by LJ Alonge
“The good news,” Officer Appleby says, “is that you look healthy. Your ankle looks good. Is your ankle good?”
I tell him it’s fine. Nice Appleby makes me a little sick.
“Good.” He swings the lanyard so hard it wraps around his wrist. “Now for the bad news. You have that game at JamLand in a few days, correct?”
“Yea.”
“You’re going to lose that game.” His hands go up. “I understand you’re surprised.” He plunges an imaginary knife into his heart. “Et tu, Brutus? I know. But I need you to you lose that game.”
For a second, I’m a little dizzy. “You want us to lose?”
“Let me finish, Frank. Let me finish. As nice as your team is—and you’ve done some very nice, heartwarming things this summer—what are you really going to do in that league? We’re talking real money here. Don’t you think it’d be better used in the hands of someone else? Kids with real futures?”
I don’t understand. “Kids with real futures?”
“This isn’t personal, Frank. So here’s another question: Did you know the chief’s son plays for your opponent? He’s a good kid, A student. Started a podcast on shark attacks or something. Ask yourself: Whose team would benefit more from this league? Your team, or a team full of A students with their own podcasts? Wouldn’t it be a little wasteful to throw sponsorships away on a bunch of kids who might be locked up in a few months?”
Officer Appleby’s voice bounces around my head, echoing until the words are all jumbled and I can’t make sense of any of it. All I know for sure is that there’s a thick heat filling my chest, rising into my face. “I don’t really give a shit about the chief’s son.”
Officer Appleby drops his voice and puts a friendly hand on my shoulder. “Easy, easy, Frank. Last question: How many hours of community service have you done this summer?”
“Community service? You said playing basketball was good enough. You said that.”
“Well, I guess I misspoke. I apologize for that. But as a Community Mentor and officer of the law, I have a responsibility to report anyone noncompliant with the terms of their probation to the local authorities. I should let you know that.”
Then he pats me on the back and does a kind of two-step off the porch.
CHAPTER 12
MOST PAIN ISN'T PHYSICAL
Back inside Mamá and Papá are dozing under a blanket and Tomás is jumping on the cushions, giggling every time someone on TV cusses. They look perfect, just the three of them. For a long time I just stand in the dark, watching. Where’s my Frankie? I picture Mamá saying. Where’s my boy? I imagine Papá saying. Oh guys, I’ll laugh as I step out of the shadows, you looking for me? I’ve been here the whole time! And then they’d wave me over to the couch and let me pick something to watch. Is that so much to ask? But now they’re all snoring softly, their chests rising and falling at the same time. No one’s worried about ol’ Frankie! No one cares!
As I walk to my room I start getting this feeling. It’s like everybody everywhere is happy and smiling and has everything they want and then you look at your own life and it’s crap. Might as well stop trying and just enjoy the crap because it’s yours and what else you got? That was the best part of stealing that car: listening to the officers laugh at how ballsy I was on the way to the station.
Anyway, there’s my Louisville Slugger under the bed. It’s Little League–sized, from back when Papá wanted me to play, so you don’t have to work that hard to get a good swing. You can crush a mailbox if you use your legs. It’s got dents from trees, fire hydrants, telephone poles, Dumpsters, rearview mirrors. The handle feels good and cold. I tee up one of Tomás’s Hulk action figures and knock it into the closet. Neon green splatters everywhere. Good to know I still got it. Here’s my plan: take the bat on a walk. Walk until I find something that looks like it needs a good hit. Then hit it. Simple. Life is better when things are simple. Maybe I’ll get in trouble and maybe I won’t. What difference does it make?
Someone rings the doorbell and I’m sure it’s Officer Appleby with more good news. I balance the bat on my shoulder and walk to the front door, taking deep, nervous breaths. I only open the door a crack. It’s Toni, standing in a little puddle of yellow light, snorting with laughter.
“Who did you think it was?” she asks. “The cops?”
I keep the door open a little. I almost wish it was Appleby. At least with him I know where I stand. But it’s been three days since I tried to kiss Toni and looking at her now makes me want to bury my head somewhere.
“No,” I say, “didn’t know who it was.”
She’s wearing this white headband covered in purple and black swirls she’s drawn on. “Ready for practice or what?”
“I’m not going today.” But something in me goes soft and for a second I have this stupid vision of us practicing bounce passes together.
“You got something better to do?”
“Not feeling too good.”
“Yeah, right,” she says. She grabs my hand and pulls. I don’t go right away, but I don’t resist for too long, either. Before I’m all the way out I drop the bat behind the door. As we walk to the park, I’m scared she heard it ping against the floor, but she doesn’t mention it. She’s all smiles, jumping over cracks, telling me how much I’m going to love her painting.
“It’s you, but if someone was looking through a kaleidoscope first,” she says.
Somehow I feel worse. Why doesn’t she hate me? It’d be better if she hated me. You mess up something good and people are supposed to hate you. That’s how it works.
“The other day,” I say. “Sometimes I do dumb things.”
“It’s cool,” she says. She’s walking too close to me, close enough that I can see the beads of sweat forming on her cheeks.
“No. You don’t have to be nice. You can hate me if you want.”
“Hate you? We’re good, Frank. I’m happy we’re friends. And I don’t just leave my friends for no reason.”
I slow down so that we can walk stride for stride. She asks me what’s going on with my story, but I can’t tell her that there’s no more Jank and Moni. Jank was unfortunately hit by an asteroid and Moni was abducted and displayed at an intergalactic zoo. I crossed out the whole story one night, put a giant X over every word.
“Um,” I say, “still figuring some things out. You got any ideas?”
“It’s your story. You figure it out.”
We get to the park just in time for warm-up stretching. I can’t look nobody in the eye. Everyone’s talking about the secret signs they’ll use for their friends once we’re on TV but I don’t say anything. It’s like I’m stuck in one of those dreams where you know it’s a dream but you still can’t wake up. The ball weighs a thousand pounds. Every time I mess up I apologize guiltily and run to punish myself before Coach Wise can. I didn’t mean to miss that last lay-up—or did I? I don’t know what’s going on in my own head anymore. If I do the right thing and try to play I might get locked up. And if I do the wrong thing and try to lose I’ll stay free. The guy who isn’t supposed to hate me actually does, and the girl who’s supposed to hate me doesn’t. Left is right, forward is backward.
“You look kinda sick,” Justin says after practice. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I say. I try to smile. When we huddled at the end of practice, I felt his hand squeezing my shoulder. I thought he was playing but now it feels like a kind of message.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“I’m nervous, too.” His hand comes back. “But don’t even trip about tomorrow. It’s gonna be dope. You always come through.”
Journal #6
Dear Officer Appleby,
I figured I’d write directly to you if you’re going to be reading this anyway. If you’ve read this far, you know what three weeks of writing in a journal gets you. Did it work? If I’m back
in junior court, I guess it didn’t. If I’m being all the way honest, I’m not even sure what I learned.
Maybe I should’ve been smarter and just worried about myself today. But where I’m from, that’s not what we do. I’m not trying to be no hero, Officer Appleby. If it was anybody else, I’d probably just do my own thing, look the other way, and not even worry about it. Truth be told I’ve done that before. You probably thought I was going to do that today. When we walked in I saw how you looked at us, almost like you knew we were going to lose. You were so confident! But the look on your face as the clock counted down! And the look on your face when Janae hit her fifth jumper in a row, when I threaded that pass to Justin! I wish I could’ve took a picture.
I know what you’re thinking: All of this is really sweet, but what does it matter if you’re locked up and can’t even play? I don’t really have an answer for you. But what would it mean to be free if I knew I betrayed everyone I really cared about? I mean, what kind of freedom is that?
Can I ask you a question, Officer Appleby? How’d it feel to throw me under the bus like you did? I thought we were cool. And here’s another question: Are those officers really your friends? Guys who make fun of you and never come to your Bleeding Heart shows and force you to do crappy stuff to people you actually like? You call those friends?
Let me tell you about real friends. Real friends will look out for you so that you don’t get blindsided by a screen. Real friends apologize when they’re wrong and don’t gloat when they’re right. Real friends let you be exactly who you are, even if it’s different from who they are. Where your real friends at, Officer Appleby?
Officer Appleby, I’m not saying I’m perfect. God knows I ain’t perfect. I’ve cheated and stole before, but you already knew that. I almost lost a good friend the other day. If you look in this journal you’ll see dumb stories I wrote for her. She’s probably one of the best friends I ever had and I almost messed it up. But she didn’t give up on me, which is the most amazing feeling you can ever have.
So I forgive you, Officer Appleby. I still think you’re a nice guy. I wasn’t sure for a little while, but I really do think you’re a good dude. I’m not giving up on you. As I’ve learned, sometimes nice guys get caught in bad situations and just try to make the best of it. So you had to make the best of your situation and I had to make the best of mine.
I don’t regret it, Officer Appleby. I know I did the right thing.
Sincerely,
Frank Torres
LJ Alonge has played pickup basketball in Oakland, Los Angeles, New York, Kenya, South Africa, and Australia. Basketball’s always helped him learn about his community, settle conflicts, and make friends from all walks of life. He’s never intimidated by the guy wearing a headband and arm sleeve; those guys usually aren’t very good. As a kid, he dreamed of dunking from the free-throw line. Now, his favorite thing to do is make bank shots. Don’t forget to call “bank!”
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