Cruise Control (2 page)

What else can I do?

I
t's Tuesday afternoon at basketball practice. The way Coach Davis does practice is that when we first come out, he has us all grab the rock and start shooting from various spots on the court. After a few minutes of this shoot-around, once we're a little warmed up, Coach blows his whistle and everybody stops. Whoever's holding a ball gets one more shot, and if you make it, the ball is rebounded and tossed back to you, then you take a couple steps back, or to the side, and after somebody else takes a turn, you shoot again. This keeps happening, everybody taking turns back and forth, until you miss. Once you do, you take a slow warm-up jog around the outside of the court. Shoot-around keeps going until everyone has missed and we're all jogging together. Obviously, the better a shooter you are, the less you have to run. Shoot-around usually lasts for about ten minutes; I like it 'cause I'm a shooter.

Coach blows his whistle. I have a ball in my hands and Coach yells to me.

“McDaniel, you're up.”

I'm about ten feet out, a little to the right side, and I put up a nice, arching jump shot.
Swish
.

Coach yells to Hank Kliment. “The Hankster,” our huge center, is only about six feet away from the backboard, right in front; he puts up one of his classic, beeline brick jumpers that, of course, clanks off the rim. The Hankster is
not
a shooter. Everybody laughs and Hank moans.

“Have nice run, 'ster,” somebody yells. Hank gives us all a death-ray stare that makes everybody laugh even more.

“McDaniel,” Coach calls again. I take a couple steps back and I shoot. The ball ticks the rim just a hair but goes through real easy.

Coach yells to John-Boy Reich.

Reich shoots, makes it, and we keep going around.

Because I don't miss, I move farther and farther away from the basket with each shot, way off to the left, way off to the right, way behind the key. But the weirdest thing happens. It's like I
can't
miss. I mean, I'm not trying to miss, of course, but most times I would have missed by now. My teammate and best friend, Tim “Tim-bo” Gunther, hangs in with me for a while, hitting six or seven shots before he misses, but after a couple dozen shots, I'm the only guy left shooting. The rest of the guys stop running and watch me. I hit another half dozen shots, and everybody starts to cheer.

All kinds of strange crap starts going through my head: I think about if I miss, it will mean my dad's a way cool guy—
swoosh
. I think about if I make it, it'll mean I'm gonna get a full-ride scholarship to Georgetown and be the greatest point guard since Allen Iverson
—swish
. I even think about if I hit this shot, it means that my veg brother will someday learn to talk and walk and be all right—nothing but net. The weirdest thought, though, is impossible to explain—it's not even a thought, it's a feeling. What I mean is that it is for moments like this that I love playing sports: Right this second I'm not thinking about Shawn or my dad or anybody or anything; right now, the truth is, it feels like my feet are barely even touching the ground, I'm floating, soaring on the pure energy of this shooting touch. It's like nothing can hurt me. It feels like I could almost fly....

Coach interrupts the magic by yelling to me, “One more, hot dog, from the opposite foul line. You make this and we cancel ball breakers at the end of practice.”

“Ball breakers” are wind sprints, which everyone hates; Coach makes us run them for conditioning. By “opposite foul line,” Coach means that he wants me to shoot a ridiculous seventy-footer, almost the full length of the court.

I answer Coach, “If I hit it, we cancel ball breakers for the rest of the week.” As team captain, I can jerk his chain a little.

“It's a deal,” Coach says, “but you gotta shoot with your eyes closed.”

A groan goes up from the sidelines, but I give them my oh-ye-of-little-faith look, and everybody shuts up.

I answer, “You got it.”

Coach never has us shoot stupid shots like this; he always has us focus on shots that might save a win for us, shots that could actually happen in a game situation. But I hustle down to the opposite foul line and take a couple steps back so that I can really step into the throw.

I study the distance a little and bounce the ball a couple times. Everybody is quiet. I hear the Hankster and some of the other big guys who
really
hate ball breakers mumbling prayers, which makes me smile. I look at the basket seventy feet away, get a good read on the distance, then close my eyes; I bounce the ball, take my steps, and loft the shot.

I keep my head down; I don't even watch the ball go but just keep my eyes shut, thinking about all the shots I've made and about how perfect my touch has been, about flying, soaring, and about how freaky—

The cheers just about blow me over. You'd think we just won Districts.

All the guys rush me and start pounding on me.

Coach smiles and says, “I think you snuck a peek, but I can't prove it. Okay, slackers, a couple more laps to break another sweat, and if hot-hand doesn't mind, I think we'll get on with a little actual
basketball
practice.”

As we all start to run, the Hankster jogs up behind me and says softly, “You got us out of ball breakers for a week.... I wanna have your child!”

Normally this kind of challenge to my heterosexual pride would not be allowed. The Hankster is 6 feet, 9 inches and weighs 286, which wouldn't dissuade me a bit. But we need the 'ster's bulk in the middle if we're gonna win this season, so I'll let him live.

John-Boy Reich comes up behind me and says, “That was pretty amazing, bro.”

I snap back at him, “I'm not your bro.”

I've got a brother, and John-Boy ain't him. Suddenly somebody shoves me from behind and I look around fast, but it's Tim Gunther smiling at me. Tim-bo says, “Lighten up, man—John-Boy didn't mean anything bad.”

I take a couple deep breaths, and I smile back at Tim. I know he's right. It's just that word, “bro,” the way people throw it around so off-the-cuff. I hate that. It always reminds me about the incredible unfairness of the world, and about what a sadistic madman God must be to have thrown Shawn and me into the same family—when I think of that crap, all I feel is bummed.

John-Boy walks away without another word. I'm such a dumb-ass! “Hey,” I yell to him. “You owe me for ball breakers and don't forget it!”

He smiles back at me. It's okay. This time.

A
fter practice I walk out of the gym and head for my car. I've got an older Honda. It's not a junker, but it's not exactly a luxury ride either. I've got a stereo system that hits pretty hard, though, so rides home are always one of my favorite times to chill.

Eddie Farr yells over to me, “Hey, Paul, can I catch a lift?”

I answer, “Sure.”

So much for chillin'. The idea of spending any time with Eddie Farr isn't all that appealing, but what are you gonna do?

You know how some guys are just so dumb that they can't seem to help saying moronic things without meaning any harm? Why is it that guys like this are always weak and defenseless, too?

“How's your sister?” Eddie asks.

This is exactly what I mean!

I know that Eddie would cut off the little fingers of both hands to get into my sister's pants. He
has
to know that I know this. Does he really think that I'm going to pimp for him?

I tell Eddie, “She's in a Turkish prison.”

He looks confused; then he changes the subject, saying, “I saw your dad on TV.”

“Oh yeah?” I answer. “Was that on
America's Ten Biggest Assholes
?”

“I don't think so,” Eddie answers. “We don't have cable.”

He's serious about the cable thing.

I say, “Actually, Eddie, I think that's a
Fox
program.”

“Really?” Eddie asks. He's sincere. He wants to know if Fox really has a program called
America's Ten Biggest Assholes
. Unbelievable.

So it goes: Eddie keeps asking dumb questions and making bizarre conversation, hitting on stuff for which, if I were drunk or didn't know how pitiful he is, I'd beat him half to death-and I keep flipping him smart-ass answers.

But there's this thing about Eddie that forces me to deal with him: I hate to admit this, and I know that when I do it makes me look like the selfish, total jerk that I am, but the truth is that Eddie's always treated Shawn
better
than I do. What I mean is that ever since we were little kids, Eddie's never seemed to understand that Shawn doesn't know anything, and that Shawn doesn't have a clue about what's going on. I went to elementary school and middle school and now I go to high school with Eddie Farr. I've known him since we were in second grade. He's one of those guys who love to run the VCR and who actually
enjoy
pop quizzes. He's never had a girlfriend or even a date. But Eddie's known Shawn all our lives; he used to come to Shawn's birthday parties, back when Mom was still into throwing a birthday party for Shawn even though my bro didn't have the slightest idea what was going on.

And Eddie's always talked to Shawn and told him jokes, kidded with him, never teasing or being mean, just treating Shawn like he was normal or something. Not very many kids are that way with Shawn. I know
I'm
not, and I feel guilty about it. So Eddie, for all his freakish, subnormal weirdness is cool. I kid with him and I don't ever treat him bad, like the total social disaster that he is. Eddie couldn't care less about popularity or fitting in, but whether he knows it or not, he's built up a lifetime of protection and credit with me. This doesn't mean I like him or hang out with him. It just means what it means, which includes giving him this ride home.

Finally we get to his house, only a few blocks from my place.

“Bye-bye, Paul,” Eddie says as he gets out of the car; not “Later” or “Peace” or “I'm out” or anything remotely normal, just “Bye-bye.”

He leans back in the window and asks, “How's Shawn?”

“He's doin' real good,” I say. “He's been working on cures for AIDS and leukemia.”

Eddie looks confused. Then he smiles a slightly funny smile and says, “Oh, good one.”

If Eddie weren't Eddie, if I didn't know how much he actually
likes
Shawn, I'd be tempted to jump out of the car and hit him a few times on the chance that his funny grin is a smirk, but I know it's not.

Eddie's last words are “Thanks for the lift, and say hi to your sister for me.”

“Right,” I say. I almost go back to the thing about the Turkish prison, because I
really
like that one, but that'd be like casting pearls into a hopeless Eddie fog, so I let it slide.

I hit the gas instead.

Spending time with Eddie Farr is somehow strangely relaxing. I don't know, maybe it's that Eddie is so simple and easy to read. Maybe it's the way Eddie asked about Shawn, like he was a normal guy or something. Whatever it is, I feel good.

I can't imagine anything that could wreck my mood right now.

W
hen I pull up to our house, my dad's car is here. Damn!

I consider rolling right on by, killing time until he leaves, since he never stays very long when Shawn's home from school. But the hell with it, this is
my
house, not his. He's the one who moved away, so screw him.

I pull up to my regular parking spot and cut the engine.

When I walk through the front door, I see that Mom and Dad are out on the deck. Shawn's with them, in his wheelchair, “ahhhhhhing.” Way to go, Shawn, bet the old man
loves
that.

I stop for just a second and stare at the three of them—what an odd crew: Dad's been coming around more lately, which sucks; much as I hate him for abandoning Shawn, it's even worse to have him keep bouncing in and out—if he wants to be here, why doesn't he stay, if he wants to leave, why doesn't he just go! Shawn's always the same, except that his seizures seem to have been getting a little worse; Mom's a rock and always has been, capable of putting up with Dad's total selfishness in ways that I can't. I quietly set my backpack on the chair by the front door and make a quick move through the living room and up the stairway.

“Hey, Pauly …” Dad calls after me.

I pretend not to hear him, taking the stairs two at a time. As soon as I'm in my room, I strip outa my warm-ups, grab my robe, and head to the shower. With any luck at all, Dad will already be gone when I come out. That'll be fine by me. No phoniness, no “How you doin?” “Not bad, how's yerself?” I hate that. I can't stand him and I don't give a rat's ass what he thinks of me.

As I'm showering, I think back to the freaky thing, my shooting streak that happened at shoot-around during practice today. It was so weird. After we all jogged together awhile, I came back down to earth—there's not much soaring going on when you're running in circles with a bunch of sweaty teammates. We started to scrimmage. I missed my first three shots and a couple guys laughed, which bugged me and made me work even harder. I smacked the laughers around a little, well-placed elbows, outhustling them for boards, stuff like that. As team captain, I can get away with a little nastiness. Pretty soon my shots started falling again, but by then nobody was laughing anymore anyway.