. The shooter who'd stolen their championship with a perfect arc of orange against buzzer-red.
In the cafeteria, Rashaad guided the newcomer to the lunch line, maintaining his usual energy amidst the disruption. The Highland player, whose name he’d tried to forget, moved with the same controlled precision he showed on the court. His shoulders squared, eyes forward, and steps measured as if calculating distance to defenders.
"Azeil," Raffiel said quietly beside him, giving him the name Khalil couldn't remember through his rising blood pressure. "Azeil Carter."
The name struck hard. It was the same name from the tournament program, announced after that shot, and noted in every post-game analysis Khalil forced himself to watch during his summer of obsessive training. Hearing it in the Langston Hughes cafeteria felt wrong. Competitors stayed in their lanes, with winners and losers in their own territories. They didn't just arrive in your lunchroom wearing street clothes instead of team colors.
"Sit down," Raffiel murmured, tugging at Khalil's sleeve. "Before you do something stupid."
But Khalil stayed standing, his body rigid as Rashaad and Azeil made their way through the lunch line. Several other students had started to notice now, whispers spreading like ripples. A sophomore girl pointed and leaned toward her friend. A senior on the debate team did a double-take, his face cycling from confusion to recognition. Even Ms. Diaz, the cafeteria monitor, seemed to sense the shift, her attention drifting toward the source of disruption.
"Man, get your ass in that seat," DeAndre hissed. "You're making it worse."
Khalil slid back into his chair, his eyes on Azeil. Up close, the Highland player seemed less mythical, more human. His posture showed effort rather than ease, as if maintaining composure required constant attention. Azeil's eyes scanned the cafeteria with neutrality, lacking the triumph Khalil had imagined in their replayed confrontations.
"I spent all summer thinking about seeing that guy again," Khalil said, voice low enough that only Raffiel could hear. Imagined running into him at the next tournament. Planned exactly how I'd shoulder-check him during warm-ups. Nothing dirty, just enough to let him know last year wasn't happening again." He shook his head. "Never thought it would be here. In our house."
Raffiel's reply got cut short by Rashaad's approach, tray in hand, Azeil trailing a half-step behind. The cafeteria noise seemed to dim around them.
"What's good, fellas?" Rashaad greeted them like everything was normal, setting his tray on their table. "Y'all hear about practice being canceled?"
No one answered. All eyes were on Azeil, who stood beside Rashaad with his tray, his face showing nothing beyond careful awareness of the tension coming from their table.
"This is Azeil," Rashaad continued, gesturing casually. It was like introducing a new student, which was the most ordinary thing in the world, not something that threatened to reshape their entire basketball world. "He just transferred in. We've got Henderson's class together."
The silence stretched thick. Khalil felt words crowding his throat, accusations, questions, challenges, but none seemed right for this moment.
Marcus finally broke it. "We know him." The words were sharp, implying not just familiarity, but an edge of contempt. "Highland Prep."
Azeil nodded once, precise as a chess move. "Not anymore." His voice was lower than Khalil expected, with none of the private school polish he'd imagined during those bitter championship replays.
Another silence, this one charged with unasked questions. Why? Why here? Why now? Why our school?
"He goes here now," Rashaad said, filling the void with typical directness. "So figure out how to make this work." He pulled out a chair, uninterested in waiting for an answer, and sat while nodding for Aziel to do the same.
After hesitation that seemed to stretch forever, Azeil sat in the empty seat beside Rashaad, directly across from Khalil. Their eyes met briefly across the plastic table, not quite a challenge, not quite acknowledgment, something hovering in uncertain territory between.
Raffiel, always the diplomat, broke the silence. "You played a hell of a game in February." The words carried no bitterness, just a simple fact. "That step-back was clean."
Azeil observed, his expression neutral, but slowly felt the tension release in his shoulders. He expected a fight, but it never came. "Thanks."
DeAndre snorted. "Clean but lucky." The words had an edge, though his tone lacked real venom.
"Nothing lucky about it," Raffiel countered, ignoring Khalil's sharp look. "That kid—" He caught himself, meeting Azeil's eyes directly. "You can ball. That's just facts."
Khalil stared at his untouched burger, fighting the urge to kick his brother under the table. The rational part of him knew Raffiel was right; he'd spent too many hours analyzing that game footage not to acknowledge Azeil's skill. But admitting it felt dangerously close to acceptance, and he wasn't ready to give up the motivating power of that defeat.
"So, what brings you to Langston?" Marcus asked, curiosity edging past his initial wariness. "Highland Prep kick you out for something?"
Azeil's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Change in circumstances," he said, the brevity making his response a clear boundary.
An awkward silence threatened again, but Rashaad filled it with his effortless social grace. "Man, you should have seen Mrs. Henderson's face when I started freestyling this morning. I swear she was trying not to laugh."
"You mean trying not to throw you out," DeAndre countered, gratefully grabbing the subject change. "One day, she's gonna make good on that essay threat."
"Please. She loves me." Rashaad grinned, taking a bite of his sandwich. "Besides, I got everyone quiet for her, didn't I?"
As the conversation shifted, Mrs. Henderson's teaching methods, the upcoming poetry slam, and complaints about the morning's chemistry quiz, Khalil studied Azeil with reluctant curiosity. The Highland Prep transfer ate methodically, taking measured bites, occasionally nodding at Rashaad but saying little. His movements suggested caution rather than arrogance, as if navigating a terrain of hidden traps.
"You trying out for the team?" The question escaped Khalil's lips before he could stop himself, killing the conversation.
Azeil looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time. Something crossed his face, hesitation, maybe. "Haven't decided," he said finally.
Khalil couldn't tell if that relieved or disappointed him. The idea of facing Azeil in practice every day, wearing the same uniform as the guy who'd crushed their championship dreams, messed with his head.
"Coach canceled practice today," he pressed, ignoring Raffiel's warning look. "Must be something big. My guess? Booker's meeting with Peterson about getting you on the team."
Azeil's face darkened. "I haven't talked to Coach Booker yet."
"He'll want you," Raffiel said flatly. "Anyone who saw that game knows you can play."
Azeil set down his fork. "Look, I'm not here to—"
Zahair Williams appeared at their table like a storm cloud. His eyes locked on Azeil with pure hate.
"No," Zahair said. "Hell no."
The cafeteria went quiet around them as kids turned to watch. Khalil's pulse jumped. Zahair's temper was famous, and he held grudges forever. Of all the Langston players, Zahair had taken the championship loss hardest. It was his defense Azeil had shot over for that final basket, his fingers that had fallen just short of the block.
"Z, relax,” Rashaad said, getting up from the chair. “It's not like that.”
"No?" Zahair's eyes stayed glued to Azeil. "Because it looks like Highland Prep's golden boy is sitting at our table like he owns the place."
Azeil didn't flinch. He met Zahair's glare with that same careful calm, shoulders straight, breathing steady. His restraint seemed to piss Zahair off even more. Zahair's hands curled into fists.
"He transferred in," Raffiel said calmly. "Started today."
Zahair laughed, but it wasn't funny. "Transferred? What, Highland get tired of their charity case?"
Something dangerous flashed in Azeil's eyes, a crack in his calm that showed something deeper. But he stayed quiet, letting the insult hang there.
Khalil found himself stepping in, which surprised him. Usually, Raffiel or Rashaad handled this stuff. But something about Zahair's raw hostility mixed with Azeil's restraint shifted something in him.
"Back off, Z," he said. "Whatever this is, lunch ain't the time."
Zahair's eyes snapped to Khalil, looking betrayed. "You defending him now? After what he did to us?"
"I'm saying save it," Khalil shot back. "Coach probably meeting with Peterson about him. You want to get suspended before the season starts?"
The threat of consequences seemed to break through Zahair's anger. He stayed tense, but some of the immediate danger faded. After a long moment, he looked straight at Azeil.
"This ain't done yet," before he turned and shoulder-checked a freshman who didn't move out of his way fast enough.
As people started talking again, Khalil noticed Azeil watching him.
"I didn't need your help," Azeil said quietly.
"Wasn't helping you," Khalil replied, surprised by how true that felt. "Was stopping my teammate from doing something stupid." He paused. "Besides, I'm gonna beat your ass on the court first."
Something that might have been a smile flickered across Azeil's face for a split second.
"I'm just trying to get through the day," Azeil said. The honesty in his voice caught Khalil off guard. No challenge, no attitude, just the truth of someone trying to navigate a place where he didn't belong.
Khalil found himself nodding. The championship game, the rivalry, his summer of obsessive training suddenly felt smaller sitting across from Azeil, who was just another kid trying to figure things out.
The bell rang, ending lunch and this weird encounter. Khalil watched Azeil gather his tray with those same careful movements; everything was measured, and nothing was wasted. Whatever had brought him to Langston Hughes was still a mystery, but how he carried himself said he was dealing with some heavy stuff.
As they all stood to leave, Khalil realized the rematch he'd been imagining all summer had just gotten a lot more complicated.
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Between Worlds is a fiction novel by Craig Griffin. New chapters post every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Subscribe to get them delivered to your inbox.