Pull (8 page)

Right away, I see it's off. I dart into the lane. My man peels off, leaking for a run-out if they get the board. No such luck for St. Joseph. With a free run, I time it up. I plant my feet and rise between their bigs. Pluck the orange as it pops off the rim. Then power it back home. The rim snaps back up with a
pop
and the backboard shudders like there's been an earthquake. The crowd? They take a collective gasp—not every day you see a follow-up jam from a point guard—and then they let it rip. I mean,
howl.
My teammates are hyped too. Stanford gives me a shove of approval and shouts, “That's the real deal, right there.”

St. Joseph's done. They knew it was a long-shot anyway, but that jam was the final nail in the coffin if there ever was one.

The only challenge left is to navigate another interview with Whitfield. He's waiting for me outside the locker room, drinking a Coke from a paper cup. As soon as he sees me, out comes that phone. “You were right about running things when you got back,” he says. It's not a question. He says it like he's a buddy trying to liven me up. But I know better.

“We're playing better as a team,” I say. “Things are starting to click.” I hate talking in clichés. But it's better than the alternative of giving straight answers.

He nods, takes one last sip of Coke. He shakes a little ice out and
then talks to me while it's still in his mouth. “I have to ask. Any news on colleges?”

“No news,” I say. “They're all hitting me up pretty regular, but I don't know step one yet.”

“There was a rumor trending last night that Indiana might have an inside track,” he says.

He's fishing, I'm almost sure of it. “No,” I say. But that draws a startled reaction from him, like I've just ruled the Hoosiers out. “I mean, I'm not saying anyone's out either. I just…look, man, I don't know yet. Indiana's in the running, I guess. But so are about a million other schools.”

He frowns again, like I'm lying to him. So he shifts gears. “Big revenge game coming up,” he says. “Any thoughts on Evansville Harrison?”

Yes,
I think,
I could fill a book with my thoughts on Evansville Harrison
. He's talking about our December rematch in Banker's Life Fieldhouse. Our chance to avenge our loss in the playoffs from last year. But I catch myself. “My only thought is that we've got to win the opener if we want a crack at Evansville Harrison.”

He presses on. “But you've got to want that rematch against the state champions. And any thoughts on squaring off with Dexter Kernantz? Do you think you two are the top point guards in the state?”

This time I can't help myself. “There's only one top point guard,” I say. Then I point to the court. “He was running those boards tonight. And he most definitely wasn't wearing an Evansville Harrison jersey. The D-Bow Show only plays at Marion East.”

That draws a smile from Whitfield. He shakes out a few more
ice cubes and crunches them as he thanks me. Immediately I regret it. That will absolutely make the paper. It'll be bulletin board material for Evansville Harrison. And it will make it all about me again, just the thing that burned my boys last time around.

You get told all your life to tell the truth. But I'm learning that there are plenty of benefits to holding a little truth back sometimes.

10.

“I don't see the big deal. Just go to Indiana.” This is Jayson's take. I'm chilling with him and Uncle Kid at Sure Burger, chowing down and soaking up the St. Joseph win.

“Not as simple as that, little man,” Kid says. Now that he's got himself cleaned up, he's taken on this knowing air. He even made a face when we walked in the place, sneering at the greasy, dingy atmosphere. It's like he's suddenly trying to be the big man around everyone. I'm not buying it. “Your brother's got a lot to weigh,” he goes on. “What system will fit? What coach will stay? Where can he get some hardware?”

I wave them both off. “I only care about two things,” I say. “Beating Evansville Harrison next weekend and getting into this grub.” With that, I dig in, and they follow suit.

We eat in satisfied silence for a while, people-watching while we chow down. There's a guy in the corner, hood pulled up, so wrecked he can barely sit up to eat. A couple older guys two tables over, already fat as houses, shoveling cheese fries like there's no tomorrow. Then random
kids my age, all acting the fool on a Saturday night—yapping and laughing, the guys bumping fists and the girls hugging everyone they see, all of them making an impossible mess of discarded straws and lids and burger wrappers. Some of the older guys have that low-lidded look like they've added a little something extra to their drinks.

After a few minutes, Jayson and Kid go back to arguing over where I should go. Jayson gets a little worked up, more than I'd expect. That just lets Kid play his new role. He talks in this patient, relaxed voice to Jayson. And that just sets Jayson off more. “I'm
thirteen
,” he snaps. “I can think for myself. You act like everything I say is stupid.” It's
loud.
Angry. An outburst even for Jayson.

It pops the whole place to attention. Even the derelict in the corner rouses a little, eyeing our table for a second before sinking back down into his fog. Kid eases off. He raises his hands and pushes back from the table. “Easy,” he says. “Nobody's saying you're stupid. You're entitled to your opinion.” Then he gives this chuckle. It's not Kid's natural laugh—more like something more mature he's imitating. I'm with Jayson. Not about making a snap decision to go to Indiana, but that this new version of Kid is a drag. I want my Uncle Kid back. Easy, funny, down to hang. Not this guy stuffed into a button-down, checking his smartphone every two minutes to text April.

Then again, the old Kid would have been running some game. He'd have been playing Kentucky for a car and Louisville for a load of cash, probably ten other schools for some other kind of mess. So maybe the “new Kid” isn't that bad a deal.

And then—Lia Stone. She comes through that door, looking
fiiine
, a few friends tagging along. Her friends aren't bad either, but
they're not the reason Sure Burger goes still. When Lia Stone comes in a room, people notice. Every guy in the place swells up—chin out, chest puffed, acting all big. And their girls cut their eyes over at Lia in jealousy. The only person that doesn't seem fazed at all is Lia herself. Composed as can be, she just walks to the counter and checks the menu. Even the guy at the register—stringy-armed and pint-sized, not a chance in the world—eyes Lia, checking her from her tight black jeans to her dope gray sweater with the black trim. His jaw hangs open like Beyoncé just walked in.

My heart's still with Jasmine. But my body's here in the same place as Lia.

“Easy on the stare, D,” Uncle Kid says. “Creeping never helped a brother.”

It's the first good advice I've had from Kid in a while, so I go back to my burger and fries. But I still check her. Lia orders, waits on her friends, then goes to find an open table. And then—yep—
she
checks
me
. I don't turn to look straight at her, just keep her in my peripheral vision. She hesitates, like she's not sure she should step over. Then she slings her purse down in her chair and comes our way. “Derrick?” she says.

I do my gentleman thing, stand to greet her and introduce her to my brother and uncle. Then we kind of stand there, wondering what to say. Leave it to Jayson to break that silence. “I already know who she is, D,” he cracks. Then he turns to her. “You know, I'll be at Marion East next year. Ain't no rule says a freshman can't hook up with a senior girl.”

That knocks even Lia off-balance a bit. It takes her a second to recover. She shakes her head real quick like she's dazed. Then that smile
comes soft and easy and all is good. “You're gonna get big and break hearts, aren't you?” she says to Jayson.

And with that Lia does something nobody in our family's been able to do for years—she renders Jayson speechless. A goofy grin spreads across his face. He even has to look away, all bashful. He's been bristling pretty good at everyone lately, but I know she just made his world.

Then Lia turns her gaze back to me. I try not to buckle under it. “You guys balled out pretty strong tonight,” she says.

Immediate relief—she's going to talk hoops. “We got after it pretty good,” I say. “But the real test is next week. Gotta get revenge on Evansville Harrison.”

“You'll get it,” she says. “The way you're playing, you'll get everything you want.”

I glance down at Kid. The guy trying to be all-wise and above it all is gone. Just the old Kid now. He leans forward a tad, eyes bugged, silently urging me to take Lia Stone up on her word. If I don't do something soon, Kid's going to ask her out for me. “How about after that game you and I kick it?” I say. Then, afraid that
kick it
makes it sound too much like we're friends, I clarify. I look her in the eye, say, “Just us. Someplace a lot nicer than this.”

“You're on,” she says. Then she's out.

I sit back down, as amped from that little exchange as I was at any point during tonight's game. When I finally check Kid and Jayson, they're just shaking their heads at me.

“Man,” Kid says, “you got quicks on the court, but you are
sloooow
around women.”

“What?” I say.

Jayson jumps in now. “Staring at a gimme and you almost couldn't pull the trigger.”

They laugh, and I take it. Because when they're done laughing, I'm the one heading out with Lia Stone next weekend.

I explain why. No Wes. No nonsense. No trouble. Just a real, honest-to-goodness date. I mean, a
date
in 2015. It's so quaint my parents should be thrilled. But you'd think asking them for the car and some extra cash is as big a deal as getting them to change their will.

“Where are you taking her?” Mom asks.

“I don't know. Some place decent downtown. I haven't figured out every move yet.”

“What kind of girl is she?” Dad asks.

“She's nice,” I say. “It's not like last year.” And that's about as much as I'll say to them on that subject. I know I got myself tangled up with Daniella Cole last year, but I've learned my lesson. I don't want to re-hash it.

“Fine,” Mom says at last. “Figure out where you're taking her so I know how much money to give you. Text me when you get there. Text me when you drop her off at home. And be back in this door by 11:30. Or you will never drive a car again until you're 40.”

Again, I just take it. All I want is the car, a decent time with Lia. If that means they're going to treat me like I'm some liar and criminal, fine. It's humiliating. But whatever.

Dad can still see me seething. So when Mom's finished her little lecture and gone to bed, leaving me and Dad alone to check a West Coast game, he picks at that thread. “Don't sulk. You're getting what you want.”

“I know,” I say. “But you two act like I shot someone this summer. Can't you finally let it go?”

It's a risk. Dad could get offended and rescind the permission I just got. But he nods, actually acknowledging that I have a point. Then he rubs his jaw and neck, pondering something. He looks at me, thinks some more, and then he starts in. “Your Uncle Kid had a chance. He was something to behold back in the day. People in the family were the only ones who used to call him Kid. That's because he was my kid brother, no other younger cousins. So it was all
Kid, Kid, Kid.
But outside the house he was Sidney. He was Sidney to his teachers, who loved him. He was Sidney to his youth coaches, who saw all his potential. Then he hit high school and started wanting everyone to call him Kid. It became like this persona he had—reckless, nonchalant, impulsive. It wasn't the Sidney I'd known, and it was hard to watch.”

“Dad, I'm not—” but he just holds his hand up. Not my time to talk. So I just settle back on the couch and listen to Dad's story.

He looks away sometimes while he's talking, either because the memories are too hazy or, maybe, too fresh. “Still, he wasn't in any real trouble. He'd piss off his coaches, sure. Just had to do things his way. But that story's as old as sports. Nothing bad. And when Bolden took over Kid's senior year, it was clear right away there was going to be friction. That your eighteen-year-old uncle and Joe Bolden somehow landed in the same locker room is a sign that God most certainly plays tricks on us.” He smiles then, amused at the idea. Then he's back to it. “Anyway, even then there was nothing bad until a few weeks into his senior season. He came home one day and was off the team. Just like that. I remember being at college and asking my parents why, but they
didn't have any answers. Well, come Christmas break when I was back home, they finally explained it to me.”

Now he stares at me, a long and serious look across our living room. I see the lights from the T.V. flicker on his face, but otherwise his expression is dark and foreboding. “Bolden found a few grams of cocaine in your uncle's locker.” Dad sighs, still pained. “Kid swore and swore, and would swear today, that he was just holding it for a friend. Maybe that was true. He'd gotten in with some bad people. But it didn't matter either way. Bolden suspended him. Then Kid kept screwing up every chance he had to come back. He was late to every bus. He got in a fight at practice. And then, late in the season, he got arrested. Same thing—more coke. He told Mom and Dad he was just holding it for someone again, but even they didn't believe him this time.”

I didn't know any of this. I imagined some of it—Kid missing buses, acting like a fool under Bolden's watch. But I never knew about the drugs. I mean, I suspected it sometimes. It's not a complete shock. To hear Dad say it makes it real though.

As he talked, Dad fell into a kind of trance. His eyes fixed on some random place on the wall behind me. Now he snaps out of it and looks at me. “So. It's not just your Mom and I being paranoid. We had just started dating when Kid got into that trouble. And, son, we don't think you're going to do stupid things like that, but you get in with the wrong people and—”

Now I'm the one interrupting him. “Wes isn't one of those people, Dad.” I don't know if I fully believe that myself anymore—but it's not okay for anyone else to badmouth him. “He's just going through some stuff, and he needs some help.”

Dad nods, trying to be understanding. “I hear you, Derrick,” he says, “but I've spent almost two decades trying to pull Kid up. It wouldn't take so much effort if I could have just kept him away from the wrong people in high school.”

“That's not gonna happen with me and Wes,” I say. But again, I don't half believe my own words.

Finally, Dad waves his hand in the air like he's trying to shoo a fly. “Fine. Let's leave it. You want cash and the car for a date and we're giving it to you. Good?”

“Good,” I say. That's that, but I know the conversation isn't really over.