by Carl Deuker
Uncle Frank looked like he could have been my older brother. His face was smooth, his blond hair perfectly combed, and his clothes crisply pressed. He was gym-club muscular and had what looked like a diamond ring on his little finger. My dad—with his sweatshirt, stubble, and extra forty pounds—looked ten years older.
Uncle Frank smiled when he saw me, came out to the living room, and shook my hand as if I were an adult. “You have really grown, Jonas. How long has it been since I’ve seen you? It must be four years.”
“Good to see you, Uncle Frank,” I said, embarrassed and confused. Why was he visiting now?
We both stood awkwardly, neither of us knowing what to say next. Then my dad’s voice came from the kitchen. “Your uncle Frank and I have some business to talk over, Jonas. We’ll all go out to dinner later when your mom comes home.”
I went into the den and turned on the television, but I kept the sound low so I could hear what they were saying. Uncle Frank did all the talking. I couldn’t follow everything he said, but I picked up stray sentences here and there. Right now the place is failing . . . Sure you could . . . You’d be doing me the favor . . . I’m going to have to move on this soon.
My mom came home a little later, and we went to dinner at a fancy restaurant up in Woodside. It was the first time in a long while that we’d gone anywhere. Uncle Frank ordered a couple of bottles of wine and then told stories about how great Seattle was. “There are mountains and lakes, golf courses and ski resorts. It’s got everything, including rain. You’d love it up there, Jonas.” My mom was smiling and talked some, but my dad stayed mostly quiet all through the evening. When the bill came, Uncle Frank insisted on paying. I could tell my dad didn’t like that, but he let him.
Uncle Frank left early the next morning. Once he was gone, my dad explained. “He’s offered me a job. He wants me to manage one of his restaurants up in Seattle.”
“You? Manage a restaurant?” I said, without thinking. “Could you do that?”
My father laughed. “That’s exactly what I said to him. He seems to think I can.”
My head was spinning. All that talk about how much I’d love Seattle suddenly made sense. “That’s great,” I said, forcing the words out.
My dad shrugged. “It is and it isn’t. I’ll have a job, but if we moved to Seattle, you’d have to start over with new teachers, a new coach, and new teammates. I don’t want to ruin your chance for that scholarship, especially since I’m not sure I can even do the work. So this is your call.”
I sat absolutely still. He’d said exactly what I’d been thinking.
A long moment passed. Then he picked up his glass and drank some of his beer. “You don’t have to decide now, Jonas,” he said as he put his glass down. “Tomorrow or the next day is fine. Frank can wait that long.”
“No,” I said, and my voice sounded strange to me. “I don’t need to think about it. Guys transfer to new schools all the time. It’ll be okay.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” I insisted, even though I wasn’t sure at all.
The next day was May 10—my seventeenth birthday. When I came home from school, a For Sale sign was in front of the house.
13
ONCE MY DAD KNEW HE’D be working again, he shaved and changed his clothes every day. Instead of drinking beer in front of the television, he spent his afternoons at the kitchen table reading library books on restaurant management. My mom’s eyes regained their normal blue color, and the worry was gone from them. She still worked extra hours, but she was eating more. Our situations had reversed. Now I was the one who had trouble eating; now I was the one who was afraid of the future.
I had school every day and homework every night and final exams coming up fast. I had Coach Russell telling me that I would do fine in Seattle, and Mr. Nutting telling me that if I studied hard I could pass Algebra II, and Lisa telling me that chemistry was more memorization than anything else.
The thing that kept me from going crazy with worry was basketball. I was playing on a spring rec league team that had two games a week. Rec basketball was far easier on the mind than high school ball. Our coach just rolled the ball onto the floor and let us play. Only a few parents bothered to attend the games, which was great.
I wanted to go into a time bubble, where I could just play on that rec league team forever. But in early June, during one crazy-long Saturday of pure basketball pleasure, my team played from noon until ten at night and won the league tournament. In the locker room after the game, our coach gave me a plastic trophy with the letters MVP on the base. My teammates cheered for me, and then—exhausted—I headed out the gym door and back home. Spring basketball was over, and that meant the school year would soon be coming to a close too.
Through that whole time, the For Sale sign had hung from a post hammered into the front lawn. In a strange way, I liked the sign. If the house never sold, then we’d never leave. But when I came home on the Wednesday of finals week, I saw my dad and mom on the porch shaking hands with their realtor. I looked to the post: the For Sale sign was still up, but now the word Sold ran diagonally across it.
My parents smiled all through dinner that night, talking excitedly about Seattle and the Blue Jay restaurant my dad was going to manage. I forced myself to smile too, even though a fist-size lump filled my throat.
During lunch on the last day of school, Mark tried to cheer me up. “Seattle’s not so far,” he said, as he bit into his hamburger. “I could drive up and visit you, or you could come down and stay with us. It’s not like you’re going to the moon.” After school Lisa and I walked home together. “We can keep up with each other on Facebook,” she said. “We’ve known each other since before kindergarten. We’ve got to stay in touch.”
That night I lay on my bed in the darkness, unable to sleep. As the cars passed by on the street outside, the shadows created by their headlights danced across the ceiling of my room. My life was being cut up into a thousand pieces, and those pieces were being thrown up into the air. I was going to have to prove myself all over again.
It was late when I finally fell asleep. I woke up when my dad knocked hard on the door. “Rise and shine, Jonas. The moving guys will be coming in two days. We’ve got packing to do.”
PART TWO
1
ON THE MORNING OF JULY 1, I was standing in front of our new home, an old house in the Tangletown neighborhood of Seattle. Mom was down in Redwood City closing bank accounts, so in Seattle it was just my dad and me.
Two musclebound gorillas were unloading our stuff. Because of his leg and his back, my dad couldn’t help, which drove him crazy. When he barked out instructions, the moving guys would grunt and keep doing what they were doing.
At first I’d stationed myself inside the house, but every place I went, the moving men followed. I’d grinned stupidly at them, but they’d scowled back. “Where’s this go?” they’d ask, their giant tattooed arms holding a chair or a box or a cabinet.
“I guess right there is good.”
Thump.
Then my father would rush in. “Not there,” he’d say, and he’d make them take it down to the basement or into the living room. They’d pick up whatever it was, glare at me, and grumble their way to the new spot.
I moved to the sidewalk, where the moving guys couldn’t glower at me. But I felt stupid standing around where neighbors could see me.
I was feeling completely lost when I spotted a tall, sandy-haired kid, hands in his pockets, looking at me from across the street. I could tell from his face—some nasty zits and the beginning of a beard—that he was about my age.
Whenever I glanced at him, he dropped his head and stared at the ground. My dad noticed. “Invite him over, Jonas. He could be your new best friend.”
“If he wants to come over, he’ll come over.”
My dad looked at him, then at me, then back at him. Next, without any warning, he called out. “Hey, kid, come over here and meet my son.”
“What are you doing, Dad?” I hissed.
“I’m being neighborly, which is what you should be.”
2
THE KID’S HEAD STAYED DOWN as he shuffled over. “I’m Robert Dolan,” my dad said, sticking out his hand. Then he motioned to me. “This is my son, Jonas. My wife, Mary, is back with our old house in California. She’ll be joining us soon.”
The kid barely looked up. “I’m Levi Rawdon,” he answered in a voice strangely soft for such a big guy.
“You live near here, Levi?” my dad asked.
“There,” the kid said, and he pointed down the block. “The brown house.”
I looked to where he was pointing. Our rental house was okay. It had two stories, the beige paint wasn’t peeling, the lawn was green, and the bushes in the flower beds were alive. Levi’s house was both beat-up and small—only one story—with peeling paint, no flowers at all, and kids’ bikes strewn around the front yard.
At that moment, one of the moving guys dropped a box from the back of the truck onto the street. The crash was loud—like two cars hitting.
My dad’s spine straightened as he rushed forward. The ape stepped aside, but as he did he glared at my dad, daring him to make a big deal out of it. My dad glared right back, then knelt down and ripped the tape off the box so he could peer inside. I knew what he was afraid of: one of the boxes contained Irish plates that my mom had gotten when her own mother had died. They were the only things she had from her parents.
For thirty seconds, my dad’s hands waded through the box. Finally, he stood and looked the moving guy square in the eye. “All pots and pans. Nothing broken. You were lucky.” The big guy snorted, picked up the box, and carried it up the porch stairs and into the kitchen.
I turned back to Levi. “Have you lived here all your life?”
Levi shook his head. “I was born in Arkansas. We came to Seattle three years ago—my parents and my four sisters and me.” He paused. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“No,” I answered.
Levi’s eyes looked toward the movers again as they climbed the porch stairs, boxes in hand. “My father thought about renting that house, only it cost too much.”
We were a long way from being rich, but my dad had said the rent for the house was way less than it would have been in California. I glanced again at Levi’s tiny house and imagined his big family jammed in there. Where did they all sleep? When I looked back, I caught him staring at my house, his eyes moving from the ground floor to the upstairs. He was probably wondering what three people would do with so much room.
“I played basketball for my high school in California,” I said, just to say something. “How about you? Do you play?” It was a risky question because he looked like he might be one of those tall guys who aren’t coordinated enough to tie their own shoes. Guys like that hate to be asked about basketball, but I got lucky.
“Yeah, I play forward for Harding High.”
“You play for Harding? I just registered at Harding this morning.”
Levi beamed. “That’s great. We’ll be teammates.”
As soon as I’d mentioned basketball, he morphed into another person. The slouch disappeared, and he stood with his shoulders straight. He had a broad forehead, dark brown eyes, a straight nose, thick lips, and a strong jaw. He was bigger than I’d thought, probably six five or six six, and more muscular.
Once I discovered he was on the Harding High team, questions jumped into my mind. Did Harding have a point guard? Could the guy shoot? Could he pass? Could he run a fast break? Did I have a chance to beat him out for the starting spot? I didn’t ask Levi any of them. I didn’t know him well enough, not then. Besides, I was afraid of what the answers might be.
There was a long moment of silence. “You must also play football,” I said, scrambling for another topic. “Tight end? Linebacker? Quarterback?”
Levi’s mouth turned down, and he shook his head. “I won’t play football. It’s a sin to hurt another human being on purpose.”
“A sin?” I asked, not sure I’d heard correctly.
“Yes. A sin.”
Was he joking? What kid ever talked about sin? I nearly laughed, but I caught myself. I’m glad I did, because if Levi thought I was laughing at religion—at God—he’d have gone back into that squashed house of his, and I’d have never known him. I’d have played on the Harding High team with him; but I wouldn’t have known him. At the end, everything went wrong. But knowing Levi—being his best friend—that had been right.
3
I SPENT THE NEXT TWO DAYS working around the house. There were boxes to unload, carpets to unroll, furniture to move. On July 4 my dad and I went out for pizza before driving to Sea-Tac Airport to pick up my mom. From the freeway I could see fireworks exploding over Lake Union.
My mom’s flight was late, and she’d been stuck next to some guy who reeked of cigarettes, ate beef jerky, and hacked away for two hours. She was in no mood to talk—still, I was glad she was finally in Seattle.
When I awoke the following morning, I saw Mount Rainier out my window for the first time—clouds had covered it up until then. I’d known it was there, but I hadn’t known it was so enormous. The mountain rose like a giant coming out of the earth.
Downstairs, I found a note on the kitchen table from my mom saying that she and my dad wouldn’t be back until dinner. I fried myself a couple of eggs with bacon, grabbed my basketball, and headed out. Because I’d heard how cold and rainy Seattle is, I put on a hooded sweatshirt, but the sun was bright in the sky.
I knew from doing an Internet search that there were serious high school pickup games at the Green Lake Community Center. I’d need to play there eventually, but I hadn’t shot a basketball in a week, and I wanted to have my A game when I took on Seattle’s best players.
So instead of Green Lake, I headed to the Good Shepherd Center, a nearby park that I’d found using Google Maps. The streets wound this way and that—Tangletown is called Tangletown for a reason—but I finally found it.
The basketball hoops were tucked behind a brick building that had been a school before being converted into an arts center. The backboards were small, but the rims were straight and had nylon nets.
For an hour I practiced my stutter step, my crossover, and my jump shot. Then, I shot fifty free throws, sinking forty-one. After the last shot—a swish—dropped through, I retrieved the ball and held it, wondering what to do next.
That’s when I heard the thump-thump-thump of a basketball being dribbled. The brick building blocked my view, but the dribbling came closer and closer until finally the guy with the basketball turned a corner and I could see him.
Levi Rawdon.
He looked startled for a moment; then he smiled broadly and waved. “Jonas,” he called out.
“Hey, Levi,” I called back.
As he approached, I felt oddly confused. I needed to make friends, and what better place to start than with someone who lived on my block and was on the Harding High basketball team? But that stuff about sin made me wish that someone else had rounded that corner. If I swore or I said something nasty about somebody, I didn’t want the guy looking at me like I was on an express train to hell.
We shot around for a while, but shooting around gets old fast. Levi was six inches taller and thirty pounds heavier. Still, if you don’t challenge yourself, you don’t get better. The other kid that Coach Richter was considering was playing against somebody, somewhere. “Game to eleven?” I asked. “Winner’s outs. Okay?”
4
I COULDN’T MATCH UP AGAINST LEVI physically, but if you know your strengths and exploit your opponent’s weaknesses, you can win games you should lose. If I knocked down a few jump shots early in the game, he’d be forced to guard me closely. Once he got in my face, I’d out-quick him to the hoop.
Defending him would be tougher. If he was determined to muscle me, backing in and backing in, I’d have no chance. That style of play is boring, though, and I was
pretty sure Levi would want a decent game. Whenever he dribbled, I’d go for the steal. I’ve got quick hands, so I figured I could force some turnovers.
The strategy was sound, and in Redwood City I’d used it to beat guys bigger than me. Only it turned out that Levi wasn’t like the forwards I’d played against in California. Shooting around with him, I’d sensed he was pretty quick for six six. Playing against him, I discovered he wasn’t pretty quick; he was leopard quick.
I had no chance.
If I backed off him when he had the ball, he could shoot over me; but if I got in his face, he could power to the hoop. When I was on offense, he could get right up on me because I wasn’t quick enough to drive by him. Shooting over the top of a guy six inches taller was hopeless. On TV I saw Bill Nye the Science Guy use a small knife to touch mercury, saying that it was both a solid and a liquid. Levi played like he was both solid and liquid.
I couldn’t let him crush me like a bug, so I resorted to pushing and grabbing. I kept waiting for him to stick a shoulder into me and put me on my butt, but he just played through all my fouls. Five straight times he beat me, in spite of the fouls I laid on him.
By the time we’d finished our fifth game, I was hungry and thirsty. Still, my pride wouldn’t let me go home until I’d won at something. “How about a game of Horse?”
Finally I had him. Any kind of trick shot and Levi was lost. Shooting from behind the backboard, shooting underhanded with my back to the basket, bouncing the ball off the ground and then into the basket—all that garbagey, fun stuff that every kid does, Levi hadn’t done. I destroyed him in Horse three times.
Before we headed back, there was one thing I wanted to see. “Dunk for me,” I said. “I want to see what you’ve got.”
