Pull (23 page)

“Let's split,” I say. I swear the way she gets me racing I could spring off this couch and unleash a forty-inch vertical on one leg.

But just as I start to situate my crutches under my arms, there's a commotion at the door. A wave of people swell back from the entrance. Everyone else turns to see what the deal is. Even at my height, there are too many bodies between me and the disturbance to tell. Doesn't matter—there's a bad vibe rippling through the room. As Pusha T starts dropping rhymes on the sound system, I get the sudden feeling that things are about take a bad turn. Not a person in here is looking for trouble, but it doesn't mean trouble won't find kids on a Friday night in the city.

I point to the back door through the kitchen. “Come on, Lia,” I say. I can't move fast enough on my crutches though. As I lumber across the linoleum, I feel a tug on my sleeve, pulling me down and back.

“D,” a voice says. “D, you swore, man.”

Even before I turn around, I know it's Wes. And when I do spin to see him, his face is creased with worry. Stanford's behind him,
frowning away. “I told him we didn't need his noise here,” Stanford says, “but he said you told him to come, D. That true?”

I've got no time to worry about trying to soothe feelings. I get right to the heart of it. “Look, Stanford. He's my boy. He asked me where I was and I told him. I didn't mean anything by it.”

Stanford frowns again, but then his shoulders relax. “Fine,” he says. Then he turns to Wes. “But don't come in my house shoving people out of the way. I don't care what kind of hurry you're in.”

Behind them, the party starts to lurch back into action though people keep checking over their shoulders now and then to make sure everything's okay. Which it's not. I can tell that just by looking at Wes. Lia can sense it too. “Come on,” she says, her breath hot on my neck.

I'm pulled in two directions. I have no doubt which one would be better for me. Alone time with Lia or a step into the static of Wes' life? That's a no-brainer. Problem is, Wes is right. I did tell him I'd be there for him.

“Talk,” I tell him. “Tell me what the deal is.” I hear Lia sigh behind me. This is going to cost me with her.

“It's no biggie,” Wes says, but he's lying. He wouldn't be this out of sorts if it wasn't something big. “I just need you to hang on to something for me. Just, like, keep it in your car for a day or two.”

And there it is. The same kind of noise that brought down Kid. “I don't have a car anymore,” I say. “It had to go back to my uncle.” I'm hoping that excuse will do, but I know better.

“Then just stash it somewhere,” Wes says. He looks around frantically. Lia's listening in, tapping her foot on the kitchen floor impatiently. Stanford's still hanging there too, standing guard to make
sure nothing bad goes down in his house. Wes fidgets under their stares, then points to the back door. We head that direction, but we don't go out into the cold. He just wants some separation so he can talk to me without the others hearing. “Look, D, I messed up. Big. Okay? Just tell me you can help.”

I take a deep breath. I can still feel the stares from Lia and Stanford, plus half the rest of the party. “Fine,” I say, “but you have to be straight with me. Tell me what's going on.”

Now it's Wes' turn to take a deep breath. His eyes are glassy with weed or the beginning of tears or both. He doesn't even try to meet my gaze. When he talks, he looks right down at the floor. But he spills it. All of it. He swears that JaQuentin isn't truly part of a set, but that he's been dealing pretty heavy between 34th and 38th—“just weed,” Wes says, like that makes it all okay. Wes was just hanging, not really messing with anything serious, until JaQuentin stole Norika Wheaton from him. This just a year after Wes lost Iesha to JaQuentin in the same way. And on top of it, JaQuentin was still hooking up with Iesha. “I just lost it, D,” he says. “I just tweaked.” So what did my boy do? He boosted some weed from JaQuentin to try and sell it on his own. That's what drew JaQuentin to our street that morning a while back. And if that wasn't enough, Wes got back in with him and did it again. “Once for Iesha,” he says. “And once for Norika.”

“Lord, Wes,” I say. “What were you thinking?”

Now he looks back up at me. “I'm thinking I need your help,” he pleads. “I tried to unload it to some guy in the GangstaVille Crew, but that went all kinds of wrong.” I wait him out, let him keep spilling. “I showed up with half, and he jacked it. So now the rest is in my trunk.
And if JaQuentin catches me with it, he'll know it was me again. Last time it was just a few ounces, but now?”

“How much are we talking?” I ask. In a way, it doesn't matter. I'm not holding a single ounce for Wes no matter what. But I want to know just how deep a hole he's dug himself.

Wes hangs his head again. “It had to be like five pounds.”

I deflate. Five minutes ago everyone was having a good time. People were laughing. Hell, Fuller was making it with a girl he'd just met. Now? I'm staring at a dead man. And I can't help him. Not the way he wants. I gather up the will to tell him, but then there's another disturbance at the door. And this time the people coming in aren't messing around. Instead of people rolling back in waves, they're pinballing off the walls.

“Step the fuck back!” someone yells.

And when people do as they're told—even Stanford, who briefly had his chest puffed out again—I see who that someone is. JaQuentin Peggs. With his inked up friend, the one Wes referred to as Flake.

For a second, it's just the two of them standing in the middle of Stanford's living room, everyone else pressing back toward the walls. The music still thumps away, but not a soul is moving. JaQuentin and Flake look from one person to the next, their eyes bloodshot but bent on destruction. Wes and I are tucked back into the kitchen far enough that they don't see us right away. “Wes!” JaQuentin hollers. “Don't play. I know you're here. Your ride's right outside!”

Nobody says a word in response, but one by one heads turn—all pointed back to the kitchen. JaQuentin and Flake march toward us side by side. When they reach the kitchen, Wes steps out to meet them. He holds his hands out like he's completely baffled.

JaQuentin's not having it. “Do not fuck with me, boy,” he sneers. “You think you can play me? Where is it?”

“Where's wha—” Wes starts.

“Do not!” JaQuentin screams. He takes two big strides into the kitchen, stopping just inches from Wes. Stanford makes a motion to stop him, but Flake just puts a mitt in Stanford's chest, stopping him cold. “The stash or the cash,” JaQuentin says to Wes.

Wes' jaw starts to move, but no words come out. JaQuentin's so livid I figure the only thing stopping him from acing Wes right here right now is all the witnesses. But this is going to end badly.

Lia steps to me and grabs my hand. She leans into me as if she needs my crutches as much as I do. And then I do something I wasn't even planning on. I don't even think. I just break free from Lia and lurch forward on my crutches. I position myself right between JaQuentin and Wes. Around me, I can feel everyone inhale, the way a crowd does just before I rise for a throwdown. Only now, they're anticipating something else entirely. “He's good for it,” I say.

Slowly, JaQuentin raises his gaze from Wes and swivels his head to look at me. “Who the fuck asked you, Bowen?” he says. “Why don't you just limp back to your bitch over there and let me handle this.”

I let my crutches drop to the floor with a clatter. I stand up as tall as I can, lording my inches over JaQuentin.
Stupid, stupid, stupid
, I think, even as I'm doing it. “He's good for it,” I repeat. “Give him time, and he's good for it. And if you talk shit about Lia again I'll whip your ass right here, even on one leg.”

JaQuentin squares his body to me. He leans forward and pulls
back one side of his coat. There, at his hip, I see the butt of a gun. “Fuck you say?” he says.

It's all over
, I think. In my head I hear all those warnings people have been giving me all year, I hear the wail of sirens, I hear my mother's sobs.

“He told you to step back,” a voice says. I stop reeling and look to locate the voice. It's Stanford. He swats Flake's hand away from him and steps into the showdown. He gets between me and JaQuentin just like I did for Wes a minute ago. “So you best listen up.”

A body comes into the kitchen. Fuller—charging ahead like he's been launched from a cannon. True to form, he doesn't have anything smooth to say—just “Yeah!”—but it's emphatic enough as he positions himself right next to Stanford.

Fuller looks back toward Reynolds, Jones, and Rider. They're hovering by the edge of the kitchen and Fuller gestures toward them. He's thinking that it's their turn to step in now. The whole team as one. But they don't budge. Some would say they're worse teammates, but the truth is they probably just have more sense than the rest of us.

There's an agonizing few seconds where nobody backs down. And then, finally, JaQuentin blinks, his bluff called. He shakes his head in disbelief. “Fine,” he says. “You people are crazy.” He nods to Flake, and they both start to retreat. But then he re-thinks something and turns around. He points a finger back at Wes, his thumb cocked behind it. “It's worth three grand,” he says. “Plus another grand for the trouble. You better not make a liar out of your boy.” And on that he aims the finger at me. He steps my way. The wall of players between us stiffens again. But, still pointing, he leans between Jones and Stanford
to whisper to me. “You get a pass on this one. Because, you know, ain't nobody want to see someone with your skills come crashing down. But, Bowen, you step to me again—ever—and you're just another body on the street.”

Then they're gone. As soon as that door shuts behind JaQuentin and Flake, the chatter starts up. Everyone's all hyped to spin their take on it, texting and tweeting to friends. In the kitchen I bend down and pick up my crutches. Then I hug it out with Fuller and Stanford, offering them a thank you that can't even begin to get across what I owe them. Then I turn back to Lia—she's fuming, I can tell. But when I say we should hit it, she just nods.

Then there's Wes. He steps up to me, hand extended. “Thanks, D. You my boy,” he says. Like I just did him solid by helping him on an algebra test or something.

“Don't give me that shit,” I say. “You and I are sitting down tomorrow to figure this out. You're gonna be good on that money. And you ever put me in that kind of position again, I'll pull the trigger myself.”

29.

We picked Sure Burger. Seemed neutral enough. And Kid suggested that people think a little clearer when they've got full bellies. Later tonight, it's Sectional finals. Normally that would have me hyped into the red, but right now I'm trying to keep my head straight. After last night, I know I put myself on the hook for Wes. I suppose if it all goes haywire, JaQuentin's going to be after Wes instead of me, but now this is partly my problem.

“Chill,” Kid says. “Eat.” He points to my fries.

I do as instructed, but I check my phone. Quarter after twelve. “Can you believe this? He's showing up late after last night?”

“This is gonna be okay, D,” Kid says. I didn't dare tell Mom or Dad about any of this, but I wanted Kid by my side. He's been through enough messes like this to have a nose for them. He starts in on his bacon cheeseburger like there's nothing more important in the world.

Finally, Wes slumps through the door. He gives me a sheepish look. “Traffic,” he says.

I inhale sharply at his ridiculous excuse. Kid and I took the same
streets here, and it's not like this is rush hour. I'm in no mood for more nonsense.

Kid jumps in first. “It's cool, Wes,” he says. “Just sit.”

I turn to Kid, incredulous that he's going so soft on a guy that about got me killed. But Kid holds up his hand, a signal to take it easy. Plus, without even bothering to order food, Wes pulls up a chair. He's a tad more relaxed now. Maybe Kid knows what he's doing. Maybe he's been in Wes' position so often he knows that if you come at a brother too hard it'll just make him jet.

Kid already knows the story—Wes gave the weed that was left back to JaQuentin, but he's still on the hook for almost three grand—but he makes Wes tell it, just so we're all clear. When Wes finishes, Kid leans across the table. He's serious, but he's not trying to intimidate him. “That it? That's the whole thing?”

Wes starts to nod, then catches himself. “I also snatched a chain from his apartment one night.”

Kid puts his hand to his forehead with a little smack. “For real? Does he know?”

“I figure he's got some suspicions,” Wes admits.

This time I can't stop myself. “What the hell you thinking, Wes?”

Wes shakes his head, like I've asked the stupidest question ever. Then he looks straight at me. “Man, you don't get it. You hop from Jasmine to Lia. Two choicest girls in the city. And that's just how you get to roll. But me? I don't get a chance very often, and the guy nabbed two girls from me. Two!” He holds his fingers up in the air for emphasis.

“Wes, I get you were hurt, but—” Again, Kid holds his hand up for me to stop.

“Easy, people,” Kid says. He gets this expression on his face like he's about to lay down some truth for us. I've had about enough of that. But when he starts in, I realize he knows what he's about on this topic. “You know, I'm not one to be lecturing anyone about doing stupid things. Hell, Wes might owe a few grand to a local thug, but I owe a lot more than that to the federal government. But one thing I recognize is that our basic problem is the same thing. We're both trying to be a man. Trying to be tough. Act big. Story of my life.” He shakes his head, like he's thinking back on the long line of mistakes he's made. Then he plunges ahead. “You know who never acted all swole and tried to seem like a big man?”

Wes and I just stare at him, clueless as to the answer. Then Kid jerks his thumb at me. “Derrick's dad. My brother. He just buckled down and did his work. And, you know, a long time ago when I was around the age of you two, he tried to tell me. He told me that anyone who was trying to
act
like a man wasn't
being
a man.” Then he points his finger at Wes. “Here's the other thing I've learned. When the cost comes due for acting that way, you've got to step up and pay it.”

Wes nods in understanding, but then he puts his hands out palms up. “Yeah, but that's the thing. I can't pay what I owe. I gave JaQuentin back the weed I still had, and I can give him back the chain. But still. I don't have the dough.”

Kid's got the answers this time too. He clicks them off one by one. First, he says to just mail the chain back to JaQuentin and never let on about it. Then he hits the money situation. He explains that JaQuentin's like anyone else—he may want people to think he's thugged out, but what he wants even more is his money. “You show him a little bit of the cash,” Kid says, “you'll be surprised how patient he is for the rest.”

Wes gets it, but points out that he still doesn't have any source of income.

Kid smiles a little. “Funny enough, getting a job is the best way to generate some cash flow. And I might be able to help.” He explains that the bar where he works, Faces, could always use an extra set of hands cleaning up. When Wes points out that he's too young to work at a bar, Kid smiles again. “That's the beauty of a place like Faces. They really don't give a shit, and they'll pay you in cash to keep it off the books.”

There, with the hiss of patties on the grill and the sound of the Coke machine churning ice, Wes looks like he's about to weep in gratitude. He practically lunges across the table to shake Kid's hand. “I can't thank you enough,” he says. “You're saving me.” Then he looks at you. “Both of you are saving me.”

Now Kid's smile turns into a laugh. “Before you start hugging it out, let me be straight. This job is for lousy pay to come in at dawn and clean up puke and piss in the seediest bar in Indianapolis. It's not like I'm putting you in a corner office at Eli Lilly.”

“I don't care, man,” Wes says. “It's a chance.” Then he looks at me. “Anything else?”

“That about covers it,” I say. I want Wes to make it. I do. But I don't ever want to be put in last night's position again. And I want Wes to know it. So all I give him is a cold stare.

Wes stands to make his exit. I at least give him the courtesy of a handshake, but then he turns to go. The whole thing didn't even take long enough for Kid and me to finish our food. As I watch him leave, I wonder if Wes will ever be the same. If we can patch our friendship at
some point. But I realize that at this point I barely even recognize the person walking out the door.

“Think he's going to make it?” I ask Kid.

“There's never a sure thing for young pups around here,” he says. “Old dogs too, I guess. And, man, some income can help his situation, but let's not kid ourselves about the kind of people he'll run into working at Faces. If he wants to find more trouble, he'll find it there.”

Outside, Wes pauses on the sidewalk to check his phone. He tucks it back in his pocket, then gazes around like he's not sure which way he wants to go. Then he moves on, heading south.

“If he wants to find more trouble,” I tell Kid, “he's not going to have to wait for Faces. It's on any block he walks.”

“True enough,” Kid says. Then he starts polishing off the rest of his meal, looking away like he's deep in thought.

This time the family meeting's on my terms. Well, family plus Coach Bolden and Coach Murphy. When Kid and I get back, the others are already squeezed around the kitchen table. Kid ends up sitting next to Bolden. He looks about as comfortable as a prostitute forced to sit next to a preacher. But he toughs it out. He knows this is my time.

Kid knows what's coming. I've already told the guys on the team too. Still, as I reach into my back pocket for my list, I'm nervous. Telling Coach? Telling Mom and Dad? That feels as official as signing a letter of intent. So instead of just laying it out there for them, I feel the need to explain myself. “The schools on this list,” I say, “are the ones that didn't waver when I tore up my leg. And they've done it all by the book like we asked. No crazy stuff.” I take a deep breath. “So I want to
take official visits to these places as soon as I can.” And with that, I let the page flutter down on the kitchen table.

Jayson grabs it first, despite my parents' telling him to wait his turn. Kid just leans back. Dad notices and jabs a thumb in his brother's direction. “He already knows?” he asks me.

I just nod yes.

At first I think Dad's going to get mad, but he just nods. “Fair enough,” he says. “Kid probably has as much insight on this as any of us.” Dad sees us all react to his calling him Kid. “What?” he says. “You think I actually thought Sidney would stick? I know you all call him Kid when you think I can't hear you. So just go ahead. He's Kid.” It's permission for the rest of us, but I realize that in a way this is Dad's way of forgiving his brother.

About that time, Jayson finally holds up the paper. “Hey!” he shouts. “Let's focus on Derrick, okay. You want to hear these schools or not?” I see his plan. He wants to be the one to break the news to everyone. And he clearly digs the chance. He flattens the paper out on the table and clears his throat, like he's about to launch into a monologue on stage. “First, Indiana,” he says. Nods all around. No surprise.

“Michigan,” Jayson says. More nods. I see Coach Murphy wrinkle his nose a little—for whatever reason, he's always bad-mouthing the Wolverines—but he sees me checking him and erases that sneer right away.

“Marquette.” This draws a
Huh
from Dad, plus a quizzical look from Coach Bolden. It's not like Marquette is a nothing school. After all, it's in the Big East and it's where D-Wade went—but his stint there
was a lifetime ago. And it's not like the Big East now is what the Big East was back in the day.

“Clemson.”

Now I get the raised eyebrows all around. It's not like Clemson should be a shock. It's an ACC school, after all. Still, Mom's the first to ask. “Really? Why Clemson?” She's trying not to sound skeptical, but it shows through.

“It's an ACC school. Plus, their coach is from Indiana.” Mom nods, but she's unconvinced. So I explain a little more. “I kind of like the idea of trying to knock off the Dukes and Carolinas and Louisvilles. I figure a Marion East player needs to be an underdog.” That passes judgment for my mom. Then all eyes are on Jayson again.

“Alabama,” he says. Even Jayson looks surprised on that one. It's an SEC school. I'd have the chance to knock off Kentucky and Florida each year. But it's football first there, and everyone knows basketball's an afterthought. Still, I realize that's not why people are so surprised. No. It's because of the geography.

This time Mom slaps her hand on the table. “Oh come on, Derrick,” she says. “My dad didn't break his back to make it up here so his grandson could move to Alabama!”

I start to protest, but she's not having it. In fact, she clasps her hand over her mouth like she's going to be ill—the very thought of Alabama a noxious gas. She pauses a second, then stands and leaves the table. She mutters an apology to everyone else, then hurries off to the bathroom. I look back toward everyone else—every single eyebrow is raised in worry and surprise. I mean, I expected some resistance, but not like this.

Dad stands to get people drinks, doing his best to make extra
noise in the kitchen so we can't hear if Mom's actually getting sick in the bathroom. When she comes back into the kitchen, smoothing her shirt as she walks, Dad just pauses and looks at her. “I'm fine,” she says flatly. Then she sits at the table again like nothing happened. Jayson's the only one who dares to ask, but she cuts him off too. “I said I'm fine.” Then she stares at me. “I was just a little surprised to find my son thought going to college in Alabama was a good idea.”

“And don't forget that Clemson's in South Carolina,” Jayson chimes in. That draws a withering look from Dad, but it shouldn't surprise anyone that Jayson's going to say the one thing that could make the room more tense.

Kid, Bolden, and Murphy all keep their mouths shut. They know they're here to lend support to me, but they don't dare cross Mom. So it's up to Dad. “Kaylene,” he says.

“Oh, don't start talking to me with your
It's-all-gonna-be-okay
voice,” she snaps. Then she looks at me again. “You know I'll support what you want. And it's sure not like racism ends once you get north of the Ohio River. But if you bring those coaches here for a home visit, you better believe they're getting some questions about what life is like for a young black man in the”—she breaks off, searching for the right word, her eyes bulging— “in the dirty South,” she finishes.

Jayson can't help it. He snorts a few times, trying to choke back a laugh. But then he just loses it.

“What!?” our parents scream in unison.

He finally regains his composure and politely informs my mom that people her age are not supposed to use the phrase
Dirty South
. “I think it means something else than what you think,” he says.

That loosens everyone up. It gives me a chance to explain that Alabama might be the heart of Dixie, but they've got a black coach who has NBA hardware. So if it's good enough for him, then I'm interested. Then everyone daydreams out loud about where I might end up. It's obvious that they're all pulling—in some small way, at least—for the Big Ten schools. But who cares? It's fun to just lose myself for a while, dream up back-to-back titles at Marquette. An undefeated run at Indiana. A Bowen-led Clemson squad dumping Duke on Coach K's court.

Finally Coach Bolden brings us back to earth. He explains our next step should be to contact the schools and to leak our list to the
Star
reporter, Whitfield. I hate the idea of giving him some scoop, but then I check myself. If the season's taught me anything, it's that most people are scrambling as best they can. It's not like Whitfield's getting rich off his gig, so maybe the guy could use a little inside information.

Then Bolden stands. He grabs his coat and reminds us that he's actually got a real game to prep for tonight. He looks at my parents. “I don't know the head coaches at those schools personally,” he says, “but what I do know about them is all good. They seem to be the kind of guys that will help Derrick improve on the court. But they'll run his ass to class too. I know that's important to you both.”