Pull (21 page)

Lord, we're up five. With Stanford headed to the line. Even against Pike, that's just about ballgame. And whatever doubt was left vanishes when Drew completes his meltdown. He punches the air and screams at the ref, totally out of control. He wants a carry call on Rider. Instead, he gets a big fat T.

The ride home is
loud
. Stanford cranks some Gucci Mane on a portable speaker. Bolden doesn't even blink about it. Everybody's swarming all over the bus, high fiving each other and talking trash. I can't exactly join in with my leg the way it is, but it's good enough to just chill and enjoy my boys having a good time. They deserve it.

Even Murphy gets into it. As we roll across the Kessler intersection, he stands and hollers. “That's Marion East ball at its finest,
boys. Hang in there, and then when it's crunch time”—he makes a stabbing motion in front of him—“go for the kill.”

That gets everyone howling again. But it's also too much for Bolden. The players talking nonsense is one thing, but he grabs Murphy by the sleeve and gives him a severe frown. Murphy slumps back in his seat, defeated by Bolden's discipline once again.

By the time we cross 38th, the party's died down. Guys start gathering up their stuff. Some of them mash out a few texts to see what the word is for Saturday night. Me? I'm heading home. It's not sulking or anything, but Kid caught me after the game and said he was coming over. So we'll see what's up with that.

We hit the Marion East lot and everyone files off. When Fuller goes past, I stop him. I want him to know just how good he was tonight. Everyone yaps during a game, and everyone strokes ego in the aftermath—but now that things are calmed down, he needs to hear some real talk. “What you did out there tonight was straight kill it,” I tell him.

There's no shrugging it off now. I can tell this means something to Fuller. “Thanks, D, I'm just sorry you couldn't be out there with us.”

We head off the bus, then walk together to the gym. The wind whips around the corner, and we both pull our coats tight against it. Then, in the warm, low-lit gym, I figure I might as well tell Fuller what's really been on my mind. “Man, you know I'd like nothing more than to be balling out with you guys,” I say. “But even when my leg was right, my head wasn't. I'm sorry I wasn't a better teammate this year.”

Fuller stops. He extends his arm, then gives me a real formal handshake. “I appreciate that,” he says. “But I've been thinking too. All that stuff goes two ways.”

“True,” a voice says. It's Stanford. He'd been standing off to the side, checking a text, but now he steps to us. “And, D, the season ain't over. I saw how you coached Rider up tonight. Man, you been there for us more than you think.”

“I don't know,” I say. “None of this played out the way I wanted.” Even as we talk, I wonder what's changed. Only yesterday, these guys were sick to death of me. Winning cures everything, I guess.

Then Fuller smiles. He elbows Stanford. “He doesn't know,” he says. Stanford laughs.

“Know what?” I ask. They just stand there, pleased with some secret. “What?” I plead.

Stanford's the one who caves. “Aww, man, we heard you.”

“Heard what?”

“Last night when you cracked on that reporter. Hell, everyone heard. You snapped him up pretty good.” Then he reaches and gives my shoulder a shake. He smiles, relaxing all that practiced scowl out of his face. “But you were sticking up for us, D. You had our backs. That kind of pulls people together, y'know?”

At home, it's family meeting time. Mom and Dad are at the kitchen table, one sitting on either side of Uncle Kid. He just stares down at his hands like he's cuffed there.

There are two chairs opposite Kid—one for me and one for Jayson. But it's clear Jayson is opting out of this sit-down. He's kicked back in Dad's recliner, a blanket over him. He's flipping through channels with the volume low.

Thing is, I was all set to come home and talk colleges. I've been
carrying around that list I made in Coach Bolden's office, but I haven't shared it with anyone.

Dad motions to the open chairs. “Sit,” he says. I obey.

Mom calls to Jayson to come over, but he barely stirs. “I'm good,” he says. Mom inhales sharply like she's about to rip into him, but then she catches herself. She holds her breath for a second, shakes her head, then shifts her attention back to the people at her kitchen table.

Once I sit, Dad motions toward Kid to speak. When he hesitates, Dad says, “Go ahead. This is on you.”

Kid's jaw flexes a few times in anger. At the same time, I see his eyes fill with shame. He wants to smash something or break down and cry all at the same time.

Finally, he starts talking. At first, he tells me all the stuff I already know. He's neck-deep in debt. He's getting booted from his place. He's about to lose his wheels. I get a little impatient, tired from always being on this end of other people's problems. But if this season's taught me anything, it's that once in a while you've got to think about what things are like for other people—and right now, it's pretty clear that Kid's humiliated. At last he gets to the point. “I need a place to stay until I get back on my feet,” he says. He looks at me just for a second and then, like he's nervous, he looks away again. Maybe I'm supposed to say something, but I don't know what it is. So Kid's forced to continue. “That means I need to crash here for a while.” He takes one more deep breath. He rubs his neck in frustration. “That means you and Jayson got to make room for me, and it's only right that I ask you if that's okay.”

So there it is. Truth is, I hate the notion of taking on a roommate. But Kid's family. And he's also a grown man who's being forced to ask
permission from a high schooler. I can see in his eyes that he needs this, but he's also angry—furious, really—at that need.

“Anything, Kid,” I say. “You know that.”

He nods at me, a silent thank you. Dad glares at him because Kid doesn't actually say it, but even Dad knows maybe it's time to back off. Instead, he springs into action mode. He claps his hands, just like Bolden does sometimes to get our attention. “So,” he shouts, “ground rules. First, no more Kid. In this house, you're Sidney. Okay?” He looks around, daring anyone to challenge him. “For tonight, you can crash on the couch. Tomorrow, the first order of business will be to start moving Jayson in to share Derrick's room. Depending on—”

“Wait, what?!” Jayson's up now. He stands in the living room, arms wide in protest. “How come I've got to move my stuff? This is bull—” He almost finishes off that last word, his lips pursing into a
sh
. But he knows better.

Dad doesn't raise his voice. He's not going to get baited into another go-round with Jayson. “You had a chance to come to the table, but you said you were good.”

Mom stifles a smile, but I know she's loving it. She so wanted to jump him earlier, but this is a better way for Jayson to get his. Jayson just storms to his room. Drama? You bet. When his door slams, the whole house shakes. If it weren't for having to wrestle with Kid's problems, Mom and Dad would both be up after that kind of display. “When we're done with your brother, we're going to need to talk about your son,” Mom tells Dad.

“My son?” Dad protests. “You know he didn't get that temper from my side.”

“Oh, like you don't have a temper. You just don't let it out, Thomas. You just pack it all in and sulk.” She points toward the hallway. “Sound familiar?”

They're not really fighting, just kind of needling each other. You can tell they both like it. They've been down this road way too many times for there to be any landmines left. Kid—I don't think I'll ever be able to think of him as Sidney—sinks back in his chair. Maybe he's happy to have the focus off him, but his face is unreadable.

“I can tell you what my dad would have done with Jayson,” Mom says. Then she breaks into her imitation of her father, adding some rasp and southern drawl to her voice. “That boy's got nothin' a good whoopin' won't fix.”

Everyone laughs then. I'm old enough to remember that kind of fire from my grandpa before the last few years when it was all sickness and pain for him. So I know Mom's impersonation was spot on.

Then I shock everyone. “Can I just say something in defense of Jayson?”

Dad bites. “Well, he's about to become your roommate, so let's hear this so we can remind you about it a week from now when you're ready to kill him.”

He's got a point. Inwardly, I cringe at the prospect of cramped quarters with Jayson. He'll be all up in my stuff. I realize I need to change the pass-code on my phone, or before I know it he'll be sending fake texts to Lia. But that's for another time. “He's got a fair gripe with us,” I say. “And I think we can probably do better by him.”

26.

Jayson can't see an upside. For him, Kid moving in just makes it seem like he's the one who got evicted. I've done my best to make my room partly his—stacked some clothes on the floor so he could have half the closet, re-arranged so we could squeeze a cot in for him, even set up some crates so he'd have a place to stack his books and videos.

“Still not mine,” he says. “It's not like I can really kick back when you're here.”

I point out that between my time at practices and with Lia, he's got the room to himself more often than I do. That draws a
whatever
from him, so I head out to the living room, closing the door—my door, if I want to get technical about it—behind me so Jayson can have his space.

“I'm sorry,” I hear. It's Kid, waiting on me in the living room. He must have heard the whole argument. He blames himself for it, a habit of his these days. Jayson's grumpy, Mom's car is low on oil, the internet is out—Kid apologizes like he made it happen.

“Don't sweat it, Kid,” I say. I double check for my dad's
presence, since we're only following his “call him Sidney” rule if he's here to correct us. Besides, all I really want is for Kid to start acting like himself.

Since we're the only two around, I decide to hit him up for some advice. I've still got that list folded in my pocket, but I haven't talked about it to anyone yet. Kid's watching the
30 for 30
about an old player from Chicago. While it drones on, I head to the kitchen to fix myself an ice bag. Then, when the show hits a commercial, I settle onto the couch. “Kid,” I say, “I need some advice.”

He leans forward, all attention. But then he catches himself and turns his palms up in apology again. “I don't know I'm the one you should be asking,” he says.

“Stop it, man,” I say. But even that sends Kid further into himself. He sinks back in the chair and shrugs. He's sitting in what is usually Dad's chair, and he can't get comfortable. He keeps shifting and re-shifting like he's sitting on pins. “Kid,” I say, more patient this time. “For real. I need to run some things by you.”

Kid stands. That settles him. From the couch, I look up and take stock of him. That height that made him a force in the post is bent a little now. His shoulders slump and the new weight makes him seem shorter. There are hints of gray at his temples, wrinkles up and down his clothes. His shoelaces are untied. Maybe if he helps me, it'll end up helping him pull himself back together too.

“Some schools backed off me when I went down this time,” I say.

He lowers his head and shakes it mournfully back and forth. “That's cold,” he says. Then he looks toward the window, remembering. “I remember when they did that to me. It's a mean business, man.” He
shoves his hands in his pockets. “Of course, that was all my fault. Yours is just bad luck.”

“It is what it is,” I say. I want to get past that talk, get to the thing I really could use help on. “But I've got a list of schools that stood by me.” I reach into my pocket and pull out that paper. Hand it to Kid. He looks at it for a second and purses his lips. I know exactly what he's thinking—other than Indiana, the schools on there aren't exactly elites. It's not like I'm down to offers from the Stony Brook and Youngstown States, but gone are the Kentuckys, the Dukes, the Louisvilles. “What do you think?” I ask.

He starts to talk, then pauses. The documentary comes back from commercial, and he turns to look at it while he's thinking. I watch too. Kid points to the tube. “You too much of a young pup to remember this guy,” he says. “But he was the one. The golden child. He got hyped as Magic Johnson with Larry Bird's jumpshot. Best Chicago product ever. I mean,
ever
, D.”

I pay attention for a few minutes, check some highlights of the kid. I don't know about best ever, but it doesn't take long for me to recognize some serious skills in him. “What was his name?” I ask.

“Ben Wilson,” Kid says.

“So how come I never heard of him?”

Kid looks at me square in the eye now. This isn't that fake bravado he put on all winter. He's serious as can be. “He got shot and killed the night before his senior season started,” Kid says. I think this is part of another lecture about me steering clear of Wes, but that part doesn't come. Instead, Kid shakes his head again. “Maybe I should remember that, for all I got myself into when I was young, I'm still one of the lucky ones.”

That hangs between us for a second or two, both of us unsure of what to say next. Kid comes back to the point though. He holds that paper in front of him and backhands it with his other hand. “I know what you're asking,” he says. “You want to know if you should stick with these schools even when you get better and start dominating again. Right?”

“That's about it,” I say.

He hands the paper back to me. “I always lived by this,” he says. “You got to get what's best for you whenever you can. So the old me would say take the best offer that comes around. And all the stuff anyone wants to throw at you.” Then he smiles, more to himself than to me. “But that way of thinking got me nowhere. Still gets me nowhere. So I'll tell you what I really think, even if I never lived by it—you have to honor people that stand by you in tough times.” Almost against his own will, his gaze returns to Dad's chair. He nods, again to himself. I realize that Dad and Kid are as different as two people can be, but they're still brothers.

I thank Kid for his advice, then get up, ice bag and all, to go check on my brother. So what if he feels crowded? Another couple years and I won't be around at all. So I'm going to hang with Jayson while I can. When I get to that closed door, I stop. I hear noise from the other side. At first, I think it's just the commentary on his NBA game, but then I realize it's his voice. I lean in, ear to the door. This is more of an intrusion on his privacy than anything he's complained about, but I can't help myself. Jayson speaks, then waits, then speaks again. His voice rises in anger. Then it backs down, suddenly apologetic. I think for a second that he's just on the phone, but then it clicks—lines. My boy's
working on his lines for the play. He'd lose his mind if he knew I was eavesdropping on him doing this, so after a couple more seconds I limp back to the couch again.

But I feel proud of him. Most definitely. He's in there putting his sweat in. And that's all anyone can ever really do.

If April thought she got the third degree when she visited, she should see the treatment Lia's getting. The thing is, my parents don't even mean to do it. When I told them I wanted to bring Lia over for dinner they were straight up excited. They got sick of seeing me moping around all heart-hurt from Jasmine. And this is a good signal to Dad that I'm not just using Lia like I did Daniella last year.

But Lia walks in the door and the questions come out. What do you like in school? Do you think you'll go on to college? What does your father do?

“Stop!” I shout. It's a little too forceful. Mom gives me a look like she's a ref about to jack me up with a T. “Sorry,” I say. “I know you two don't even mean to do it, but you're on Lia so hard I'm surprised she can breathe. Give her a break. Please.”

“I can handle myself, Derrick,” Lia says. “A few questions don't scare me.” That's all show for my parents. And it works too, as Mom and Dad both kind of lean back with their mouths curled up, impressed at Lia's confidence. Then Lia gives me a quick wink to let me know she appreciates me having her back.

That wink sets me racing in a way I don't want to show in front of my parents. So I'm thrilled, for once, when Jayson comes in and hijacks everything.

“What's this?” he says, pointing to the table. He makes it sound like he's asking about dinner, but we all know he's thrown by Lia's presence.

Mom plays it straight. “Just dinner,” she says. “Roasted carrots, fried potatoes, flank steak. Don't worry, Jayson. Even we can fancy it up now and then.”

Jayson acts hurt. He yanks his chair so hard the seat bangs on the underside of the table. Then he reaches across the table and stabs at a piece of steak. He won't even look at Lia.

Dad coughs. I told them all about Jayson's deal—even though he swore me to secrecy—but there's only so much rude behavior they'll stand. “Jayson,” he says, “some manners would be nice. Perhaps you noticed we have a guest.”

“I saw,” he snips. “Hey, Lia.”

Mom opens her mouth to crack on Jayson, but she's too slow. “I thought you were a little player,” Lia says. “Smooth. That was the word at Marion East, you know—watch out for Jayson Bowen when he gets here. He'll have all the girls lining up. But I guess I'll have to report back that you're just another eighth-grader who doesn't know how to talk to girls yet.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mom and Dad smile. They love it. And, immediately, they love Lia. Jayson? Not so much. He turns red. His eyes dart around. He wants to pop, I can tell. But he knows he's met his match. “You tell the girls at Marion East—” he starts. He trails off, not knowing how to finish. He gazes around for help. Nobody steps up.

“Tell them what?” Lia says.

Jayson looks at Dad. “Where's Kid?” he asks, trying to change the subject.

Dad answers, his voice flat as blacktop. “At work.”

“What was I supposed to tell everyone?” Lia asks again, staying after Jayson.

“Awww,” he drawls, “come on. I'm sorry. Let's just eat.”

Everyone laughs a little. We settle in and eat for a while. I peep on Lia a little. Even dressed conservatively—she's in a plain white sweater and blue jeans—she looks incredible. And when I take a quick look at Jayson, I see him checking her pretty hard. So I decide to pile on just a little. “You know, Lia,” I say, “you could tell everyone that Jayson Bowen is a big talker until someone talks back a little.”

“Come on, D,” he says. “Cut me some slack.”

I laugh. “Man, nobody in this world has been cut more slack than you have.”

I expect Jayson to pop back at me, but it's Lia who knees me. “I don't know, Derrick. I've cut you plenty of slack already.”

Now, there's nothing behind this. I've been on my best behavior with Lia from the jump. But that's one of those lines a girl can throw down on a guy and there's nothing you can say. Protest at all and you just look like a chump. I just look at her and shake my head. She grins and gives one of those lightning-quick winks again.

“So let me keep score here,” Mom says to Lia. “Lia two, Jayson zero, and Derrick zero. You know how to snap a man up.” Then she points at me with her fork. “Treat this one right,” she tells me.

Mom and Lia share a laugh between them, while the rest of us sit back and take it. I'm cool with it though. Lia's the first girl since Jasmine that I've introduced to my parents, so all in all I'm calling this one a win.