Living for others is never an easy task. You're doomed to be lost. Lost in those thoughts that are seemingly at war in your mind. Your only goal is to make the others happy. But then in those moments of silence, you wonder. Wondering why. Why am I allowing these people to overpower me? Why am I allowing the ability of vicarious living? Then the questions silence themselves, and you remember.

All you wanted was appreciation.

"And I told the hoe... I'm not up for sharing. She just looked at me like I was crazy! Man these hoes-"

"Micah, you really need to calm down with the disrespect man..." Darrel interrupted, glancing at Micah in disappointment.

Micah Maddox and Darrell Williams, two of my best buds in Lincoln High-school. We've been friends since sophomore year, and have plenty of laughs and stories to share about those days. These two are characters, much like Laylah and Amari, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

Micah Maddox is your average six foot, hefty football player. He has the build of a wrestler but the brain of a squirrel; and that's an insult to squirrels. He's rowdy, callous and very belligerent. He can be a ticking time bomb. He has sharp features that are immediately intimidating.

If hadn't know him for so many years, I would've been ran from the hills at first glance of him. He's that huge, and that scary. But, the funny thing is, he's a big softy. Except when it comes to females. Then he's just another testosterone blowing, arm flexing womanizer. So he thinks.

Darrell Williams, the sensible one. He's not as much of an airhead as Micah, but he isn't far from it. Darrell has his days when he's an absolute genius, solving the hardest of pre-calculus equations, and others he's as clueless as a rock; yet another insult to human nature. It's more or likely because unlike Micah and I, he doesn't wish to play professionally in any sport.

He's confused. Although he's talented, he truly believes he has nothing going from him. I never understood that, I've tried talking him out of that, but he just doesn't hear it. I've given up, praying for him. The man just feeds himself spoonfuls of self pity. Nonetheless, he's still a great friend, that's good enough for me.

"Man would you shut your sensitive ass up! Who are you Doctor Phil?" Micah counters, glancing at Darrell sideways.

I glance between the two, I'm always in the middle. Darrel on my left, Micah on my right. Why do we always walk this why is a mystery to me. That's another thing about my friendship with these two fools, we tend to bicker, quarrel and then talk about the sports game that was featured on ESPN two nights ago. I guess it's safe to say we're your average guys; idiotic, loud, and ruthless.

"Michel, keep cussing at me... Keep on" Darrell warns, glaring daggers at Micah.

As mentioned before, Darrell is the sensible one, but in the face of Micah all of his sensibility is thrown to the wind. I've hypothesized it's because Darrell feels threatened by Micah. We may be friends, but we honestly know each other's strengths and weaknesses. Darrell knows Micah can easily pick him up and toss him like yesterday's trash, but Micah knows that Darrell has a cut throat tongue that will exile you to silence.

The quarrels of our group usually involve these two, but from time to time I do have my moments of nadir and have to reprehend a few faults in the situation before things are eventually solved. All in all, we are just a delirious group of guys that just so happen to accept one another.

"Oh what the hell are you going to do? Huh? Hit me? Try it! Come on, you bad! Try it!" Micah ridicules, chuckling at the now silent Darrell.

I glance at them for one last second before making a sharp left around the corner of the gym and jog over to the concession stand. For some reason, even with five months of school left, coaches are still trying to raise a little change here and there for the new teams coming in for the fall semester. Seems fishy to me, but just as long as my stomach is being filled after school, I could give a care less if they were giving this money to the strippers of downtown.

A man has to eat.

"If it ain't young star himself, Cadence James! What's up man!" Coach Granger greets me through the concession window.

I smile, playfully waving off his compliment before reaching for his meaty hands. Meeting in a quick bro-hug, Coach Granger releases me and warns the other students behind me, that he might take awhile.

Brandon Granger, alumni to Lincoln High-school's infamous eighty-eight varsity football team. He played line backer his entire high-school career, earning a scholarship from many top and local universities. He settled on one, The University of Florida and had a mean streak career there as well. After playing for three years, he was injured and subdued to returning to his roots.

Just last year, the living legend decided to come back home and help out another future Brandon Granger.

After authoritatively acknowledging a few a smacking teeth and low mumbles, Coach Granger returns his attention in me and smiles. That smile I know all too well. It's the smile every recruiter gives you before they promise you the world on a silver platter.

Coach Granger has been trying to recruit me to play football for the University of Florida since he saw me in my first basketball game last year. He's been scouting me every since. Even with nearing the end of my senior year, he's still making great effort. It's flattering, but it is slowly becoming annoying.

"You know what I'm going to say Cadence... Don't make me beg" He chuckles, pausing to scowl at an impatient freshman.

I stifle a chuckle once the freshman tries to slyly flicker his middle finger towards Coach Granger before quickly sprinting around the next corner of the gymnasium. When I turn back to acknowledge coach Granger, he is nowhere to be found. Just when I'm turning to walk away, a heavy set man zooms past me, grumbling the inaudible. I glance at the zooming figure until its out of sight.

Then it hits me. That was coach Granger.

I fold over in heavy cackles, causing the other surrounding students to glance at me awkwardly. I don't even care. That has to be the funniest thing ever. A capacious, football coach, chasing a scrawny little freshman. That is definitely going down in my book of funny-lived moments.

"Cadence! Cadence!" A familiar squeak calls from behind me.

Still heaving from my recent episode, I lazily turn around to discover the familiar squeak that goes by the name of Amari. She jogs over to me, pulling at her letterman jacket violently. I only chuckle lightly. The girl has internal problems, I swear.

"I thought that was you. I know a big misshapen head when I see one" She chuckles, slapping her knee dramatically at her own joke.

This girl.

I shake my head, allowing her the win for now. I always have a come back, and sometimes they are a bit too edgeless to escape. So from time to time when Amari or Laylah decide to crack a joke or two, I allow them a win. But, they only receive one win before I take prisoners.

"Yeah, moms' is late... Nothing new. Why are you still here? And where's your psycho?" I causally ask, glancing over at the concession to check if Coach Granger returned.

Coming up empty, I sigh and wait for an answer.

"Well, I had to get a little tutoring done with math... You know how that man loves to fail people. I swear these teachers just could care less about us! I'm trying to graduate! But, that's done. And if you are referring to Laylah, she's gone to practice" Amari finally answers, leaning against the fence comfortably.

I shake my head, lost for words. I'm not much of a talker, but I'm trying to change that. I'm used to be the boy that sat in the back of the class and watched the world whirl by, daydreaming about the unknown. Nowadays, I'm slowly easing to the front of the class and actually now daydream about my future goals.

It's all just a process.

"Yeah... You're doing that while silent thing so, I'm going to go head home. See you tomorrow and... Next time you pull a stunt like that, It will be me
And you. And please, don't forge-"

"Go home!" I cut her off, chuckling once she showcases her middle finger and continues to her car.

Glancing at my watch, I sigh heavily and finally decide to search the slowly emptying parking lot for my mother. It only took five minutes before I spot her modern KIA Soul. I let out a groan. I hate when she picks me up in that box. She knows this too, but just to spite me, she picks me up daily, faithfully in that azure box.

How motherly.

"You need to stop all that frowning. You're going to get wrinkles" She nags, watching my every movement as I climb into the front seat.

Here we go.

I carefully toss my backpack in the back seat, feigning to not have heard her statement. Of course this pushed her to continue.

"I've told you about that! Just put it in the truck the first time and you wouldn't have to do that. God I swear Cadence-"

"Ma, stop. Please. I have a headache"

It's true, I do. It only happens when I'm around my mother. If she's not nagging me about what I'm doing in school, she's nagging about what I'm not doing at home. If that's not enough, she loves nagging me about my future in college sports. I hate even mentioning the God forsaken word around her.

"Anyways..." She begins, tapping her fingers along the steering wheel.

I curse beneath my breath. We're at a stop light. Stop lights on this side of town are known for their minor defects. And what better day to become debilitated than today.

Just great.

"I talked to that Granger man today and a couple of schools called about football... I think you should at least try to look at them or call" She gently suggest.

Gentle is her mechanism. She knows how I feel about football. I don't want to play it. I've only participated in two years of it and those were the most hellish years of my life. I've always wanted and dreamed of basketball. My mother hates it, she feels I have a better chance with football.

"Football gives fair chances, basketball is just too biased" She would explain if I questioned. Her opinion.

There's no winning with her, but she'll see when I sign next month, that I am in no path to play football, basketball is my heart and future.

"Ma, I've already to you I-"

"And I'm telling you... It's sad, real sad that you are so ungrateful. Your father played football for God's sake, he could've played professional if he would've answers the phone to the right people. I'm giving you connection baby boy. That's all" She genuinely speaks, her voice softer.

I sigh as well. Rarely does my mother reveal her true emotions and or thoughts. She doesn't necessarily have a blockade to her psychological state, but she isn't an open book either. Our relationship is complicated. I want to make her happy, but I can't do that if she's constantly forcing something down my throat. I'm doing this for me, not her. If she can't accept that, then she can just cry herself a river and name it lost dreams.

This is my future.

"I understand all that, Ma, but basketball is what I want to do. I live and breathe it. Why can't you see that? Sometimes... Just forget it" I compress, feeling ignored and unheard as usual.

For the entirety of the ride we both remained silence, only the occasional self chats and commentary about that person we drive past or that song on the radio are heard from her. All the while I stared blankly into the moving city around me. A boy like me can only dream of this city knowing me by name. I can only dream of buying my mother and father front row seats to my games.

A boy like me can only dream, but the man inside of me knows all of that and more is reality.

"CJ, what's up man? Practice before dinner?" Dad greets me once I step foot into the house.

Timothy James, a legend himself for being a track, football, and basketball star in his days. His prominent sport being football. He loved the game more than anything and still does. He isn't as high profiled as coach Granger, but he was pretty high-ranked in his prime. Unlike my mother, he's pretty laid back and seldom when it comes to my dream of basketball. He empathizes with me.

If I had to choose which of my relationships between the two is better, I'd choose my father. My mother just isn't affable enough. It's unfortunate, but all the more factly.

"Hey pops, uh I have a bit of homework to do tonight and I think it might be worst an all-nighter" I shrug rumorsefully.

That was the truth, partially. Honestly, I'm in a foul mood and would hate to work out in this dreary mood. I wouldn't be able to focus and that would lead to pops asking questions and the questions turning to mother and him battling it out verbally. Dad usually sits back when mom presses about football, but he does have times when he will snap for her to be quiet about it. In which she would retort something smart and the beginning of world war three would commence.

I don't have a dysfunctional family, nor dysfunctional parents, it's just they want what's best and sometimes one thinks their thought of "best" is better than the others. It's a pain to witness, but I'm lucky to have parents who genuinely care. Even if they nag on and on about what you should be doing with your future.

He nods, accepting my little white lie before, closing the door and patting my back lightly. In translation he's disappointed, but again, unlike mom, he won't push too far with certain matters; especial if it involves my education. Now he definitely doesn't play the field about education.

Can't say I blame him. I'm pretty lazy in school, but I do manage to turn in my work on time. Only using someone else's work or notes from time to time. But hey, who hasn't?

Watching him disappear into the living room, I shrug off my thoughts and make a left, casually strolling down the hall to my bedroom. Upon reaching my bedroom, a make quick disposal of my backpack onto my bed before slowly peeling off my clothes. Once down to my briefs, I glance at my mess and plop onto the comfy, plush heaven that awaits me.

Forgetting my backpack is lying on my plush heaven, my back makes great contact with the filled bag, causing me
to grimace with annoyance. Violently, I push the bag off my bed and try again, this time meeting my heaven properly.

I only manage three seconds of shut eye before I force myself up on my elbows and grab my cellphone that must have slipped out of my back pack. Unlocking it, I check for notifications. Scrolling through the customary notifications, I stop and glance through a favorite application of mine before deciding on boredom and returning my cellphone to its rightful place on my bedside table.

"CJ, your mom wants to talk to you!" Dad calls from outside of my door, knocking on three times to apparently get my attention.

I glance at the closed, Ivory door, cursing myself before standing up from my bad and carelessly grabbing my jeans from the floor and shoving them up my legs before preparing to entertain more mess from my dearest mother. I swear she doesn't have an off button.

Lord, help me.