by W. C. Mack
“Or once,” Russ muttered.
“What’s that, honey?” Mom asked.
“Nothing,” he said, quietly.
“I’m sorry you aren’t feeling well,” she said, looking at him in the rearview mirror. “I’ve got chicken at home. I’ll make you some soup.”
“Thanks, Mom,” he said.
Whatever.
He’d ended up being the hero of the game while I rode the stinkin’ bench!
And did he even care?
The guy had only been playing basketball for a couple of weeks, and he had all his other junk, like Masters of the Mind and Math Club to keep him busy.
The only thing I had in the world was basketball.
And I was starting to lose it.
Boiling Point
On the way home, I had no interest in talking about the game, but that didn’t stop my parents. While they talked, I tried to understand what Owen had done.
My brother and I didn’t always see things the same way, and my idea of fair didn’t always line up with his. I hated to say it, but sometimes Owen could be a bit … selfish. I tried to ignore it, because he had so many other great qualities, but when I thought about the way he’d taken those Nikes, it all came rushing back to me.
There were the bicycles my grandparents had given us for our birthdays in the second grade. I took special care of mine to make sure it always looked as good as new. But when Owen crashed his identical bike into a fence while he was goofing around, bending the fender and scratching the paint down one side, he secretly swapped it for mine in the garage. He put a sticker with his name on it under the seat and pretended it had been his all along.
The sad part was, I would have traded him if he’d just asked me.
I could think of a hundred different cases just like that one, where Owen took the best without thinking about anyone else’s feelings.
He took Dad’s big gym bag when Mom told me I could use it for school. He drank the last of the milk. He hogged the TV. He “borrowed” things (like my digital watch) and never gave them back. He wouldn’t even share his friends by letting me talk to Chris the other morning.
And now the shoes.
I could still picture his face when he came back into the locker room after taking them. Why did he even bother hiding them in his gym bag? Was I supposed to frantically search for them, like I did when I was eight and he buried the best astronaut from my Lego space station in the backyard? Or was it more like the game of “keep away” older kids used to play with my rock-identification kit at recess? Was I supposed to beg and plead with him to give me my beloved shoes back?
After all the hard work I’d put in and winning points I’d earned for the Pioneers, I would have thought I’d earned some respect, too. I was supposed to be one of the guys now. I was supposed to have cool gear.
Why did Owen want to ruin that?
As much as loved my brother, I was angry and disappointed that he was trying to play tricks. Especially when he knew how important those shoes were to me.
We drove past Jade Palace and I thought about that celebration dinner just the other night. Owen had grabbed the last egg roll without asking anyone else if they wanted it. I’d been in such a good mood at the time, I barely noticed, but now that I’d seen how mean he could be, I remembered.
I wiggled my toes. They felt strange in my loafers, like they weren’t at home anymore.
I wondered how long Owen would wait to give me the Nikes back. Would he drag it out for a day? Two? Would he tuck the bag under his bed and wait until minutes before game time to whip them out from his hiding place? Or would he wait even longer?
No, he knew those shoes were the secret to my success on the court.
Hmm. That got me wondering even more.
Did he steal them to stop me from playing basketball?
I didn’t want to think so.
When I made the Pioneers roster, it felt like a dream I never knew existed had come true. I’d felt like I was part of something totally new and different and that I could be more than anyone expected. I was happy when I put on that jersey, when kids wished me luck in the hallway before the game and when the crowd cheered for me.
And Owen didn’t like it.
In fact, I was beginning to think he hated it.
I closed my eyes.
There were so many things racing around in my mind, I couldn’t focus on any of them. My stomach was in knots, thinking about all the different expectations people had of me.
Mom and Dad wanted me to be a basketball star.
Owen wanted me to fail.
Three Masters of the Mind members wanted me to give up basketball.
Arthur just wanted me to give up leadership.
But what did I want?
I thought about it for a second and the answer was obvious.
Most of all, I wanted those Nikes back.
When we got home, I knew Owen would go straight for his basketball. I also knew it was out in the garage, so I got there first.
When he came to get it, I was ready for him.
“Looking for this?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said, making a grab for the ball.
But I wasn’t ready to hand it over. I wanted answers.
“Why wouldn’t you pass to me today?” I demanded.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I wanted to win.” He rolled his eyes. “Why doesn’t anybody get that?”
“But you didn’t even make all your shots.” I stared at him, wondering what he’d done with his gym bag. “In fact, I had a higher shooting percentage than you did.”
“Yeah, well you had more time on the court.”
“Only because you refused to be a team player and got taken out of the game,” I said quietly. There was a warning in my voice, but somehow he didn’t hear it.
I asked him why he’d actually stolen the ball from me.
Of course, I was pretty sure I knew the answer, but I wanted to hear him say it.
“Why don’t you want me to play?” I demanded.
“Why’d you have to take all those shots? I told you from the very beginning that all you had to do was stand there!”
For the first time in my life, I could have punched him. “Maybe I didn’t want to just stand there, Owen. Maybe I wanted to play the game like everybody else.”
“But—”
“You’re the only person who told me to stand there, you know. Coach didn’t say that. Dad didn’t say that.” I paused. “Nobody else said that. Why do you want me to fail?
“I never said—”
“You don’t have to say it, Owen. I can tell.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. You and your stupid Russell Hustle.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “That’s why you’re mad? Because I have a rhyme?”
It was almost funny. Almost.
“Maybe you had a rhyme already, Russ. Like Geek of the Week.”
I’d had enough. “Where are they?”
“Who?” he asked.
My fists were clenched by my sides. “My shoes, Owen.”
He paused, then told me, “In the Dumpster behind the cafeteria.”
I felt like I’d been punched.
The Dumpster?
Those beautiful shoes? The most expensive things I’d ever owned? He’d thrown them into a pile of stinking, rotting garbage?
I thought I might be sick.
I wanted to tackle him or swear at him or something even worse. But I couldn’t do any of those things.
Instead, I threw the ball at him. Hard.
“Oof,” he grunted, catching it against his stomach.
“You know what, Owen? You’re a total jerk,” I told him, then walked away before I could do or say anything worse.
Time-out
I don’t know why, but Russ calling me a jerk felt worse than a swear word. It felt worse than a kick in the pants or a fist to the gut.
&
nbsp; “Well, so are you,” I yelled after him, but he was already back inside the house. “The Russell Hustle,” I muttered. “It’s not my fault nothing rhymes with Owen.”
“I know something that does,” Dad said, from behind me.
When I turned around and saw his face, I knew he’d heard everything.
“What?” I asked.
“Mowin’. And that’s what you’re going to be doing for the next eight Saturdays.”
“Are you kidding me?” I choked. “We’re supposed to share chores.”
“You’re supposed to share a lot of things,” he said quietly. “Including the spotlight from time to time.”
“But—”
“I figure eight Saturdays is about how long it’ll take to earn enough money to replace those shoes.”
“Come on, Dad, I—”
“Acted like the most selfish kid on the court, then destroyed your brother’s property?”
“Well, he’s destroying my life.”
Dad snorted, like that was the dumbest thing he’d ever heard. “By playing a game? Give me a break.” He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. “I’m going to tell you something about basketball, and I want you to listen very closely.”
I groaned.
“You know I was the star player on my high school team, and even got a college scholarship.”
“I know, Dad.” I’d heard it all before.
“But when I got to college, every guy on the team had been the best in his high school. And some were even the best in their state. I played, but not all the time, and I never started.”
I’d never heard that before. “You didn’t?” I asked.
“Nope. And when I graduated, only two of the guys from my college team got drafted into the NBA.”
“Who?” I asked. If Dad played ball with a legend like Charles Barkley or Shaq and never told me, my head was going to explode.
“John Foster and Gary Washington.”
“Who?”
“You want to know why you’ve never heard of them?” he asked, but didn’t give me a chance to answer. “John was injured before his first season even started and never played a game.”
“Whoa.” How much would that stink?
“And Gary simply wasn’t as good as the other guys on the team. You know how many minutes he played during his two years in the NBA?”
“No.”
“Twenty-six.”
“Minutes?” I winced. Out of eighty-eight games a year? For two years that would be … something Russ could probably figure out. A lot, anyway. “Ouch.”
“He ended up moving back to Oregon after that. He took over his dad’s insurance business and he still runs it with his sister.” He was quiet. “You know, some things aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. You can be at the top of your game and still not make it. And I’m not just talking about basketball.”
“You aren’t?”
“No. You need to remember that whether you become an NBA player, a doctor, teacher, plumber, or whatever, the only thing that will be the same no matter what is that your family will be there for you. Your brother Russell will always be there when you need him.”
I knew he was right. Russ might have outplayed me on the court, but off the court, he’d never let me down.
“Russell will always have your back.” Dad paused to give me a long, hard look. “So why don’t you have his?”
I didn’t go shoot hoops.
I started to, but when I got to the park, I sat on an empty bench instead, with the ball in my lap. How had everything gotten so messed up, so fast? I’d been excited about basketball season all summer long, and only two games in, it was totally wrecked.
Russ thought I was a jerk.
Dad thought I was a rotten brother.
Coach thought I belonged on the bench.
My whole team thought I was a ball hog.
And the worst part? They were all right.
I watched some kids throwing a Frisbee around and tried to figure out how to make everything go back to normal. Back to how things were when everyone liked me.
And then it hit me.
Of course, I knew one thing I could fix.
I checked Russ’s watch and figured I had time before dinner, so I started running. I turned onto Sycamore and ran even faster until I got to Lewis and Clark Middle School.
When I made it to the Dumpster, I took a deep breath, then pulled myself up to the rim.
As soon as I looked inside, I wanted to puke.
I’d totally forgotten it was spaghetti day.
All I could see were wet noodles and tomato sauce piled on top of all the other garbage. What if the shoes were covered in old, gross food?
Dad had already said he was going to get Russ new ones, anyway.
I stared at the mess and sighed.
The new shoes weren’t the point. I had to get the old ones back, to show Russ I knew I’d made a mistake and that I wasn’t really a jerk.
At least not all the time.
I imagined the Nikes when we’d first seen them at the store. The coolest shoes ever. And the look on Russ’s face when Dad bought them? Super happy.
Just do it.
I climbed into the Dumpster. The smell was totally sick, and the pile was wet and slippery. I was careful, but as soon as the sole of my shoe touched down, everything went wrong.
“Urgh!” I grunted, as I slipped and fell, banging my elbow hard on the side of the Dumpster before landing in a puddle of sauce. It smelled even worse than it looked.
I jumped to my feet as fast as I could, groaning when I saw the goo all over my shorts. I braced myself against the wall and lifted one shoe to check the damage. Wet noodles were tangled in my laces, and sauce was smeared all over the leather.
Great.
There was nothing I could do about it, so I started moving toward the corner where I’d thrown the shoes. With every step, I wondered if there were rats beneath me. And what kind of rotting cafeteria food made up the next layer down?
Didn’t we have mac and cheese this week?
I got my answer when I took the next squishy step.
Yes, we did.
Ugh.
I pushed papers and lunch bags out of the way, and that’s when I saw something shiny.
Plastic wrap. And underneath it? A miracle in the shape of a silver swoosh.
I grabbed the first shoe, and the second was right beneath it.
No way!
I held both of them up for inspection.
There was a bit of junk on the soles and a few little blobs of tomato sauce on the sides, but otherwise they were perfect.
What were the chances of a bunch of plastic being thrown into the Dumpster right before the spaghetti? I felt like the luckiest kid on the planet, which was pretty amazing, considering I was covered in cold wet noodles and standing in a giant stinking garbage can.
But I didn’t care. When Russ saw the shoes, he’d forgive me.
I wiped off the face of his watch.
Five minutes until dinner!
I climbed out of the Dumpster and sprinted all the way home, hugging the dirty shoes against my chest. Every time my feet hit the pavement, they sprayed spaghetti sauce. Russ’s shoes might have been in good condition, but mine were toast.
I was pretty sure that served me right.
When I got back to the house, I had a cramp in my side and I was totally out of breath. I walked into the kitchen, where Mom, Dad, and Russ were sitting at the table.
“You made it,” Mom said, without looking up.
“Whoa! What happened to you?” Dad choked.
“Nothing. I mean, I went to get Russ’s shoes and—”
Mom glanced up from her food and froze. “What on earth?”
“I got them!” I held up the shoes for everyone to see. “There’s barely anything on them, so they’re practically good as new. See, Russ?”
I walked toward him, but Mom jumped up from her seat. “Hold on, Owen.
I don’t want you tracking that all over the house. You’re absolutely covered.” She stared at me. “What happened?”
“I fell in a Dumpster. I mean, I was already in it when I fell down.”
“He threw the shoes in there,” Russ said quietly.
Mom looked from Russ to me, trying to figure out if he was kidding. “But why would Owen—”
“I got them back,” I interrupted, focusing on my brother. “They’re just like new, Russ. I’ll clean them up and they’ll be perfect.” I held them up so he could check them out. “See?”
“I see,” he said. He pushed back his chair to get up from the table.
“Where are you going?” Mom asked.
“To my room,” he said.
“Still not feeling good?” she asked.
“No,” he said, and left the kitchen.
“I have no idea what’s going on here,” Mom said, “but I don’t like it.”
I didn’t like it either. Russ was supposed to forgive me.
“You know you still have to mow the lawn, right?” Dad asked me.
I nodded. “I know.”
“And we’re still going to get Russ another pair.”
“Yes, and I want to, Dad. I just thought if he saw I was trying, he might—”
Dad nodded. “It may take some more time and effort.” He rested a hand on the clean part of my sleeve. “But that was a good start.”
“It was?” I asked, relieved.
“It was, and I’m proud of you, Owen.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Now please go hose yourself off.”
Russell skipped the next basketball practice and when everyone asked about him, I said he was sick. He wasn’t, though. He was hanging out with the Masters of the Mind team instead.
“Great, so we’re stuck with the ball hog,” Paul groaned.
“Look, I know I hogged the ball and—”
“Made some lame shots?” Nate asked.
“Some good ones, too,” I told him. “But yeah, I made some lame ones.”
“Why didn’t you pass?” Paul asked.
“I don’t know,” I told him. “I mean, I was just trying to show off and it backfired.”
“Yup,” Nate said.
“Come on,” Chris said. “He’s trying to say he’s sorry.”
