Boy21

Boy21 Page 12

Terrell gets dropped off by his brother Mike, who’s driving a pimped BMW with chromed-out rims and tinted windows. The bass from his stereo hits my chest as he cruises away.

“Where Coach?” Terrell asks.

“Dunno,” I say.

He’s wearing a gold chain with his number dangling from it—3. That’s new, I think.

Assistant Coach Watts shows up and we know Coach is officially late, because our JV coach is never on time.

Coach is never late.

Never.

What’s up?

Suddenly, as I stand there huddling with the other players, I realize why Coach is late.

I break out in a cold sweat.

He’s trying to talk Boy21 into coming to practice.

“White Rabbit, why you look so nervous?” Terrell asks me.

I shake my head and shrug.

“You should open your damn mouth more,” Hakim says to me. “The only time I hear you speak is when you calling out plays.”

“What you reading?” Terrell says to Wes.

“Ralph Ellison,” Wes says without looking up.

“Who Ralph Ellison?” Terrell asks.

“One of the most important African American writers,” says Wes, sounding like what some people would call bougie. “Part of your heritage. An author you should really read.”

Terrell flashes the rest of us a funny expression and then grabs the book out of Wes’s hands.

“Give that back to me!” Wes says.

Terrell inspects the book and then yells, “Harry Potter! This fool’s readin’ ’bout a boy wizard!”

Everyone laughs at Wes, even Coach Watts, but I’m not really sure why.

So what if Wes wants to read Harry Potter?

Who cares?

I want to say something to Terrell, but my tongue won’t work and I feel my face turning red.

“We have to read it for Advanced Placement English,” Wes says. “It’s assigned reading. It’s not my fault!”

“That true, White Rabbit?” Sir asks me.

“Absolutely,” I say, just to save Wes from sounding like a liar, and he shoots me a thankful look before he grabs his Harry Potter book back from Terrell.

“Any black people in Harry Potter books?” Terrell asks.

“Why does that even matter?” Wes says.

Before Terrell can answer, Coach pulls up in his truck with Boy21.

“Look who it is, White Rabbit,” Terrell says. “It’s your shadow. Thought Black Rabbit didn’t play basketball?”

“Why’s he ridin’ with Coach?” Hakim asks.

“Dunno.” I peer up into the sky. Gray everywhere.

Coach unlocks the gym door and we all go inside.

I decide to ignore Boy21 and simply focus on my own goals. If I don’t even talk to Erin during basketball season, and Erin’s been my best friend since elementary school, then I shouldn’t feel bad about ignoring Boy21. Time to prioritize. Time to play basketball. My teammates need me.

Right?

The only problem is that Boy21’s parents were murdered and I know that I should be helping him, because he’s suffering.

As we shoot around, Boy21 hovers near me, but I just keep moving—chasing rebounds. I never really minded having a shadow, but Boy21’s presence feels heavy now, like it could slow me down. It’s almost like having a girlfriend during the season—an extra worry.

I catch Russ’s eye once and he looks really nervous, scared, which makes me angry because, if Coach’s assessment is right, Boy21’s the best basketball player in the gym, so what does he have to worry about?

When Coach blows the whistle we all sit against the wall. Boy21 plops down next to me, but I don’t look at him. Coach says he only has enough uniforms to keep eighteen players, and cuts will be next week. There are twenty-six players sitting against the wall, which means eight players will not make the team.

Coach talks about our goal of winning a state championship. He talks about teamwork and hard work and how we’re going to become a unit—a family. He says all the stuff he says every year.

I’ve heard these words a thousand times before, but even so, Coach’s message makes me feel lighter, focused. My muscles are ready. My heart wants to beat hard. My mind wants to shut off. It’s like falling into a trance.

The season is the only thing that really makes any sense in my life. There’s a clear objective. People come together to accomplish this objective, and the community celebrates that. Basketball’s the only thing around here that gets done right, the only thing that people consistently support. It’s the best thing in my life by far, except for maybe Erin.

Soon we’re running full-court drills, but I can’t even lose track of Boy21 in the shuffle of the lines because he’s performing so horrifically that everyone notices him.

The first pass he makes goes into the stands.

The first four shots he takes are air balls or bricks.

He gets beat every time while playing defense.

He looks awful—like he’s drunk or something.

His shoulders are slumped forward and his knees are together, which is a terrible basketball stance. He’s always looking up at the lights, like he’s expecting to be beamed up into outer space or something, or maybe like he’s praying. It’s clear that he really doesn’t want to be here.

But the funny thing is: I’m not happy about this. I actually start to worry about Boy21, because the expression on his face makes it looks like he’s about to cry. I worry so much about Boy21 that it starts to affect my game, and when I throw a bad pass, Coach yells, “What’s wrong with you, Finley? You’re competing for your starting spot too! No free rides!”

Coach has never yelled at me like that before. It makes me really nervous and confused.

In order for Coach to be happy with my performance, both Boy21 and I need to play well, which seems unfair. I’m connected to Russ in a way that the other players are not.

When Coach goes over the new offensive plays, I’m relieved to find myself still practicing with the first squad.

Boy21 runs with the second team, but he can’t seem to remember the plays, even after watching me run them for a good twenty minutes.

He’s awful.

Too awful.

Unbelievably terrible.

It’s almost comical.

The other starters exchange angry looks and shake their heads and mumble curse words, because Russ is single-handedly ruining the flow of practice.

It’s like Boy21 has never touched a basketball in his life.

It’s almost like he’s intentionally—

That’s when I understand what’s going on. Why Coach looks so frustrated and angry.

For the next two hours I play as hard as I can, but my mind’s elsewhere.

Toward the end of practice the girls’ team enters the gym. I glance up at Erin. She’s watching my every move, rooting for me with her eyes and fighting an urge to wave. I wish I could tell her what’s going on, but we won’t be speaking for another three months, and that’s just that.

My practice uniform is heavy with sweat. My hair and skin are slick. My muscles are tired and so is my mind, because of Boy21. Basketball has never been so stressful before. I’m thinking too much. It’s better when athletes don’t think.

As we run our end-of-practice sprints I make sure that I finish first every time, even though Sir, Hakim, Terrell, and probably Boy21 are much faster than I am when they’re not tired. I’m tired too, but because I’m not as gifted as the other top players, I have to outwork talent, like Dad says, so I push myself harder and win every sprint by five to ten feet.

I try to make up for my poor practice and soon my lungs are aflame and my legs are screaming, threatening to quit on me.

Each time, Boy21 finishes dead last.

He looks pathetic.

“Bring it in,” Coach says.

We huddle together and put our hands in the center so that we make a big wheel of bodies with arm spokes.

Coach says, “Second session starts at three. Finley and Russ, I’ll see you in the coaches’ office. On three, team! One, two, three—”

“Team!” everyone yells, and then I follow Coach into his office and Russ follows me. Coach Watts herds everyone else into the locker room and the girls take the court with the noise of a dozen or so basketballs being dribbled and twice as many pairs of sneakers pounding the hardwood floor.

Boy21 and I stand on opposite sides of the office.

Coach shuts the door and says, “Finley, I asked you to help Russ transition to Bellmont, correct?”

I nod.

“Based on what I told you about Russ, do you not think that our team would have a better chance of achieving its goals if he played for us this year?”

Boy21 looks at his shoes.

“He’s known that you were clued in from the start, because I told him about our conversations,” Coach says. “So just answer my question, Finley.”

“Yes.”

Yes, the team would be better with a nationally recruited all-star point guard playing instead of me.

“Then why did you tell Russ not to come out for the team?” Coach asks.

My eyes almost pop out of my head. I never told Boy21 not to come out for the team. Never! I open my mouth but no words will come. My tongue just won’t work.

It feels like my heart is a squirrel trying to climb up and out of my throat. My hands are balled up. Sweat beads are jumping from my face to the floor.

“He never exactly said that to me,” Boy21 says. “Not with words.”

“What?” Coach says to Boy21. “You told me this morning that Finley said you shouldn’t play for our team.”

“That’s not what I said,” Boy21 says. “I said I could tell he didn’t want me to play. He never told me not to, but he never asked me to play either—he never encouraged me, and I could just tell. Coach, this is Finley’s senior year. I don’t want to come in and ruin it for him.”

“We do what’s best for the team,” Coach says. “Remember what we’ve been talking about?”

“Coach, Finley’s been so cool to me. He’s a good person. He loves this game a lot more than I do. He worked so hard in the off-season. Much harder than I worked. I can’t just jump in and take his starting spot. What kind of friend would I be?”

I study Boy21’s face for a long moment.

He doesn’t crack a smile.

He doesn’t even blink.

He’s completely sincere.

He wasn’t going to play basketball this year just so I could start. That’s why he was pretending he couldn’t play during practice—just for my benefit. I feel something akin to what I feel for my own family, Erin, and Coach as I realize what’s going through Boy21’s mind. I’m not sure anyone has ever offered to make such a sacrifice for me.

“I can’t take his number either. It wouldn’t be right,” Boy21 says.

I look down at the number 21 on my practice jersey, the number I’ve been wearing since freshman year. I knew this was coming, but I feel differently than I thought I would. Of course he’d want to wear that number.

“Finley, you never told Russ not to play basketball?” Coach asks.