Boy21 (17 page)

When I sit down across from Mr. Gore I notice the Duke bumper sticker above his filing cabinet and start to get mad, although I’m not really sure why.

“You okay?” Mr. Gore says.

I shake my head.

“You want to talk about anything?” His Jheri curl is looking a little flat on the left side—like maybe he slept on it and didn’t have time to do his hair this morning.

“I’m tired of Bellmont,” I say.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m tired of seeing graffiti every day. I’m tired of drug dealers. I’m tired of people pretending that they don’t see what’s going on in the neighborhood. I’m tired of good people getting hurt. I’m tired of basketball. I’m tired of doing nice things for people and being punished for it. I just want to get out of here. I just want to escape.”

The words simply popped out, which surprises me. Mr. Gore seems surprised too, especially since I never talk to him about anything important. He’s trying not to smile, but I can tell he thinks he’s making progress with me. Maybe he is.

“Are you tired of Erin?” His eyes are all excited now.

“No.”

“And yet you broke up with her for basketball.”

“What does that have to do with her being in the hospital?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Why did you call me down here?”

“Because I care about you.”

Mr. Gore’s leaning forward. His forehead is damp, like he’s nervous—or maybe like he really does care. When I look into his eyes, I see something that makes me feel as though maybe I was wrong about him all along. It’s hard to explain. It’s been a strange twenty-four hours, and I didn’t sleep much last night.

“You know, I played high-school basketball,” he says.

“Really?” I find it hard to believe, because Mr. Gore is very thin and fragile-looking, but he
is
tall.

“Played in college too, until I hurt my knee. I used to be able to dunk.”

I try to picture Mr. Gore dunking and the little movie I create in my mind makes me laugh.

“As a young man I dedicated my entire life to basketball, and you know what basketball does for me now?” he says.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

I think about what I’ll be doing when I’m Mr. Gore’s age and I can’t see myself playing ball. Even if I went pro, I’d be done playing. For some stupid reason, I see myself with Erin—maybe we’re married. We’re all old and silly-looking—somewhere far from Bellmont, somewhere decent—but we’re still together. I wonder if we really will be.

“You don’t owe anything to Coach,” Mr. Gore says.

I just look at him for a second. He seems different to me, like he’s on my side. Maybe I’ve had him all wrong. And his saying that about Coach makes me feel better, for some reason.

“You look tired, Finley.”

“I didn’t sleep much last night.”

“You want to catch a few
z
’s in my office?”

“Are you serious?”

“I’m in meetings this afternoon. If you want to take a nap, you can do so here. I’ll let your teachers know that you’re with me. Just don’t go telling anyone my office is a hotel.” Mr. Gore shoots me a corny wink, and then adds, “We good?”

I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep in his office, but I would like some time alone, so I say, “Thanks.”

“No problem. I’ll be in the conference room next door if you need me.”

He pats my shoulder twice before he exits, and then I’m alone.

I stare out the window for two hours and think about Erin.

Halfway through the last period, I slip out of the building before Russ or anyone else can find me.

I WALK AROUND THE CRAPPY BELLMONT STREETS
for a few hours before I return to the high school to watch our JV team play.

When I pass him in the stands, Terrell says, “How’s your lil baby doin’?”

I stop and look into Terrell’s eyes. “Don’t call her my lil baby. You know she doesn’t like that. She’s told you hundreds of times. Show some respect,” I say, hearing the anger in my voice. It surprises me.

“Okay, Finley,” Terrell says.
“Damn.”

Hakim and Sir exchange a glance, and then continue to watch the JV team play.

Terrell was just trying to be nice, and I feel a little guilty for yelling at him, but I’m also glad that he called me Finley and not White Rabbit, which seems important. So I add, “Don’t ever call Erin my lil baby again. Okay?”

“Relax, Finley,” Terrell says. “Watch yourself.”

I know Terrell means I’m stepping out of line, that I’ve ignored the power structure here in Bellmont, that I should know my place or else I’ll be reminded, but I don’t really care about all that right now. First my starting position was taken from me, and now Erin. What else matters?

I sit down.

Russ slides toward me and says, “Where’d you disappear to during lunch?”

“I was with Mr. Gore,” I say, and then stare at the JV game. Our team is already losing by fifteen. Coach Watts calls time-out and is now screaming at his starters about running an offense. “Any offense!” he yells.

“You all right?” Wes says.

“Yeah,” I say. “I just wanna watch the game, okay?”

Wes and Russ glance at each other, and then they leave me alone. So does the rest of the varsity team.

When the JV squad finishes, we shoot around—I hit every shot I take—and then in the locker room Coach announces the starting lineup, leaving out my name. No one says anything to me about my demotion, and I really don’t care all that much.

During warm-up drills I see Pop and Dad in the stands, and I think about how Dad has his car with him. I could walk right over to him and say, “Let’s go to the hospital to check up on Erin.” He’d say I should play the game, that I made a commitment to the team. But he’d take me if I pressed him.

Russ gets the biggest roar by far when they announce the
starters. Terrell looks at his sneakers. Coach’s talk about
the team
will sound a little different to Terrell now that he’s no longer the number one option.

I’m standing behind Coach as he goes over the game plan—how to beat Brixton, tonight’s opponent—but I’m not really listening at all.

Then I’m on the bench watching Wes win the jump ball, which he tips to Russ, who dribbles toward the basket. He dishes the ball to Hakim, who scores an easy layup.

“Red twenty-two,” Coach yells, and the team drops into a 2–2–1 press.

I think about Mr. Gore saying basketball means nothing to him now. I suddenly realize I don’t care whether we win this game, or if I even play. It’s a game. Erin’s in the hospital.
What am I doing here?

I never dreamed I’d stop caring about basketball, but I really couldn’t care less about it right now.

I stand and say, “I’m sorry, Coach. I have to go.”

“What?” Coach says. “Where?”

I stride past the opposing team, right up to Pop and Dad.

“I should be at the hospital,” I say. “I want to be there when Erin wakes up.”

Coach Watts has followed me. “Finley, you best get your butt back on our bench.”

Pop looks at Coach Watts and says, “He’s got a lady in need.”

“You know that there will be consequences,” Dad says.

“Last chance, Finley,” Coach Watts says.

All the people in the stands are staring at me like I’m a complete freak.

The opposing coach calls a time-out to set up a press break, and, as my teammates jog off the court, they stare at me too. I see concern on Russ’s face.

“I should be at the hospital, Dad.”

“Okay,” Dad says.

I push Pop’s wheelchair out of the gym and the night is more than refrigerator cold—it’s freezer-cold now.

We get into the car and Dad drives.

“I’m proud of you,” Pop says. “People are more important than games.”

“I’m sorry,” Dad says, because we all know my leaving means Coach has every right to never play me again. If I had simply asked to miss the game before it started, Coach would have probably let me go spend time with Erin, no problem. But leaving the bench in the first quarter is unheard of. Dad and Coach both know that it means I basically just quit the team.

“It’s okay,” I say, and then exit the car.

“Take this,” Dad says, handing me a twenty-dollar bill. “Call me when you’re ready to come home, but if it’s after I go to work, take a cab.”

We don’t have a lot of money, so twenty bucks is a big deal. It’s Dad’s way of saying he’s okay with my decision—that he supports me.

I tell the hospital people I’m Erin’s brother and I’m allowed in, even though it’s not regular visiting hours.

“Your parents are in the cafeteria,” a woman says and then points me in the right direction.

I find Mr. and Mrs. Quinn staring at coffee cups.

They look up at me with tired eyes.

“Don’t you have a game tonight?” Mr. Quinn says.

“Can I see Erin?”

They nod.

“Just try not to wake her if she’s still sleeping,” Mrs. Quinn says. “She needs her rest.”

Mrs. Quinn gives me the room number and when I find Erin her eyes are closed.

Very quietly I stand next to her bed and watch her breathe.

The swelling in her face has gone down considerably.

The IV drip in her arm means she’s heavily drugged.

Her bad leg is locked in a slightly bent position and—through the sheet fabric—I can see things poking through, which I imagine to be part of the metal skeleton that will hold her leg together as it mends. I don’t want to see the damage just yet, so I don’t peek.

I think about running with Erin, sprinting, climbing out onto my roof—her using her knee in all sorts of ways. Almost anything can be ruined. Everything is fragile. Temporary.

Because I can’t help it, I lean down and kiss her forehead once, and I think I see her smile for a second in her sleep, but it’s dark so I can’t be sure.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” a nurse whispers from the doorway. “She needs her sleep.”

I nod.

I kiss Erin’s forehead once more. There’s a notepad and pen on the table next to the bed, so I scribble a quick message:

I follow the nurse, who says, “She’s your classmate?”

“My girlfriend.”

She nods once before she says, “You’re a lucky man.”

“I am.”

I want to go sit with the Quinns, but for some reason I go to the waiting room instead, and watch all the people who have kids staying overnight at the hospital or who are waiting for loved ones to wake up from surgeries or whatever. They all look just as concerned as I probably do. I see a mom and a dad holding hands, comforting each other. An elderly woman talks to a priest for a while. And a little kid sleeps with a teddy bear in one arm and his thumb in his mouth. So many people with problems and hurting, sick family members.

Just before they make us all leave, I look in on Erin once more. She’s sleeping comfortably, so I take a cab home.

THE NEXT MORNING OVER EGGS
and bacon, I ask Dad if I should skip school to check on Erin. Before he can answer, Pop says, “Yes.”

“Have you missed a day of high school yet?” Dad asks.

“Nope. Perfect attendance. So what’s one day?”

Dad looks at me and says, “You sure you don’t want to talk to Coach?”

“I think the team will be just fine without me.”

“Okay,” Dad says. “I don’t like you quitting anything, but under the circumstances… I just wanted to make sure you’re okay with the consequences, that you won’t regret the decision later. I mean, you love basketball, Finley.”

“Erin’s more important. Right?”

Pop pulls two bucks from his shirt pocket, holds the money out to me, and says, “Buy Erin some flowers, will ya? Tell her I’m looking forward to the next game of War.”

“Thanks, I will,” I say, even though flowers will cost more money. It’s a nice gesture and I appreciate it. He’s probably been holding on to those two bucks for years. My dad pays for everything around here, and Pop hasn’t worked a day since he lost his legs.

On his way to school, Russ shows up at my front door, once again looking very terrestrial. It’s like Boy21 really has left the planet.

“I’m going to the hospital today,” I say. “Not going to school.”

“I’m really sorry about how everything’s turned out, Finley. Truly.” He’s cracking his knuckles one at a time.

“I have to help Erin now. Okay? Stick with Wes in school. He’ll get you through.”

“It’s about more than getting through,” Russ says. “Can we talk later tonight?”

“I don’t know.” I have no idea what will happen at the hospital. “I have to go. See you later, man.”

Russ nods once and then heads for school. He looks lonely, walking all by himself, but there’s nothing I can do about that now.

Dad drives me to the hospital and we buy flowers at the gift shop near the cafeteria. I pick out a single yellow rose in a plastic vase because I know Erin likes yellow and the arrangement is the cheapest they have. I use Pop’s two bucks and Dad covers the rest.

We walk to the part of the hospital where Erin’s recovering and tell the woman behind the desk that we’re here to see my girlfriend. I don’t have to lie about being Rod because there are visiting hours in this part of the hospital.

She looks at a chart briefly, runs down a list with the tip of her pen, and says, “Erin Quinn’s not seeing visitors today.”

“I’m her boyfriend,” I say.

“Sorry,” the woman says.

“Can you take this to her and let her know I’m here?” I ask. “She’ll want to see me. She’ll tell you so. I swear.”

“The patient has requested that no one except her parents be permitted access to her. Those are her wishes.”

“She’s not a patient,” I say, fully realizing how ridiculous it sounds, because Erin
is
a patient. “She’s my girlfriend.”

“Maybe so. But she doesn’t want to see you today. Come back tomorrow. Maybe she’ll have changed her mind by then.”

“Can we send her a note through you?” Dad asks.

“We can do that.” The woman sighs as if we’re asking her to do a hundred push-ups, or something equally insane.

“Do you have any paper?” I ask.