I discovered myself by myself behind a locked door. It wasn’t easy. Wayward map, fractured syntax. I did have my guides—Vespucci, Magellan, da Gama. I had no idea where they landed, but those names! The music of Vespucci. Magellan, full of stars. And da Gama. Da Gama! The priest, he tried to teach us, but it was seventh grade and we were landlocked in a cinderblock classroom and Michael O’Malley was leaning back in his chair and it slid out from under him and he crashed to the floor. He was okay except for his red face. We laughed and Father shouted Boys! and then we didn’t. Discovery could not be compelled by curriculum. Tyro explorers, our flags yet bare, we were still game. We would recoup, retreat to our private cabins, uncoil the language. Vespucci, Magellan, da Gama. We were relentless. There was no turning that ship around.

Trumpet. Saxophone. Braggadocious trombones. The theme song of an old detective show: What if such a soundtrack squired Jaylen on his lonely walk to school? Every morning I watch him cross the parking lot juggling his basketball and Big Gulp an hour before first bell. I hear the voiceover in stentorian baritone proclaim, Jaylen. Starring Jaylen. I imagine him striding—not shuffling, striding toward the doors, praying the gym is unlocked … and it is, the anthem swelling as he shimmies from his shoulders a backpack half-full of half-finished homework. Jaylen, percussing the ball on the hardwood. Jaylen, rising and flicking his wrist. Jaylen, his jump shot whooshing the net like the strings of a rhythm guitar. O Kojak! O Mannix! O John Shaft! Oh, Jaylen: By the time I was your age, I already knew that I was the star of the show.