by Todd Hafer
White-Wyche sneered. He had four inches and probably twenty pounds on Pork Chop—and at least five years.
“Let’s go, Fat Boy. I don’t mind butchering two punks for the price of one.”
He shoved Cody backward. Cody tumbled into the snow. He looked around nervously. Well, at least it’s not the snow I puked on.
Cody watched as Pork Chop and his larger aggressor squared off. He tried to think of an appropriate biblically based response. What would Elijah do? Probably call down fire from heaven. But that option wasn’t open to twenty-first-century teens. What would Samson do? Find a donkey’s jawbone and go upside White-Wyche’s block head with it? Fine, but Cody Martin was no Samson. Besides, there was never a good jawbone around when you needed it. What would Jesus do? Good question. In this case, too good of a question. But even Jesus prayed.
Please, Cody prayed as Pork Chop staggered back from a hard roundhouse punch to his head, help us!
Chapter 2
Tattoo
Angel
In Sunday school, Cody and his friends often debated about what angels look like. Did they wear the traditional white robes, have elegantly styled hair, and large wings? Or were they ghost-like, shape-shifting entities without distinct features?
No one had ever guessed that an angel might weigh 220 pounds, have a shaved head, wear a black hoodie and ripped blue jeans—and sport a tattoo of a rattlesnake on his right forearm. But that was precisely the type of angel that had pulled White-Wyche off Pork Chop Porter and dug a vicious uppercut into his stomach.
White-Wyche dropped to his knees, as if he had suddenly found religion at Grant Middle School and decided to pray on the spot.
“You okay, Chop?” Doug Porter asked his brother.
“I’m fine, DP. I think I could have taken him. He was gettin’ tired.”
“How many times did he hit you? Because I’m going to hit him at least that many times. Only harder.”
“You better think twice,” White-Wyche gasped. “You don’t know who I am. I got friends.”
“Yeah?” Doug said, yanking his opponent to his feet. “I do know who you are. You’re Gabe Weitz. You’re just another dropout. And you don’t have that many friends. I’m the guy with friends. Twenty-one of them. They’re called the starting varsity football team. Offense and defense. And a lot of them are pretty big, just like me. So you get your friends, and we’ll meet you anytime, anyplace.” Doug turned to his brother. “How did this all start anyway, Chop?”
“He jumped my friend. You know Cody, don’t you? He played wide receiver for us.”
“Yeah, of course, I know Cody Martin. I’m sorry about your mom, dawg.” Doug paused for a moment. “Hey, you catch any passes this season?”
Cody stood and brushed snow from his pants. “Yes, sir. Six. Two for touchdowns.”
“Outstanding, Martin! Hey, did this guy hurt you? Want me to hit him a coupla times for you, too?”
“No. That’s okay. But I would like my money back.”
Doug formed an “O” with his mouth and turned on Weitz. “You stole money from a kid?”
No answer.
“Okay. I want you to give my friend here all his money back. And all your money, too. And you can either give it up, or I’ll knock you out right now and take it from you.”
Weitz reached into his pocket and removed a small wad of bills.
“I don’t want his money—just mine,” said Cody, taking back his twenty, then handing the balance to Doug. “I’m not a thief.”
Doug started to pocket the money and then paused. “You know, Martin, I’m not a thief, either. But still, this guy should be fined.”
With that, Doug squeezed the money tightly and then tossed it onto the roof.
“Hey, that’s my money!” Weitz protested.
“Not anymore, genius,” Doug said, drawing his face within inches of Weitz’s. “But if you want it, I can throw you up there so you can fetch it. Or you can let it go and determine in your heart and mind that you won’t get in the face of my little brother or his friend ever again. This way, you’ll just lose some cash, not your blood, many of your teeth, and perhaps a few of your vital organs. You’re a lucky man. It’s too cold for me to truly enjoy beating you down. But if you ever touch my brother or his friend again, I’ll bring the pain. Got that?”
Weitz looked up from his stomach, which he was holding with both hands. “That fat kid is your brother? But he’s—”
“That’s right, moron. He’s black—mostly, anyway. My brother is a brutha! You got a problem with that? And by the way, he’s not fat—he’s just big-boned. Give him one more year, and he’ll beat you like a piñata on Cinco de Mayo. Now, you wanna say anything else about my brother?”
Still holding his stomach, Weitz shook his head and hurried away.
“And you let me know if you and your girlfriends ever want to dance with the varsity, you hear?” Doug called after him.
Then the defending state-champion heavyweight wrestler and all-state fullback turned to Cody and Pork Chop. “So who’s hungry for tacos?”
When Doug’s Camry pulled into the driveway, Cody could tell his house was empty. Only one light was on. When Dad was home, the place was lit up like an appliance showroom. Cody had noticed that since his mom died, Dad had seemed to develop some sort of weird fear of—or at least distaste for—the dark.
“The old man’s not home, eh, Cody?” Pork Chop observed. “That’s weird that he forgot to pick you up.”
“He probably just had to work late. Again. Thanks for the ride, guys. And thanks for keeping that guy from whupping my tail.”
“T’aint no thang,” Doug laughed. “I needed to scrap. I was gettin’ rusty. I was gonna bring the war down on him. But that guy had no game. Woulda been no challenge.”
Cody shook his head. “He had no brains, either. He had to be as dumb as a box of rocks! Who in his right mind woulda thrown down with you? And, uh, Chop, I want you to know that I was going to jump in and help you—before Doug came. I was just kinda stunned for a minute.”
“It’s cool, Cody. I know you had my back. But I was doing okay. I’d love to run into that guy in another year. I’ll be as big as you, Doug, so you better watch out.”
Doug flexed his right bicep. “If you ever even dreamed of getting guns like this, you’d wake up and apologize.”
Pork Chop, apparently stuck for a response, belched loudly.
Cody opened the car’s back door. “I’ll let you guys sort this out on your own. Thanks again for the ride.”
He walked carefully to the front porch, making his way by the meager light that spilled from the living room window. He fished the key from under the welcome mat and let himself in.
Sinking heavily onto the living room couch, he wondered where Dad was. There was probably an explanation-apology on the answering machine, but he didn’t feel like listening. The excuses were growing old.
He retrieved the TV remote from the coffee table and began scrolling through seventy-six cable channels’ worth of entertainment options. As he made his way through the fifties, Cody slowly shook his head. Nothing but infomercials, old game shows, and shop-at- home programs. Next came a documentary about, as best as Cody could tell, cactus, then a “shocking, behind-the-scenes story” about an actress he had never heard of.
At least there was ESPN, now only two channels away. You could always count on ESPN. He hit the channel-advance button twice and set the remote down.
“Welcome to the National Aerobics Championships,” proclaimed an overly perky woman.
“Welcome to my worst nightmare come true,” Cody muttered as he clicked off the TV and went upstairs.
Slowly, he entered his parents’ room and flicked on the light. The closet was closed, and Cody knew he shouldn’t look, but the temptation was too strong. He took a deep breath and slid the mirrored door open.
They were still there. Mom’s clothes ruled three-fourths of the closet space: dresses in bright colors, a few sweat suits—
mostly off-brand stuff—and a modest collection of T-shirts from 5K and 10K races. She had tried to keep running, even after the cancer had claimed much of her energy. But gradually, her running gave way to slow walks with his dad, and finally rides in a wheelchair, but only on days that weren’t too cold.
Her shoes, neatly paired, occupied exactly one-half of the floor. Dad’s work boots and decrepit canvas high-tops looked lonely and shabby on the other side.
Cody shook his head sadly. Women from the church had offered to sort through Mom’s clothes and donate them to worthy charities, but his dad always put them off. In the months following the funeral, his polite-but- firm response was always, “I’m just not ready to deal with that right now.”
Cody wondered if his dad would ever be ready. Since the death of his junior high sweetheart three months ago, his dad’s work hours at the paper had escalated. When he was home, he sat in his black overstuffed recliner, staring blankly at the television set, which was usually tuned to CNN.
However, in recent weeks, Cody had discovered Dad watching—or to be more accurate, not watching—the wildlife channel, the cooking channel, and even the home-repair channel. This would have made Mom laugh, because when anything in the house malfunctioned, Dad’s first move was to the “Repair” section of the Yellow Pages, not his meagerly supplied toolkit.
Only two nights ago, Cody had awakened at 2:12 a.m. and slipped downstairs to find Dad asleep and snoring like a tractor while Deputy Dawg rounded up a band of law-breaking Siamese cats.
As he stood there looking at his mom’s clothes, Cody thought of how she used to watch Saturday-morning cartoons with him when he was a kid—and how she actually seemed to enjoy them.
That’s when it happened again, like a kung fu kick to the heart. She was gone. She would never wear those clothes again. She’d never do that rat-a-tat-tat laugh while watching TV with him. She wouldn’t be sticking report cards to the fridge with her magnets that looked like fruit. He was on his own when it came to figuring out the well-hidden meaning of contemporary poetry. The taste of her homemade chocolate chip cookies was only a memory now.
Perhaps worst of all, she would never again run down the bleachers to congratulate him after a win or console him after a loss. What were you supposed to do when you lost your number-one fan?
He put his back against the wall and slid to the floor. Heaving sobs overtook him—the kind that always left his eyes red, his abs aching, and his head throbbing.
He wasn’t sure how long he had been on the floor, curled up like a crying newborn, when he heard the front door creak open and then close softly. He scrambled to his feet and rushed into the master bathroom. Behind the locked door, he fought to bring the crying under control. He tried to think of something positive, like basketball. But he couldn’t think of that without thinking of her. It was hard to think of anything without thinking of her.
He heard a light tapping at the door. “Cody, you okay in there?”
Cody sniffed. “Yeah.”
“You sure? Do I hear you crying?”
“Sorry. I’ll try to cry softer next time.”
Tense, silent seconds passed. Cody knew that later he would have to ask forgiveness, from his father and his heavenly Father.
“Hey, lose the attitude.” Dad’s voice was coming to a slow boil. “My life is hard enough, okay? Let’s cut each other some slack.”
Cody opened the door. “I’m sorry, Dad. I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know where it came from.” He dabbed at his eyes with a washcloth.
“It’s okay, Cody. Let’s dry up the waterworks now. Crying isn’t going to bring her back.”
“I know.”
“Let’s both hit the sack. I’m beat. We can talk at breakfast if you want.”
“Sure,” Cody replied. They hadn’t eaten breakfast together in at least a month. Most days, he heard Dad’s Geo pulling out of the driveway just as he was waking up for school. And on the weekends, if Dad didn’t go into the office, he slept until noon—sometimes later.
Just before sleep conquered Cody’s weary body, his dad peeked his head into his room. “Hey,” he whispered, “I forgot to ask how tryouts went. You gonna make the team?”
“Yeah,” Cody said, praying that it wasn’t a lie.
“Great! I’ll come to more of your games this season. I promise. I know I made it to only a few last year.”
“Just one, actually, if you’re talking about basketball.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Well, we’ll have to do better this time around.”
“Yeah. We will.”
Chapter 3
Cuts That
Don’t
Heal
Day two of tryouts was shaping up to be, in Pork Chop’s words, “chocolaty good.” After a half hour of drills, Coach Clayton divided up the twenty-five basketball hopefuls into five teams for full-court scrimmages.
The scrimmage rules were simple. Five minutes on the clock. Only those defensive actions that drew blood or left a bruise were considered fouls. When the five minutes were up, the winning team stayed on the court. The losers sat.
Coach placed Cody on a team with Alston, Pork Chop, Bart Evans, and a sharp-boned point guard named Bradley Lang. Cody’s team took the court first and won six games in a row. Alston was shooting lights-out, Pork Chop was a beast under the boards, and Cody clamped on each opposing small forward like a bear trap. Brett Evans hit two fall-away jumpers over him in the first game. No one scored on him after that. Cody even got a congratulatory chest bump from Alston when he blocked a Matt Slaven baseline jumper, smacking it off the exit sign at the gym’s north end.
“Looks like we have a juggernaut here,” Coach Clayton observed after Pork Chop tipped in a missed shot to seal victory number six. “We’re going to have to make this more interesting. I’m getting bored. Gannon, your team’s up next, right?”
“Right, Coach,” the freckle-faced point guard said.
“Okay then. We’re gonna make a little trade, just like they do in the NBA. Martin, you join Gannon’s team. And Hooper, you run with Alston’s unit. Oh, and one more thing. Martin, you guard Alston. Should be a nice change of pace. Nobody’s guarded him all night.”
Cody sighed. “But, Coach—”
“Is there a problem, Martin? Was anything I just said unclear to you? Because I—can—speak—more—s-s-s-s-slowly—if you need me to.”
“No, Coach, it’s just that I’m a forward, and Alston’s a—”
“A guard! That’s right, Martin! He’s a guard, and that’s want I want you to do. Guard a guard.”
Alston walked by Cody, slamming the ball into his gut and driving the wind from him. Cody felt tears rising in his eyes.
“Just call me your bus driver, Martin,” Alston whispered, “because I’m gonna take you to school.”
Cody waited for an effective comeback to form in his brain. Nothing developed. He felt as if his mind were a blackboard that someone had erased—and then thrown away the chalk. He shrugged his shoulders and inbounded the ball to Gannon.
Gannon dashed down the floor. Before Cody had even crossed midcourt, Gannon stopped at the top of the key and launched a high-arcing, nineteen-foot jumper. The problem was that the top of the key was twenty feet from the hoop.
Good old Greg Gannon the Cannon, Cody laughed to himself. Never saw a shot he wouldn’t take.
Pork Chop collected the air ball and fired an outlet pass to Alston, who dribbled straight for the top of the other key. Cody smiled. He knew Alston—that he was going to take the same shot Gannon had just missed. Show him who the team’s true sharpshooter really was! Alston’s aim was better than Gannon’s, but not much. His shot clanged off the front of the rim and was going to drop into Cody’s waiting hands.
No need to even jump for this one , Cody thought. It’s coming right to me.
He extended his arms and waited for the ball’s arrival. Just before the leather touched his finge
rtips, Alston came around Cody’s right shoulder like a blur. He leaped into the air, giving Cody a close-up view of his hairy armpit, snagged the ball, and, before his feet touched the ground again, banked it in off the glass.
Alston retrieved the ball as it dropped neatly through the net and then planted it on the end line.
“Nice rebound, Martin,” he said. “Way to sky for that ball!”
With that, he laughed derisively and sprinted down court to play defense.
Meanwhile, Gannon was putting on a dribbling exhibition just past midcourt as Cody took his position on the left wing. Coach had threatened to throw Gannon “like a spear” if he took another bad shot, but Cody wasn’t sure if the threat would be effective. He readied himself to charge in for a rebound just in case.
He never got the chance. Apparently not wanting to experience being a human projectile, Gannon passed the ball. And it was a beautiful pass. Gannon looked directly at Cody, then fired a no-look pass to Slaven on the high post.
Unfortunately, Gannon’s no-look was so deceptive that Slaven didn’t see it coming. Slaven’s proud nose took the full impact of the pass, and blood began to trickle from both nostrils.
Cody looked at Coach Clayton. Would he whistle the action to a stop? After all, blood had been spilled.
Then again, no one had committed a foul. Inattention like Slaven’s wasn’t wise, but it wasn’t illegal.
While Cody was thinking, Alston was hustling again. He grabbed the ball, which was rolling away from Slaven’s feet, and launched into a one-man fast break.
Cody responded quickly. He sprinted after Alston, drawing alongside him as he veered in for a right-handed layup.
Time for retribution, he thought. A well-timed leap, an emphatic block, and maybe Cody Martin will be the bus driver for a while.
Alston pushed hard off his left foot and leaped toward the hoop. Cody jumped with so much force that he heard himself grunt, just like Pork Chop when he threw the shot put.
Alston put good arc on the ball, and at the apex of his jump, Cody knew he couldn’t block it. However, he was sure that Alston had shot his layup too hard and too high. It was a bad shot, almost as if Alston had done it on purpose.
