Pull (18 page)

When guys come back to the huddle, Bolden gives them his best evil staredown. Once everyone's seated, he leans in, thudding his heel on the court with every word. “What. The. Holy. Hell?!” That gets their attention and he crouches down. “What's going on out there?”

Another mistake by Bolden—he actually asked it as if he were
expecting an answer. And he gets five at once. All the starters start shouting. They point at each other in blame. They act insulted when someone else calls them out.

It takes some screaming, but Bolden gets them settled back down. He explains, very methodically, that we are still right in the game with Hamilton Academy, and if we would have the sense to pull our heads out of our rear ends, then we could pick up a nice win. The guys nod, but the shout of
Team!
when they exit the huddle is so lacking in enthusiasm you'd think they were heading into a math quiz instead of a basketball game.

And that's how it goes. The bickering is done. But whatever zip they played with earlier is gone, and Hamilton Academy slowly pulls away, cruising to a nine-point victory.

Afterward, the locker room is silent. Like a funeral. And it's our season that's getting buried.

I'm first one out, since I don't have to shower off. Before I can make it five steps, there's Whitfield, his phone already out.

“Derrick, a comment on tonight's game?”

Frankly, I'm surprised to see him here. It's not like our showdown with Hamilton Academy has the same allure as last year. Maybe he just wants to irritate. Regardless, I try not to act shocked. I shrug. “It was a tough one,” I say. “We were right there, but it just kind of got away from us.” It's a lame answer, all sports cliché, but I figure that's best at this point.

“About that,” he says. He leans in and lowers his voice, like maybe he can trick me into thinking that this is all just between us,
secrets between good friends. “Does this team miss your leadership more, or is it just a question of talent?”

“I don't know about that,” I say. “It's not that simple.”

I take a few steps down the hallway, an obvious hint that I don't want to answer any more questions. Standing at the edge of the court is Kid, waiting on me—and there's a whole lot of mess there too. It's the first I've seen him since all the news crashed down. I'm not sure I'm quite ready for him. So I pause and let Whitfield do his thing. “What's it like for you having to watch, knowing you can't help your team?”

I sigh. Nothing to do but answer truthfully. “It's hard. Not being able to get out there is hard. And having to think about next year even though it's just February is hard.” Then I remember how I've screwed things up in past interviews. Maybe it's time to say the right thing. “But there are more ways to help the team. I need to be another set of eyes for the coaches. I need to help some of the younger players get up to speed.”

Whitfield nods. He liked that, so maybe it'll make the paper—or at least his blog. He stays after me though. “But that's not the same as scoring 20 a game is it? At the end of the day, isn't there too big a drop-off in talent for this team to have real success?”

“I don't think so,” I say. I mean, he's right. Any fool can see that. But it's one thing for me to think that. Teams are family. Whitfield? He's got family somewhere, but it's not in our locker room.

He laughs a little, thinking I'm just feeding him a line. “Wasn't it evident tonight?” he asks. “Where does this team go now when they need a big bucket?”

I take a deep breath. Nothing good ever came from losing your
temper with the media, even if it's just someone like Whitfield—a far cry from someone reporting for
Outside the Lines
. I look down the hall, see Kid still waiting. He's got his arms hugged to his chest and he can't stand still.

“Man, you don't know,” I say. I point to the locker room. “There's talent in there. There's size. There's skill. There's shooters. But most of all there's a will to win.” As I speak my voice keeps getting louder, but I don't care. I've just had enough—of everything. “The guys in there bust their tails, and they're not about to just let all that work be for nothing. Not because they lost to Hamilton tonight. Not because I'm hurt. And not because people from outside the locker room think they're finished. They'll pull together. You watch.” Then I'm done. I just turn my back on Whitfield and head toward Kid.

“Any decisions on schools?” he calls after me.

I whip my head around. “No!” I shout. And then I act like there's not a thing in the world behind me. Just Kid out in front. I take the last few strides to him. He's turned away now, lost in nervous thought. When I grab him by the elbow, he practically leaps out of his shoes. “Just me, Kid,” I say.

He gathers himself, gives a half-laugh at his own jumpiness. “Your family already went home,” he says.

“You're here,” I say. “What's up?”

He looks away. He's so tense it's like there's an electric current running through him. I feel like every time he gazes out at this gym he's really searching for some alternate version of his past. One where he stayed out of trouble. Stayed in the game. “Aw, Derrick,” he says. “I screwed up again.”

“I heard,” I say. It sounds harsh, way more than I intended. “Want to hash it out?” I ask.

He looks down at the hardwood. He's got old shoes on, their different shades faded to a blur of brown. “Not really,” he says. “But I owe you. Let's take a ride.”

Then we walk in silence toward his car. Around us, we see Hamilton Academy families waiting on their players. They're chirping with excitement over the win. I hate it, the way these bright and shiny families from Hamilton County seem to have taken over our gym. But what's really bugging me as Kid and I trudge along is how he said he owes me. I know what he means, I think. He's the adult, and I'm still the kid. So it shouldn't be me worrying over him. Kid shouldn't feel that way. He's been there for me. Every step of the way. My freshman season when Hamilton Academy cranked up the pressure on me, he was on my side in the end. Last season when Dad was laid up, Kid stepped in and kept our family together. And every time—from when I was a runt up to right now—that things have gone wrong on the court, Kid's been there. I know I should be telling him this, but I also know that it would just embarrass him—that somehow telling him all the good things he's done would just make him feel worse tonight.

We exit those Marion East doors and get hit by a burst of wind. Normally, I'd bound down the steps to get to the car, but these days I've got to take them one at a time with a hand on the railing. Kid, not held back by anything, hustles out ahead of me until he remembers. Then he turns, comes back, and offers a hand to help me down the steps.

“I got it,” I say.

“Just go easy,” Kid says. Pretty interesting advice coming from him.

Maybe it's just knowing what I know about Kid, but his Chrysler 300 already looks beat up. Mud and slush are splattered across the body. The tires look a little flat. There's a tiny chip in the windshield on the passenger side.

Kid unlocks it, and we climb in. That new car smell is long gone, replaced by something foul—that old cologne and fast food combination that his Nova had when he handed it down to me. There are boxes stacked in the back seat, and Kid notices me looking.

“Packing up,” he says as he starts the car.

“Where you going?”

He whips out into traffic and heads south. “I don't know,” he admits. “But I'm getting booted from my place. Can't make the rent.”

Kid's place was never nice. It was one of those old, generic apartments that had promise once upon a time. But now the carpet's stained in a million spots. The paint has gone from a bright cream to a depressing beige. There were always Coke cans and beer bottles thrown on the floor. Old pizza boxes out on the counter. Usually some piece of electronic equipment he'd opened up to fix, only to quit halfway through. And his walls were bare except for frayed posters of old school rappers—N.W.A., Boogie Down Productions, Eric B. and Rakim—guys I would never have heard if it weren't for Kid shoving them down my throat. I bet he got it tightened up over the last few months, for when April came over. But to think that he's getting kicked out of that just makes me sad.

We get hung up at a light on Central. There's still some chill hanging on us, so Kid cranks up the heater. It rattles a little with the effort. He pats the dashboard like he's comforting an old dog. “This baby's probably next,” he says.

“What?”

“Next to go.” He sighs. “I can make the payment this month, but I'm looking at what I have to pay back, and—”

He trails off. The light turns green. We ride again in silence. Kid turns off Central, only to head south again after a couple blocks. We're just meandering. As we approach downtown in our roundabout way, I want to ask questions. How much does he have to pay back? How did he get caught? And, damn, what was he thinking? But each time those things form in my head I hear my mom's voice, the way she sounded when I got picked up at the end of the summer. I don't want to do that to Kid.

Finally, Kid pulls over. He's in front of a diner I've never even noticed before. The rest of the block is dark. Through the diner's window you can see a few men—all sitting alone, all looking as brokedown as Kid—slowly crushing burgers and fries. Kid kills the engine and puts his hand on the door. I figure this is my signal to get out too, but at the last minute Kid just flops back in his seat. “I knew I'd get caught,” he says. He can't look at me while he explains, staring instead at a spot on the ceiling of the car. “I mean, if I kept doing it. Early on, I thought I'd just take a freebie, then get out before it got too big and people noticed. So the plan was just get a few extra unemployment checks while I started that new job. And, D, it's not like those checks were breaking someone's budget. But for me? That little extra bump? For once—just once in my life—I got to live a little fat. It's not like I was flying first-class to Rio or living in some mansion in Meridian Hills. I just got to enjoy myself the way a man my age—” He breaks off his train of thought again. Maybe he realized he was making excuses, listing out all those rationalizations
that he must have been telling himself for a year. He lowers his head and stares down at his hands in his lap. He speaks softly now. “Listen, D. I knew it was wrong. I'm not stupid. But I did it anyway. And I kept doing it. And I swaggered all around with my chest out while inside I was churning, just waiting for the hammer to come down. Story of my life. I just can't stop myself sometimes.” Then he looks up at me. His eyes are on the verge of tears. I fight the impulse to look away. “I just wanted to explain that to you. And to tell you that things aren't gonna be that way for you. D, you're a different breed. You got all the fire I had, but you know how to keep yourself in check.”

I don't know if he's right about that last part. Either way, there's no chance to get into it more. He just says
Awwwww
to shake it all off and then yanks his door open. I climb out and we head toward the diner.

“Figure you can still throw down some post-game grub even if you didn't suit up,” Kid says.

Then I realize something. “Hey, I've only got a few bucks, Kid,” I say.

He smiles. He points to the diner. “Derrick, take a look. This ain't St. Elmo's. Even your broke-ass uncle can spot you here.”

We both laugh a little, but it's tinged with something. Regret? Sadness? I don't know. But as Kid places his hand on the diner door, I have to ask just one question. “Kid,” I say, “what about April? How's she handling this?”

Kid's back stiffens and he looks away. Then he swivels his head back my way and cocks it, a smirk on his face. “For real, D?” he says. “You need that answered?”

I shake my head no and we go on in. My man Kid. Busted.
Evicted. Dropped by his girl. You get off the straight and narrow and it never stops being a hard road.

“It's not going to hurt your leg, is it?” Lia asks.

She's serious, but so am I when I say, “Right now I don't care if they have to amputate.”

We're getting to be pretty regular at this. It's like the moment her Dad steps out the door, she's mashing out a text to me. And I don't waste time getting here. The only thought that runs through my head—other than getting the condom out of its wrapper—is that I better get my knee better soon, because if Kid needs his old Nova back I'll have to be sprinting the two miles to her apartment. Then again, torn ACL or not, I get that message from her and I could probably cover those miles faster than I can cover the court on a run-out.

“I don't want to hurt you,” she says, but now she's just teasing. She says it like a challenge. Like I'm not man enough.

Then we're going. And it's all I can do to clear my head enough to say, “Nothing hurts now.” Everything else in the world fades into namelessness. It's just us. Just this.

After a while she takes control. Suddenly not caring about my knee, she pushes me off and slings me down so she can get on top. After that, it's not long. She just eases her body down on mine, and her head nestles onto my shoulder. I feel her hot breaths—still coming fast—on my neck.

Even without checking I know I'm bumping up against curfew. It's been a long night. This has been the best part, by far, but if I'm late getting home all that other noise will seem like play compared to what
my mom does to me. Lia must sense it too, because she nestles close to my ear and says, “It's okay. I know you've got to get home.”

“I'm sorry,” I say. But even as that's out of my mouth I start reaching for my clothes.

“Just hit it and quit it, I guess,” she says. She's teasing, I know, but it stops me. I turn to look at her, see her eyes playful in the dark of her room. I can't help it—I dive in for one more long kiss. And then it's all I can do to stop. She has to put her hand on my chest. “You know I'm just playing,” she says. “And you know you better be gone before my dad gets back. His card game won't last forever.”