Pull (13 page)

I turn North on Meridian, heading toward Monument Circle. “You good?” I ask at last.

“Real good,” Lia purrs. Then she drums those nails of hers on the dash, like she's still a little wired. She unzips her coat. I have to look
away for a second—I can't let my imagination get riled up again or we'll crash right into the Soldiers and Sailors Monument. There's a buzzing beside me. In my peripheral vision, I see Lia's phone lighting up. She scrolls for a second, then rattles off a text. Soon enough her phone vibrates again. “Ooh,” she says, but when I look back over she stashes her phone and acts all nonchalant.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she says. “Just my girl Cailyn making some noise at me.”

I nod, but there's something that doesn't seem quite right. It's like the atmosphere in the car has changed. My jealousy kicks in—no doubt Lia's got plenty of other guys chasing her. It's not like I have some claim, but I don't want to be lied to. “Come on,” I say. “Tell it.”

“I don't think you want to hear this,” she says. “But Cailyn texted me that your boy Wes got dinged by the cops again.”

17.

Public intox. With JaQuentin, of course. Out on the corner at 38
^th
for the world to see, which is how the news travelled to Lia so fast.

I barely hint at it. I don't even make it sound judgmental. I just say, “So, you think you should cool it with JaQuentin?”

That's all it takes for Wes to recoil. “
Shit,
D. I don't need it from you, man.” He flings a shirt back at the rack in Ty's Tower and acts like he's going to storm out. “It's gonna get tossed anyway. They won't even hit me with home detention again.”

“Wes, come on,” I say.

“Come on yourself, Derrick. Like you've never hit up a few drinks.”

Now it's my turn to get my back up. I mean, I'm not perfect, but I've never touched a drop and Wes should know it. Even if I weren't into keeping myself in playing shape, I wouldn't dare take a sip of alcohol—I bet I could be in California and the hairs on my mom's neck would stand up the moment the first beer touched my lips. “You know
what your problem is, Wes? You think you know every damn thing, but as soon as you open your mouth you prove otherwise.”

Wes pops. He charges at me, right there in the store, and shoves me. But it's nothing. Even with all his force he can't make up for our size difference. I rock back about two inches and just stare at him. That makes him even angrier, his eyes blazing up like coals. “What about you, Derrick?” he seethes. “
You're
the one who thinks he knows but doesn't. You've got JaQuentin wrong. I know what people say. He's all up in that GangstaVille Crew. That's just people yappin'. It ain't like that at all.” His chest heaves in heavy, furious breaths. Behind him, the owner watches us. He likes me. Offered me some freebies, in fact. But he's not thrilled I brought Wes, since this is where Wes got caught pinching merchandise last summer. So that owner will dial the police in a heartbeat if we give him a reason. “Besides, you ever think that maybe I know what I'm doing with JaQuentin? You ever think that maybe I'm the one running game on him?”

We stare at each other. Truth is, those questions scare me more than anything Wes has done. A public intox? That's nothing. Even that bust for weed isn't that huge a deal. But, man, if he thinks he's gaming JaQuentin, then my boy has flat lost his mind. I don't ask what he means. I don't want to know. So instead I point to the shoes on the nearest wall. “I was thinking about getting these,” I say as I walk over. And I intentionally pick out the blandest pair I can find—some white and gray New Balance walking shoes you might see on some 80-yearold doing laps in the mall.

Wes squinches up his face like he drank curdled milk. “D, have you lost your mind?” he says. He starts waving at them. “Put those things back. Put them
back!
”

I act all dumb. “You kidding? These things have swagger!”

He knows I'm putting him on, but it still seems to cause him physical pain. “Stop it, D,” he says. He puts his hands on his stomach. “Hearing you talk about swagger makes me ill.”

“I got swagger,” I say.

Wes laughs. “No, D. You've got game. But swagger has never been your thing.” And that's the thing—we might be messing around, but Wes is a friend who can call me on stuff like nobody else can. Parents and coaches I can tune out. And recruiters are never going to tell me anything I don't want to hear. But Wes—when he's being himself—can tell me how it is. That's good for anyone, but a guy in my position
needs
it.

I put the shoes back. The owner, who's still been eyeing us, shakes his head. “Let's bounce,” I say.

“Where to?” Wes asks.

“You got the ride,” I say.

So Wes leads, but the owner stops me before I hit the door. With Wes standing on the other side of the glass, he offers me a deal. He waves his arm toward the store. “Anything you want, D-Bow,” he says. “Say the word. Then you get to the League and you can still come back here to give my store some pub.”

I nod, but don't take him up on it. Then I start for the door.

He's not done though. He points at Wes. “Just don't come back in here with trash like that,” he says.

This time I don't even nod. I just hit it. And when Wes asks me what was up with the owner, I just shrug. “He wants to know if you need a part-time job,” I say.

“Shiiiiit,” Wes laughs.

Then we're off, exploring our city in a bleak January. Just like old times.

We end up at Circle Centre. It's mostly an excuse to get out of the car and get inside somewhere, because in truth the place doesn't have much for guys like us. Used to be we could head up to the top of the mall and kick it at Tilt or Glowgolf, but those places are for kids. We haven't been there in years. And most of the stores are filled with either things we don't want or things we can't afford.

All that's left to do is get some pretzels at the food court and people watch the post-church crowd. We sling our winter coats over the backs of our chairs and gaze around. I remember long ago seeing Roy Hibbert strolling through this very spot, but there's no such stargazing today. Instead it's just the anonymous blur of a city shopping—middle-aged men with their bellies straining at their belts or harried-looking shoppers toting bags and checking receipts or people in suits powering past with a cell in one hand and a fresh cup of coffee in the other. Mostly white. Mostly older. Mostly Indiana the way people imagine it. Unless they're looking up stories on crime, and then they'll get the Indianapolis that my mom talked about the other night—guys our age scowling for mug shots.

And, sure, people imagine hoops when they think Indiana too. But even that's pretty white. I mean, the list of Indiana guys in the League is made up of people like Mike Conley and Courtney Lee and Zach Randolph and Jeff Teague—but you mention Hoosier basketball to most people and they still want to go on about old white shooting
guards like Steve Alford and Damon Bailey. Like they count more or something, even though they never made a dent in the NBA.

But that's not my fight to fight. I know where I'm heading. Someday if I sit in the Circle Centre food-court, people will line up for autographs.

“Look at that guy,” Wes says, snapping me out of my little daydream. About fifty feet away, there's a security guard, a pudgy guy who probably couldn't catch a shoplifter if they were hopping on one leg. When he catches us looking at him he turns his head, pretends to take a long gaze down the mall corridor. “Shit,” Wes seethes. “He was staring at us for a minute solid. Probably half the people here are going to back to some office and rob people blind, but let two teenage brothers sit down and we're the ones under suspicion.”

I look around again. Sure, it's mostly white, but there are at least ten other black people in the food-court alone. “Maybe you're reading too much into it,” I say.

“Nah. I know what's up. I know that look. Don't tell me you don't.”

“I feel you,” I say. I can't totally disagree. It was just the other night I felt those looks on me and Lia. But for us it was still kind of a game. Wes just seems so angry about it. And everyone knows how that anger plays out—it sours into wasted rage until you do something to justify the suspicions in the first place. I look across the table at Wes. I wonder if someday, while I'm blowing up on the sports pages, he's going to be one of those mug shots in another section of the paper.

“Check that,” he says out of the side of his mouth. He tilts his head toward the escalator, where there's a woman stepping off. She's
got the long legs, the tight skirt, the high heels. She's got a model's cheekbones and long blond hair cascading down. There are beautiful women everywhere, but sometimes in a city you'll see one that just kind of pops out of the crowd. “I mean,
damn
, D,” Wes says.

“You're not messing around,” I say. I've never been one to peep women and talk about them like this, but if it gets Wes' head right, then whatever. What I'm really thinking is that she's got nothing on Lia, but I keep that to myself.

Even now Wes is on edge. He spins in his seat and points at me. “Just promise me this,” he says. “You sign your first fat contract, you can mess around with all those groupies. Do your thing. But don't you dare marry a white girl. Don't be one of those guys.”

I lean back, exasperated. I mean,
he's
the one who pointed her out and now he's lecturing me? It's tiring trying to keep up. “Wes,” I say, “I haven't exactly planned it that far ahead.”

“I'm just sayin',” he goes on. “I know we're not supposed to say that kind of stuff, but that's just how it
is
, D. For real. A hookup's one thing, but if JaQuentin catches some guy clocking real time with a white girl, that guy's
out.
”

Great. So now I'm getting lectures on sex and race from JaQuentin Peggs, with my boy Wes as a mouthpiece.

He's not done running his mouth. When I don't respond he starts explaining how last night he was making inroads with Norika Winston, some girl that was hanging at JaQuentin's. I know what it means. They talked for about ten minutes and Wes didn't get anywhere. Used to be I'd give him hell for it, but I've had enough. “Let's hit a movie,” I say. “Next one starts in five.”

I don't care about any flick that's out, but at this point it seems like the only way to hang with Wes without him saying something that will set me on edge.

I'd have better luck going to the rack against Dikembe in his prime than making Mom budge on this one. That doesn't mean I'm not going to try.

“You're acting like he got caught packing weapons or something,” I say.

“No. That's not what I'm doing,” she says. “I'm acting like you're my son and I know what's best for you. That's final.”

I look to Dad, who's said nothing the whole time. He's leaning with his elbows on the table, a glass of ice water beside him, as relaxed as if he were enjoying the Sunday paper all by himself. When Mom asked where I'd been I told her straight up—no sense in lying—and we've been sitting here going round ever since. “Don't look at me,” Dad says. “You know I'm with your mother on this.”
Maybe
, I think. Or maybe he sees that freight train temper of hers barreling down the tracks and doesn't feel the need to step in on my behalf. Either way, he's no help.

There's no meeting Mom head-on, so I decide to come at it from a different perspective. “Mom, don't you always want me to do the right thing?” I ask.

She narrows her eyes. “Yes,” she says, but she anticipates where I'm going. “Just so long as your dad and I determine what the right thing is.”

“Fine,” I say. “Then explain to me how turning my back on my best friend when he needs me the most is the right thing.”

Mom's eyes bulge. She takes a deep breath. Dad purses his lips and squints his eyes, feeling sorry for what's coming my way. Then—
wham!
—Mom's hands smack flat on the table, making Dad's glass shake so hard it sloshes water out. Then she points at me, the tip of her finger about two inches from my nose. “
You
get yourself a high school diploma.
You
finish college when you've got a child.
You
hold down a job and raise two kids.
You
watch the city around you go straight to hell while nobody does a damn thing.
You
watch kid after kid you used to teach grow up and lose their minds. Then—and
only then
—you come back here and sit at my table and tell me what the right thing is.”

“Mom, I—”

“Let it go, son.” It's Dad now. He just reaches and places his left hand on my arm.

Mom stands and leaves. End of conversation. She thumps her heels down with each step, leaving little aftershocks of her lecture.

Once she's gone, and I hear that bedroom door slam, I turn to Dad again.

“For real,” I say, “there are so many worse things guys could be doing. He's not banging. He's not dealing.”

He raises his hand to cut me off again. “I know that,” he says. “But, Derrick,
He could be doing worse things
isn't a winning argument.”

He's got a point. Besides I'm tired of arguing. Out our window, the night has that brittle look, like everything is frozen and could shatter any second. A gust of wind might crack a tree in two. The wrong step might split the sidewalk. I spent all Sunday with Wes, and it was no fun anyway. Every moment with him felt so tense. I found myself thinking all the things Mom does.

Dad and I edge around each other silently. He puts his glass in the dishwasher. I grab an ice pack from the freezer, wrap it in a towel, and head for the couch. He reads in his chair for a minute or two, then picks up the remote. “You mind?” he asks. I just shake my head and he clicks on the T.V. It's the news—all bad, with men furrowing their brows and looking concerned as they rattle off the latest from war-torn countries, from patches of America under deep freeze, of some sordid detail from a triple-murder case in Illinois.

Finally, I can't take it. “You ever think Wes is just getting some bad breaks?” I say. “I mean, there are about a million people in this city doing the same things as he did and they're not getting caught.”

For a second, he looks like he's actually considering this. Then he gives me his best “patient Dad” look, smiling slightly and shaking his head. “Derrick, do you really think these are the only two times he's done these things? Do you think that night with you was the only time Wes had drugs on him? Or that the other night was the only time he'd been drunk? He'd have to be unluckiest kid in the whole world for that to be true.”

“Whatever,” I say. It comes out surly and immature. But if they're going to treat me like I'm Jayson's age, then maybe I'll give them the same attitude he does.