Anton's Odyssey by Marc Andre

red hair had a rather unnatural quality. There wasn’t a single patch of grey. As he ran up and down the court, not a single strand of hair ever seemed to move out of place. It almost seemed like he was wearing some sort of hair-shaped helmet.
    The shirts played the skins, a pickup game. With reduced gravity, most of the tall boys could dunk without difficulty. Ellen played with the shirts. She was pretty scrappy and held her own when things got physical. Cotton tugged at my arm, bored of just watching. Reluctantly, I stopped ogling Ellen so that I could entertain my brother.
    Near the sides of the gym, kids were playing half court games or just practicing free throws and three pointers. I took a ball off the rack and tossed it to Cotton who dribbled it clumsily.
    “Over there,” I pointed. “That basket is completely free.”
    Our basket was probably meant for little kids and was much lower than regulation. Cotton had trouble making the adjustment to the low basket and reduced gravity. He shot high, tossing the ball completely over the backboard. I chased it down and toss it back. It took Cotton twelve attempts before he finally sunk a free throw.
    Cotton wanted to dunk, so I got on my hands and knees so Cotton could leap off my back and grab onto the rim. Even with the reduced gravity, my spine popped uncomfortably under Cotton’s weight.
    Mr. Fox gave two long blows on the whistle, suspending the full court game. He ran over to me and yelled, “How many times do I have to tell you kids not to hang on the rims. You bend one; we can’t exactly go to the store and buy a new one!”
    “Sorry,” I said meekly, “we’re new here and didn’t know.”
    Cotton let go of the rim and landed unharmed on his generously padded rear end.
    “Well, that’s no excuse,” Mr. Fox snapped. He turned away to resume his officiating. Ellen, who had watched Mr. Fox’s tantrum, gave me a dirty look.
    My brother and I resumed trying to shoot baskets. This time I shot free throws and Cotton caught rebounds. A stray ball bounced into our corner at the same time I threw a pathetically short air ball. Cotton found himself between the two bouncing balls and picked up the wrong one. It was an expensive ball made from real leather and not one of the cheap rubber ones that had the words “Magic Sky Daddy” stamped under the valve.
    “That’s my ball!” said a tall boy. The baby fat around his chin suggested he was about a year younger than I, two years older than Cotton. He wore a spotless white athletic training shirt, the kind that reflects heat back to the body when it’s cold out and dissipates thermal energy when it’s hot. I had always wanted one, but it cost more than my mother could make in a week (when she actually worked). The shirt wicked the sweat off the kid’s torso, and the exaggerated surface area of the protruding nano fibers caused the water to evaporate quickly. The escaping water vapor created the illusion of smoke, as if the kid were smoldering. Cotton ignored the kid and admired the beauty of the leather ball.
    “That’s my ball kid,” the smoky kid repeated. Cotton finally looked up.
    “Come on,” I said. “Give him his ball back.” Cotton tossed the ball lazily at the tall kid. It bounced short and wide. The kid had to chase it down.
    Cotton and I resumed shooting baskets, missing most of the time. The leather ball bounced back into our little court a second time. Again Cotton caught it and just stood there looking at it, fascinated.
    “Damn it kid, give me my ball back,” the tall kid shouted, “and throw it right this time.” Cotton completely ignored him, turning the ball over in his hands, taking in every minor detail of the magnificent basketball, the bumpy texture of the animal hide, the sunken lettering, the perfect roundness of the valve. The kid walked over and snatched the ball from Cotton’s hands. He tucked the ball under his arm.
    “I was just looking at it,” Cotton