Seconds Away (10 page)

CHAPTER 19

There is plenty
I don’t love about sports. I don’t love how athletes are worshipped because they can, say, hurl a sphere with greater velocity or jam a ball through a metallic hoop with more proficiency than most. I don’t love how important we make the games, comparing them to real battles and even wars. I don’t love how it is all anyone in towns like Kasselton talks about. I don’t love (hate, in fact) trash talk and excessive celebrating (as my father used to say, “Act like you’ve been there before”). I don’t like the way spectators scream at referees and whine about coaches. I don’t like the single-mindedness and selfishness that is inherent in all competitors, including me. And in a town like this, I don’t like all the babble about becoming a pro athlete when your odds are eight times better of falling and dying in your bathroom (true!).

But there is plenty I do love. I love sportsmanship, as corny as that sounds. I love shaking hands after the game and giving an opponent a knowing nod. I love sharing a great moment with my teammates, the joy in that singular connection. I love the sweat. I love making the effort, even if it doesn’t go my way. I love how you can be surrounded by a frenzy of activity—and yet still be completely alone. I love the sound of a ball dribbling off the gym floor. I love the escape you find only on a playing field. I love the purity of the game itself. I love the competition—and by that I mean “winning,” not “beating,” “besting,” or “belittling” your opponent, though I get how that can all get confused. I love the randomness of the breaks. I love how you really don’t know how that ball is going to bounce. And I love the honesty. I love the fact that even if your dad is your Little League coach and makes you pitcher or quarterback, eventually, if you don’t have the talent, that fact will win out.

My point?

It took a while. I was nervous at first. I missed more shots than I normally do. My new potential teammates froze me out at first, because I was the new kid, an interloper, and I had already made enemies with guys like Troy and Buck. But once we started to scrimmage, once we began to sprint up and down and shed our nervous energy, once I moved into that magical “zone” where the rest of the world disappears—that place I love like no other—I began to make passes and shots that drew gasps.

Coach Stashower, a younger English teacher, said nothing for a while, but about an hour into practice, I saw him go into Gym 1 and talk to Coach Grady. Coach Grady stood in the doorway and watched for a while, his arms folded. I upped my game. I made two straight three-pointers and then I drove hard to the hoop and dished off to one of my teammates, who made the easy layup. I grabbed rebounds. I shut down my man on defense. I focused on the game and for a while I even forgot that the varsity coach was watching me.

But I knew.

That was what I meant by the honesty of the game. On the court, you can run but you can’t hide. In that same vein, you can try to hold someone back but if he’s got the goods, he will eventually break free. Coach Grady might have wanted it neat and simple and expected. He had his returning seniors all ready to go. But sports in general never fits into the neat and simple and expected. If it did, we wouldn’t need to watch or even play, would we?

“Okay,” Coach Stashower shouted, “that’s it for today. Go shower up. Tryouts tomorrow are at five
P.M
. See you then.”

As we began to disperse, lots of the guys came over and congratulated me. They asked me questions about where I’d learned to play, where I was from, what classes I was taking. I know I said I loved the postgame handshake. I do. I like the respect you give an opponent or a teammate. But I don’t like the fact that because you happen to leap high or demonstrate above-average coordination that people suddenly want to be your friend.

But, hey, that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy the attention.

Some people might call that hypocritical. I would probably agree.

The JV was finished before the varsity, so I was able to shower and get dressed without running into Troy and Buck. As I calmed down, I start thinking back on Troy’s speech. Maybe, awful as this sounded, he was being somewhat legit. Maybe he and Rachel still had a relationship. They had dated, right? So maybe they had started up again. Maybe her brush with death had brought them back together.

I wished that the thought didn’t turn my stomach so much.

I dried off and let myself catch my breath for a second. When I checked my phone, my heart sped up all over again. There was a short text from Rachel:
Hey

I smirked. Rachel must have gone to the Mickey Bolitar School of Big Opening Lines. I checked the time on the text. She had sent it an hour ago. I quickly typed a killer response:
Hey, you still there?

No reply. I put the phone down and dressed, staring at it, waiting for it to vibrate. I was putting on my sneakers when it did.

Rachel:
Yes. Where r u?

Me:
Tryouts today.

Rachel:
How did they go?

Me:
Fine. Who cares? How are you??

Rachel:
Better. Bullet skimmed my head but caused no damage. Being released tomorrow afternoon.

Immature as this sounded, I wanted to ask her if she’d been in touch with Troy, but a) it wasn’t my business; and b) could you imagine anything more petty? Plus his speech came back to me:

That special girl who stole my heart is lying in a hospital bed, clinging to life.

The one who was being released tomorrow? Liar!

Rachel:
Cand you stop by my house tomorrow after school?

Okay, I admit it—I felt a swelling in my chest and there was a smile on my face. School ended at three. Tryouts started at five.

Me:
No problem.

Rachel:
My dad will be home by 4. I don’t want him to see you so we have to make it fast.

I didn’t know what to make of that.

Me:
Something wrong?

Rachel:
Gotta go. Don’t tell anyone I texted you. No one. See u tomorrow.

I stared at the phone another minute or two and then finished getting dressed. When I got outside, Coach Stashower was waiting for me.

“You have a minute, Mickey?”

“Sure, Coach.”

Coach Stashower had thick curly hair and wore a polo shirt with the Kasselton Camel, our school mascot, on it. We moved into the PE teachers’ office and he closed the door.

“You’re some player, Mickey,” he said with something approaching awe.

Not sure what else to say, I went with, “Thank you.”

“I mean, this is only one day.” He cleared his throat, his voice more serious now. “Tryouts last the rest of the week. It may have been just a fluke.”

I didn’t say anything. I knew. He knew. Again, I don’t say this to sound cocky or full of myself. I say it because I know. I hate when the gorgeous girl always pretends she has no idea she’s pretty. It is dishonest. That kind of false modesty can be as annoying as bragging. So I didn’t say anything—there was no need because it all gets said on the court—but Coach Stashower knew that it wasn’t a fluke.

“Coach Grady is going to be working with the varsity for another hour, and he didn’t want you to wait around for him. He also needs to think about some stuff.” Coach Stashower stopped then, unsure how to continue. “Anyway, he asked if you can come to his office tomorrow at lunch. Can you make it?”

I tried very hard not to smile. “Yes, Coach.”

“Okay then. Go home and get some rest.”

CHAPTER 20

But I had no interest
in rest. I was still flying high.

What I really wanted to do was play more basketball. I realize that this may sound obvious, but the more you play, the better you get. Plus I loved it.

I checked the clock. The pickup games down in Newark might still be going on. I could grab the next bus and be downtown in half an hour.

I texted Tyrell Waters, a junior at Newark’s Weequahic High School, who lived on those courts:
Games still on?

I realized that I probably wouldn’t get an answer—Tyrell could be playing right now—but I got one immediately.

Tyrell:
Yep, come on down.

I caught the bus at the Northfield Avenue stop. The bus was filled with weary housekeepers, nannies, and various domestics, who always gave this white boy curious looks. The trip from the leafy suburb of Kasselton to the grimier streets of Newark was only seven miles in distance but much farther in pretty much every other way.

The pickup basketball games were played on cracked asphalt with rusted rims. I started coming down here about a month ago because this is where the best basketball is played. You can call me prejudiced for that, but again it’s like that false modesty thing. If you want to get better—and keep your game under wraps until tryouts—these urban streets were the place to go.

Tyrell spotted me coming toward him. He waved and gave me a smile. “I sat out a game so we could be on the same team.”

“Thanks.”

I was pretty much the only guy from the well-to-do suburbs who made this trek on his own. When I first showed up, I had been greeted by plenty of doubt and even derision, but again that was the beauty of sports. Once we got on the court, corny as this might sound, all that stuff fell to the side. I’ve played basketball throughout the world, most of the time in countries where I didn’t know the language. It didn’t matter. You bond on the court. You all speak or at least understand the same language. The other nonsense just fades away.

“So what’s going on?” Tyrell asked.

“First day of tryouts.”

“How did it go?”

“Pretty well.”

Tyrell smiled. “Yeah, I bet. Hey, Weequahic plays Kasselton this year. That should be a fun game.”

“I look forward to it.”

On the court, someone made a dunk to give his team the victory. There were always spectators at the pickup games. On the right, a group of homeless guys were cheering and jeering and placing “bottle bets” on the games. Various coaches and parents stood closer in, leaning against the fence, scrutinizing every move.

Pickup basketball is simple: winners stay on, losers sit. No one likes to sit, so the games become very competitive. Tyrell is a great point guard. He sees the entire court with just a quick glance. He fed me two down low, and we jumped out to a quick lead. We cruised from there. I don’t remember how many games we played or how much time it took. It was all just a wonderful escape. For a little while I didn’t think about my father or my mother or Rachel or any of it.

Darkness crept in, so someone turned on the floodlights. We kept playing. It was getting late, but I didn’t really care. After we won the most recent game—Tyrell drove the length of the court for the final basket—I checked my phone. Uncle Myron had called three times and texted asking where I was. I figured it was best to call him back.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“I’m at the courts in Newark.”

“Tryouts weren’t enough today, huh?”

This was the one thing Myron totally got. “I just wanted to get a little more playing in,” I said.

“So how did it go today?”
“Fine.”

He obviously wanted details, but like I said, it is always better to let your game do the talking. Myron probably understood that too.

“I’m going to be home late,” Myron said. “Angelica is filming tonight and I need to be there. Will you be okay?”

Why did I feel such relief when I knew he wouldn’t be around?

“I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

We said we’d stay in touch and hung up. Tyrell and I managed to scrape up enough players for one more game, but then it was pretty much over for the night. Guys said good-bye and drifted away until it was only Tyrell and me left. The two of us shot around and shared some laughs. I beat him in a game of horse by only one letter, and he immediately demanded a rematch. We started breaking out trick shots and then, because this was the other magic of sports, we started talking for real.

“My friend was shot,” I told him. “Her mother was killed.”

Tyrell stopped. “For real?”

“Yes.”

He asked for details. I told him about Rachel, about Ema and Spoon, about Troy’s speech at practice, about everything that happened at the Plan B nightclub.

When I finished, Tyrell shook his head and said, “Man, you have a way of finding trouble.”

“I like to think trouble finds me.”

“And I like to think every girl in school wants my bod,” Tyrell said. “Doesn’t make it so. Anyway, my old man told me you were involved in all those arrests at that nightclub. He didn’t know what to make of it either.”

I should have figured as much. Tyrell’s father worked as an investigator for Essex County.

“In fact, Dad probably would’ve been the one to interview you, except he’s working on this big drug ring in your hometown.”

As if on cue, we heard a voice say, “Good to see you guys working on your game.”

Tyrell’s father smiled as he approached. His jacket was off, so I could see the badge and gun hanging from his belt. Mr. Waters gave his son a hug. If Tyrell was embarrassed about it, he didn’t show it. He hugged his father back, and I felt a pang of envy.

Mr. Waters turned to me. “Hello, Mickey.”

“Hello, Mr. Waters.”

“How are things?”

Last time I was down here, Mr. Waters had driven me home. He’d seen Shaved Head following me and had grown concerned. When we reached Myron’s house, he gave me his card and told me to call in case of trouble.

“I’m fine.”

He kept his eyes on me. I realized that he was a county investigator, probably working in the same division as Investigator Dunleavy. I wondered whether he knew that I’d been questioned about the shooting at the Caldwell house.

“What do you say I take you guys out for a quick bite and then I can drive Mickey home?”

“Thanks for the offer,” I said, “but I can take the bus.”

“It’s no hassle. I have to be in Kasselton for a case anyway. It’ll be good to have the company.”

That was what he had said last time, but there had been something of an ulterior motive. Of course, the ulterior motive was that he’d been worried about me.

“It’s late and I’m starving,” Mr. Waters said. “What do you boys say?”

Tyrell turned to me. “Come on. You gotta eat, right?”

Hard to argue with that logic. We headed to Hobby’s Deli and sat in the corner. All three of us ordered triple-decker sandwiches the approximate size of a catcher’s mitt. It was the best sandwich I had ever eaten. On a scale of one to ten, if this was a ten, the next best sandwich I’d had was a three.

“Cops always know the best places to eat,” Mr. Waters explained.

He asked us about our day, about our studies, about our basketball. He listened and I could see how much he was enjoying this. I was enjoying it too, but that pang never left. He dropped Tyrell at their two-family house on Pomona Avenue. Tyrell kissed his father’s cheek before he got out. Another pang.

Tyrell fist-bumped me and said, “Kick that Troy guy’s ass.”

“Will do.”

Mr. Waters waited until Tyrell was inside before driving again. Neither one of us said anything for a few minutes. Then Mr. Waters broke the silence. “I hear you were questioned by my colleague Investigator Dunleavy.”

Just as I’d suspected. “Yes, sir.”

But hearing her name reminded me of something else—in Rachel’s hospital room, hiding under the bed, Chief Taylor’s voice . . .

A homicide detective named Anne Marie Dunleavy will be coming by to interview you. Don’t feel obligated to talk to her before we speak again, okay?

What had that been about?

“Everything okay, Mickey?”

“Fine, yes. I’m a friend of Rachel Caldwell’s, that’s all.”

“I see.”

“She and I talked on the phone before the shooting,” I said.

Mr. Waters nodded, both hands on the wheel, his eyes straight ahead. “It’s a terrible thing. What happened to her mother. Gunned down like that.”

I said nothing.

“Did you know her?” he asked.

“Rachel’s mother?”

“Yes.”

“No, we never met.”

“How’s Rachel holding up?” he asked.

I squirmed in my seat. I didn’t want to tell him that I’d sneaked into the hospital, but I didn’t want to lie either. “She seems better.”

“That’s good. How about Henry?”

“Who?”

“Henry Caldwell. Her father.” We hit a traffic light and came to a stop. Mr. Waters turned and met my eye. “How’s he doing?”

“I don’t know Mr. Caldwell.”

“No?” Mr. Waters arched an eyebrow. “I just figured, you being such good friends with Rachel and all, that you’d have met one of her parents.”

“I haven’t,” I said softly. “And I don’t really know her all that well.”

“But you talked on the phone right before the shooting.”

This was sounding less and less like a casual conversation. “We were partners on a history project,” I said.

He waited. When I didn’t add anything else, Mr. Waters said, “And you two were both involved in that mess at the Plan B nightclub.”

“Yes,” I said.

We pulled up to Myron’s house. Mr. Waters turned off the engine. “Mickey?”

“Yes?”

“Are you sure there’s nothing you need to tell me?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“No? First, you have some weird bald dude following you in a black car. Then you get involved in a big-time arrest at an adult nightclub. And now, well, this shooting in your hometown.”

I liked Mr. Waters. I really did. I also thought that he probably had my best interests in mind. But I didn’t know what to say or even where to start. Too much had gone on in the past week, and I had been warned by Bat Lady not to tell anyone. Even if I defied her, what exactly would I say?

“Mickey?”

“I really don’t know anything more,” I said.

He rubbed his face for a moment. “You still have my card?”

“Yes.”

“Put my number on your speed dial. I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”