Boy21 (8 page)

While I scoop up some snow and pack it, Erin hits me three times, which is when I realize that she has stockpiled snowballs. Once I have one packed, I charge Erin and take aim. She ducks and I miss, so I decide to tackle her, but not too hard, because there isn’t all that much snow on the ground. She doesn’t put up much of a fight at first, but then she tries to wrestle me, so I grab her wrists and pin her arms with my elbows, and we kiss.

Our mouths are the warmest things in the world right now.

“Isn’t it amazing?” she says as the snow falls past my ears and lands all around her head.

“It is.”

“Let’s sit on the roof and watch it fall all night.”

“Okay.”

We see two headlights approaching, which seems weird because most people around here are afraid to drive in the snow.

We stand, and I recognize the Ford truck as Coach’s.

“Why is Coach here?” Erin asks.

“Dunno.”

Coach pulls up slowly, rolls down his window, and says, “Finley, take a ride around the block with me?”

I look at Erin and shrug.

“I’ll go hit Pop with a snowball,” Erin says. She actually picks one up from her pile and then jogs to my home. I wonder if she’ll really throw it at the old man, which she could get away with, because Pop loves Erin as much as I do.

I get into the truck and the heat streaming from the vents burns my fingers when I try to warm my hands.

Coach doesn’t drive around the block. He says, “How’s Russ doing?”

“Fine.”

“Have you talked to him about playing basketball?”

“Yep,” I lie. Ever since his birthday he’s been extra quiet, and I get the sense that he doesn’t really want to talk about basketball or anything else, so I let him be. But Coach doesn’t want to hear that.

“What does he say?”

“Nothing really.”

“Nothing?”

“No.”

“What does he say about basketball?”

“I don’t think he wants to play basketball.”

“Russ said that, or you
think
it?”

“He’s not really stable.”

“Are you a psychiatrist now, Finley?”

Coach has never talked to me like this before. There’s sarcasm in his voice and I can tell he’s annoyed with me, which makes me angry, because I have walked to school with Boy21 every day, eaten every school lunch with him, and allowed him to be my shadow for more than two months now. And tonight I was having a nice private moment with Erin before Coach interrupted us.

“No, sir,” I say.

“I expect you to make sure Russ gets his physical tomorrow after school in the nurse’s office and that he shows up to the team meeting on Friday. Understood?”

“Yeah.”

“When you see the boy play, you’ll understand why this is so important. Trust me.”

“Okay.”

Coach reaches through the darkness and squeezes my shoulder. “Thank you, Finley. This is about more than basketball. More than the team. Russ likes you. You’re helping him.”

I don’t know what to say to that, because it sure doesn’t seem like I’m helping Russ, and he really isn’t getting better, as far as I can tell.

“Tell your family I said hello,” Coach says.

I nod and then run through the falling snow toward the house.

Erin’s watching the Sixers game with Dad, and Pop’s shirt is all wet, which lets me know that she really threw a snowball at the old man.

“This is one feisty broad,” Pop says to me.

Dad laughs. “She ran in here and blasted Pop in the chest!”

“If I had legs…”

“Sure,” Erin says, “the old no-legs excuse.”

There aren’t many people who could get away with talking this way to Pop, but Erin’s special to us. She’s put her time in. She’s family.

“Come on, Finley,” Erin says.

And then we’re on the roof again, watching Bellmont turn white—one snowflake at a time.

“What did Coach want?” Erin asks.

“He thinks I should encourage Russ to play basketball,” I say.

“Cool,” Erin says as she climbs on top of me.

By morning almost all the snow has melted, so no snow day.

As we walk to school Erin says, “Russ, you interested in playing basketball?”

“Don’t know,” Russ says.

I glance at his face and he’s sucking his lips in between his teeth. He catches my eye and it’s almost like he’s asking for permission. I know I’m supposed to encourage him to play, but for some reason I don’t.

“Physicals are after school today in the nurse’s office,” Erin says. “Best get one just in case. You can go with Finley.”

Russ nods.

I don’t say anything.

We both pass our physicals later that afternoon, but we don’t talk about basketball.

On the day of the preseason meeting, Mr. Allen calls to let us know that Russ will be out sick. This is the first day of school he has missed, and I wonder if it has anything to do with the meeting.

After school our team meets in the lunchroom and Coach quickly hands out permission forms and a practice schedule that begins the day after Thanksgiving. Just tucking the papers into my backpack gives me a rush, because this moment is the first official basketball experience of the year.

After the meeting, as my teammates hustle off to football practice, Coach says, “Finley, can we talk?”

I stay behind and, once we’re alone, Coach says, “What’s Russ been saying to you about basketball?”

This again? Why won’t Coach lay off it?

“We got our physicals,” I say.

“That’s good. But the boy refused to come to school today—the day of the basketball meeting. His grandparents told me he’s talking about outer space again, saying his parents are coming to get him in a spaceship.”

I watch the janitor empty the trash cans on the other side of the cafeteria.

“Did you tell him that he should play ball? Have you been encouraging him, Finley?”

“He doesn’t want to talk about basketball,” I say. “We don’t talk about much at all.”

Coach sighs and gets this disgusted look on his face. “Listen. Just make sure he’s at the first practice. Let’s just see how he reacts to being part of the team, running drills, getting back to normal for him. He needs the routine. Even if he never plays in a game. Just being part of something can help. You, of all people, should know that.”

I have to admit, I’m getting a little pissed at Coach. Why isn’t he hassling Terrell or Wes or any of the other starters, asking
them
to help Boy21? Why is this my mission alone? I just want to play basketball.

“I know you won’t let me down,” Coach says, and then lightly slaps my right cheek twice.

THANKSGIVING DAY
has us wearing gloves, scarves, and hats.

Erin, Boy21, and I sip hot chocolate as we watch our football team lose their final game of the season on their home field.

People around here like football, but the atmosphere is underwhelming compared to the basketball games. It’s Thanksgiving, so it’s a little more lively than usual, but not much. Bellmont just isn’t a football town.

Our marching band’s halftime show’s pretty awesome, though. They do a Michael Jackson tribute that ends with an amazing rendition of “Thriller,” complete with zombie dance moves.

Boy21 sits with us in the smaller, mostly white section of the stadium, which makes him stick out a little, but no one says anything.

It’s not like our stadium is segregated intentionally, but Bellmont citizens generally sit with the people they look most like, and that’s the way it’s always been.

The three of us cheer when our team does something good, but we don’t say much else. The whole time I want to ask Boy21 if he’ll be trying out for the basketball team tomorrow, but I also don’t want to ask.

When Terrell throws a fourth-quarter interception, the Bellmont football team ends up finishing 2–6 for the season, so they don’t make the playoffs. None of my basketball teammates were injured, so I consider football season to be a complete success and I know that Coach agrees.

As we exit the stands, we run into Mrs. Patterson, Bellmont’s number one basketball fan and Terrell’s mother, who is wearing a leopard-print hat and a leather jacket that sort of looks like a bathrobe. She’s very stylish. When she sees me, she yells, “White Rabbit! Come on over here, boy.”

I walk over to Mrs. Patterson and she gives me a big hug and then kisses both my cheeks. To her friends—who are all wearing Bellmont football jerseys over their coats and are the moms of non–basketball players—Mrs. Patterson says, “Did you know this here Pat McManus’s boy? Time for the real season now.
Basketball!
This young man’s gon’ feed my son the rock all winter long and I’m gon’ cheer White Rabbit and my Terrell on to the state championship. Ain’t that right, White Rabbit?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Look how he quiet and respectful, just like his father was in high school,” a large woman with dark purple hair extensions says. All of the other women laugh and smile and say, “Mmm-hmm!”

“Okay, White Rabbit,” Terrell’s mom says, nodding a respect
ful but curt hello at Erin, who is standing with Boy21 ten feet away. “You run off with your girlfriend and your tall silent shadow. Go on now.”

We find Coach hanging out with the other Bellmont faculty members in the parking lot drinking beer from paper cups and pretending that we students don’t know what’s in the cups. He tells me that he’ll see me in the morning—which is when basketball season officially begins—wishes Erin luck, and then says he’ll drive Boy21 home, because that’s where he’s having his Thanksgiving dinner, with the Allens.

Finally alone, Erin and I walk back to our neighborhood holding hands.

The few trees left around here have shed their leaves, but because no one in our neighborhood bothers to rake, we crunch our way down the sidewalks.

“You know,” Erin says, “maybe we could stay together this basketball season. Maybe we don’t have to break up?”

I don’t say anything.

Erin and I have this conversation every year.

She argues that our schedules will keep us so busy that it won’t even matter if we are together or not, but I believe that during basketball season, a romantic relationship is a distraction, and there’s no way I can simply be friends with Erin. If I see her at lunch or before school or at my locker every day, I’ll get horny, and I won’t be able to focus one hundred percent on the season. I love Erin as much as I love basketball, which is a conflict of interest. And if we kiss on my roof or hold hands—these things will most definitely take my mind off my goals. With schoolwork and
Pop to take care of already, I can’t mentally afford to have a girlfriend during basketball season.

I love making out with Erin, and holding her hand, and the peachy smell of her hair after she showers—almost as much as I love the sweaty leather smell of a gym in winter, being part of a team, and working out with the guys. And while having a girlfriend and being on a team aren’t mutually exclusive, both fill a need—maybe the same need. Basketball and Erin make the rest of the world go away—focus me, make me forget, and get the endorphins flowing. It’s best to be addicted to one or the other. This will be the fourth season Erin and I have taken a break, and we’ve always gotten back together in the past, so why do I have this strange dreadful feeling tonight?

When it’s clear that I’m not going to argue with her, Erin says, “Don’t you worry that I’ll start dating someone else?”

I laugh because I know she’s kidding.

Basketball will be her boyfriend for the winter, just like it’ll be my girlfriend.

“So?” she says.

“You need to focus on
your
season too.”

She knows this is true because, deep down, Erin also wants to concentrate solely on basketball. She just gets a little needy the night before the season begins.

“Can’t we at least walk to school together and talk? Sit together at lunch? Aren’t you being a little extreme?” Erin’s smile is playful. She’s messing with me. I know she gets why we break for basketball.

“I have to stay focused,” I say. I think about the possibility of Boy21 actually playing, and then add, “Especially this year.”

“Why?”

I shrug, because I’m not allowed to tell her the truth.

She gently elbows me in the ribs. “Tell me why you said
this year
!”

I don’t know what else to say.

“Why do you have to be so weird?” Erin says, but she squeezes my hand when she says it, so I know she isn’t mad at me.

I decide to kiss her on the lips, and, because it’s not officially basketball season yet, I do just that.

ERIN AND I EAT OUR THANKSGIVING MEAL
at the Quinns’. The dining room is very narrow and it’s hard to pull the folding chairs out so that you can sit down. None of the chairs match and the table is an old wood job with lots of scratches on it. The silverware is mismatched and crappy. Erin’s parents are wearing depressing old sweat suits. Her mom’s in a pink Minnie Mouse number and her dad’s is plain navy blue.

Rod is there and I have to admit that he intimidates me, especially knowing what he allegedly did to Don Little.

During the meal, Rod says, “Anyone in the neighborhood bothering you?”

“Nah,” I say. Rod’s now got a tattoo on his neck. Something written in Irish, I think. I don’t know Irish.

“What about you, Erin?” he asks.

“No,” she says. “Do you ever play ball anymore, Rod?”

“Nope,” he says, which makes me sad because he played ball
with us all the time when we were younger, and he was a great point guard. Dad used to take me to see him play back when Rod was at Bellmont High, playing for Coach. Rod was pretty awesome. I once saw him get a triple double against Pennsville—sixteen assists, eighteen points, ten rebounds.

“Your team going to be any good this year?” he asks me.

“I think so,” I say. “Erin’s team will be too.”

“Coach is pretty much the only good black man I’ve ever met,” Rod says, ignoring my comment about his sister. “And that’s really sayin’ something.”

Erin opens her mouth, no doubt to call Rod on his racist statement, but then she thinks better of it. She doesn’t want the family to fight on Thanksgiving, especially since Rod hardly visits anymore, which bothers Erin. She misses Rod—the
old
Rod who used to play ball with us when we were kids. He never used to say racist stuff.