We say good-bye to Mrs. Battle in the parking lot and then get into Coach’s truck.
The Bellmont streets silently pass by the passenger window. I see a man sleeping on the sidewalk. A small abandoned bonfire in an oil drum makes an alley glow. Hookers in wigs, short skirts, and fur coats are pacing under the overpass.
“I have to take care of my pop,” I say, just to break the silence. “I have to put him to bed.”
“I’m taking you home,” Coach says, but that’s it; he doesn’t say anything else, which makes me feel sort of strange.
It’s late, so Dad’s already left for work.
Coach tells Pop about the hit-and-run—how Erin was walking home from practice and a car came around the corner just as Erin was crossing the street, hit her, and then sped away.
Pop just shakes his head, grabs onto the crucifix at the end of Grandmom’s rosary beads, and says, “I hate this neighborhood.”
I get the old man’s diaper changed, carry him upstairs, and then put him to bed. When I turn out the lights, Pop says, “What did Erin tell you about the accident—anything that Coach left out?”
“Just what we told you.”
“Nothing else? You sure?”
I think about it, replaying Erin’s words in my mind. “She said they might have sped up before they hit her.”
“That’s what I thought.” The old man shakes his head and blows air through his broken, jagged teeth.
“What?”
“Maybe this wasn’t an accident.”
“What are you saying, Pop?”
“You’re not stupid, Finley. Stop pretending you don’t understand what’s going on.”
I think about what the old man means and immediately dismiss his words as crazy. Why would anyone want to break Erin’s leg?
Back in the living room, Coach has helped himself to one of Pop’s beers and is sitting on the couch.
“Wanted to speak with you,” he says.
Before I can think better of it, I say, “Do you think that maybe someone hit Erin intentionally to get back at Rod?”
Coach opens his eyes really wide. He looks at me for a moment, and then he says, “Don’t know, and I don’t wanna know, either. You don’t wanna know that, Finley. Haven’t you lived in this neighborhood for eighteen years? Don’t go there. Useless information. Not a damn thing to do with thoughts like that. You hear me?” He takes a sip of Pop’s beer and says, “Sit.”
I sit.
“I’m real sorry about what happened to Erin. It’s a shame. A damn shame.” Coach looks down at his hands for a few moments, but when he looks up, he’s smiling, which makes me feel very weird. “In other news, the cat’s out of the bag. You don’t have to keep Russ’s secret anymore.”
In other news? Did Coach really just make that transition?
“I’m already getting calls from top programs. Coach K phoned just this morning. Coach K himself. Duke basketball. Russ really has a shot to go far, and your helping him get through this tough period is commendable. I want you to know that I appreciate it very much and that you’ll be getting your minutes, don’t you worry. I know this is a tough night for you, Finley, and that’s why I wanted to say I’m proud of you. You did a good thing, helping Russ. But the job’s not done yet.”
I just stare at Coach. I know that he’s trying to make me feel better about losing my starting position, that he’s thanking me, but with Erin in the hospital—with my having just seen how bad she was hurt and understanding that her hopes for a college scholarship are now over—this hardly seems like the appropriate time to be discussing Russ.
My hands are balled and I can feel my face getting hot.
“I just wanted to take that off your mind, in light of all you have to think about now, with Erin in the hospital,” Coach says. “I’m not displeased with you. Quite the opposite. And the doctors will fix Erin’s leg. Don’t worry about the rest. You can’t control the rest. So just forget about those questions you were asking earlier. Okay?”
I nod, because I don’t want to continue this conversation.
Coach sips his beer once more before he places it on the coffee table and says good-bye. Then I’m alone.
I stretch out on the couch and wait for my father to come home so that he can advise me, but I fall asleep somewhere around three.
I sit up when I hear the front door open.
I blink.
“Finley?” Dad says. “Why are you sleeping on the couch?”
My face must look terrible, because Dad sits next to me and says, “What’s wrong?”
After a minute or so of waking up and thinking and remembering, I tell him what happened.
Remembering is bad, but it feels even worse to say the words.
My stomach starts to churn.
I feel guilty, but I’m not sure why.
It’s confusing.
Finally I say, “Do you think that someone hurt Erin because of who Rod is and what he does? Do you think that it might not have been an accident?”
Dad looks scared. His left eye is sort of twitching. “Someday you and Erin are going to leave this neighborhood and never come back. May that day come soon.”
He didn’t answer my question directly, but I know he’s talking in code, the way people do around here. So he’s confirmed my suspicion.
“Go get your pop ready for his day, and I’ll put on breakfast.”
And so I do.
31
BOY21 EMERGES FROM HIS grandfather’s Cadillac looking very much like an Earthling. He’s wearing dark jeans, a Polo rugby shirt with the huge oversize polo-player-on-a-horse symbol, and a cool leather jacket—no robe, cape, or helmet. Judging by the look on his face I don’t think I’m going to hear anything about outer space today.
“Hey, Finley,” he says. “You okay?”
I nod.
“You hear anything more about Erin?”
I shake my head.
“My grandparents are praying for her.”
“Thanks,” I say, even though I’m not sure I believe in praying, mostly because Dad, Pop, and I stopped going to church when I was a kid.
“I’m sorry that Erin’s hurt so bad and won’t be playing basketball.”
“Me too.”
“Do you want me to sit tonight’s game out?”
I look at Russ and say, “Why would I want you to do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“I heard Coach K called about you.”
“I’ve met Coach K a half-dozen times,” Russ says, as if Coach K were just any old person and not the head of perhaps the best collegiate basketball program in the country. “At camps.”
This means that Russ has been to summer invitation camps for the best high-school players in the nation. They get to go for free and meet all sorts of basketball celebrities.
“Why are you here?” I ask. “I mean, you could be anywhere. Any prep school in the country would take you. What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to be near my grandparents,” Russ says. “Besides… maybe I need to be in Bellmont.”
“This hellhole? Why?”
“To be your friend,” he says.
I don’t understand why he would say that, so I just let it go.
I’m tired, and we’ve reached the high school. As we go through the metal detectors, people start asking me questions about Erin. I return to silent mode.
All day long I think about Erin and how strangers are operating on her leg, cutting it open, inserting pins or whatever to mend the bones. I worry that the surgeons won’t get it right and Erin will have to walk with a limp, or even worse. I can’t pay attention in any of my classes. And when I receive a slip that says to report to guidance during my lunch period, I don’t even mind the fact that I’ll have to speak to Mr. Gore, because it means I won’t be around Russ. He keeps asking me if I’m okay and it’s getting really annoying.
When I sit down across from Mr. Gore I notice the Duke bumper sticker above his filing
cabinet and start to get mad, although I’m not really sure why.
“You okay?” Mr. Gore says.
I shake my head.
“You want to talk about anything?” His Jheri curl is looking a little flat on the left side—like maybe he slept on it and didn’t have time to do his hair this morning.
“I’m tired of Bellmont,” I say.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m tired of seeing graffiti every day. I’m tired of drug dealers. I’m tired of people pretending that they don’t see what’s going on in the neighborhood. I’m tired of good people getting hurt. I’m tired of basketball. I’m tired of doing nice things for people and being punished for it. I just want to get out of here. I just want to escape.”
The words simply popped out, which surprises me. Mr. Gore seems surprised too, especially since I never talk to him about anything important. He’s trying not to smile, but I can tell he thinks he’s making progress with me. Maybe he is.
“Are you tired of Erin?” His eyes are all excited now.
“No.”
“And yet you broke up with her for basketball.”
“What does that have to do with her being in the hospital?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“Why did you call me down here?”
“Because I care about you.”
Mr. Gore’s leaning forward. His forehead is damp, like he’s nervous—or maybe like he really does care. When I look into his eyes, I see something that makes me feel as though maybe I was wrong about him all along. It’s hard to explain. It’s been a strange twenty-four hours, and I didn’t sleep much last night.
“You know, I played high-school basketball,” he says.
“Really?” I find it hard to believe, because Mr. Gore is very thin and fragile-looking, but he is tall.
“Played in college too, until I hurt my knee. I used to be able to dunk.”
I try to picture Mr. Gore dunking and the little movie I create in my mind makes me laugh.
“As a young man I dedicated my entire life to basketball, and you know what basketball does for me now?” he says.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
I think about what I’ll be doing when I’m Mr. Gore’s age and I can’t see myself playing ball. Even if I went pro, I’d be done playing. For some stupid reason, I see myself with Erin—maybe we’re married. We’re all old and silly-looking—somewhere far from Bellmont, somewhere decent—but we’re still together. I wonder if we really will be.
“You don’t owe anything to Coach,” Mr. Gore says.
I just look at him for a second. He seems different to me, like he’s on my side. Maybe I’ve had him all wrong. And his saying that about Coach makes me feel better, for some reason.
“You look tired, Finley.”
“I didn’t sleep much last night.”
“You want to catch a few z’s in my office?”
“Are you serious?”
“I’m in meetings this afternoon. If you want to take a nap, you can do so here. I’ll let your teachers know that you’re with me. Just don’t go telling anyone my office is a hotel.” Mr. Gore shoots me a corny wink, and then adds, “We good?”
I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep in his office, but I would like some time alone, so I say, “Thanks.”
“No problem. I’ll be in the conference room next door if you need me.”
He pats my shoulder twice before he exits, and then I’m alone.
I stare out the window for two hours and think about Erin.
Halfway through the last period, I slip out of the building before Russ or anyone else can find me.
32
I WALK AROUND THE CRAPPY BELLMONT STREETS for a few hours before I return to the high school to watch our JV team play.
When I pass him in the stands, Terrell says, “How’s your lil baby doin’?”
I stop and look into Terrell’s eyes. “Don’t call her my lil baby. You know she doesn’t like that. She’s told you hundreds of times. Show some respect,” I say, hearing the anger in my voice. It surprises me.
“Okay, Finley,” Terrell says. “Damn.”
Hakim and Sir exchange a glance, and then continue to watch the JV team play.
Terrell was just trying to be nice, and I feel a little guilty for yelling at him, but I’m also glad that he called me Finley and not White Rabbit, which seems important. So I add, “Don’t ever call Erin my lil baby again. Okay?”
“Relax, Finley,” Terrell says. “Watch yourself.”
I know Terrell means I’m stepping out of line, that I’ve ignored the power structure here in Bellmont, that I should know my place or else I’ll be reminded, but I don’t really care about all that right now. First my starting position was taken from me, and now Erin. What else matters?
I sit down.
Russ slides toward me and says, “Where’d you disappear to during lunch?”
“I was with Mr. Gore,” I say, and then stare at the JV game. Our team is already losing by fifteen. Coach Watts calls time-out and is now screaming at his starters about running an offense. “Any offense!” he yells.
“You all right?” Wes says.
“Yeah,” I say. “I just wanna watch the game, okay?”
Wes and Russ glance at each other, and then they leave me alone. So does the rest of the varsity team.
When the JV squad finishes, we shoot around—I hit every shot I take—and then in the locker room Coach announces the starting lineup, leaving out my name. No one says anything to me about my demotion, and I really don’t care all that much.
During warm-up drills I see Pop and Dad in the stands, and I think about how Dad has his car with him. I could walk right over to him and say, “Let’s go to the hospital to check up on Erin.” He’d say I should play the game, that I made a commitment to the team. But he’d take me if I pressed him.
Russ gets the biggest roar by far when they announce the starters. Terrell looks at his sneakers. Coach’s talk about the team will sound a little different to Terrell now that he’s no longer the number one option.
I’m standing behind Coach as he goes over the game plan—how to beat Brixton, tonight’s opponent—but I’m not really listening at all.
Then I’m on the bench watching Wes win the jump ball, which he tips to Russ, who dribbles toward the basket. He dishes the ball to Hakim, who scores an easy layup.
“Red twenty-two,” Coach yells, and the team drops into a 2–2–1 press.
I think about Mr. Gore saying basketball means nothing to him now. I suddenly realize I don’t care whether we win this game, or if I even play. It’s a game. Erin’s in the hospital. What am I doing here?
I never dreamed I’d stop caring about basketball, but I really couldn’t care less about it right now.
I stand and say, “I’m sorry, Coach. I have to go.”
“What?” Coach says. “Where?”
I stride past the opposing team, right up to Pop and Dad.
“I should be at the hospital,” I say. “I want to be there when Erin wakes up.”
Coach Watts has followed me. “Finley, you best get your butt back on our bench.”
Pop looks at Coach Watts and says, “He’s got a lady in need.”
“You know that there will be consequences,” Dad says.
“Last chance, Finley,” Coach Watts says.
All the people in the stands are staring at me like I’m a complete freak.
The opposing coach calls a time-out to set up a press break, and, as my teammates jog off the court, they stare at me too. I see concern on Russ’s face.
“I should be at the hospital, Dad.”
“Okay,” Dad says.
I push Pop’s wheelchair out of the gym and the night is more than refrigerator cold—it’s freezer-cold now.
We get into the car and Dad drives.
“I’m proud of you,” Pop says. “People are more important than games.”
“I
’m sorry,” Dad says, because we all know my leaving means Coach has every right to never play me again. If I had simply asked to miss the game before it started, Coach would have probably let me go spend time with Erin, no problem. But leaving the bench in the first quarter is unheard of. Dad and Coach both know that it means I basically just quit the team.
“It’s okay,” I say, and then exit the car.
“Take this,” Dad says, handing me a twenty-dollar bill. “Call me when you’re ready to come home, but if it’s after I go to work, take a cab.”
We don’t have a lot of money, so twenty bucks is a big deal. It’s Dad’s way of saying he’s okay with my decision—that he supports me.
I tell the hospital people I’m Erin’s brother and I’m allowed in, even though it’s not regular visiting hours.
“Your parents are in the cafeteria,” a woman says and then points me in the right direction.
I find Mr. and Mrs. Quinn staring at coffee cups.
They look up at me with tired eyes.
“Don’t you have a game tonight?” Mr. Quinn says.
“Can I see Erin?”
They nod.
“Just try not to wake her if she’s still sleeping,” Mrs. Quinn says. “She needs her rest.”
Mrs. Quinn gives me the room number and when I find Erin her eyes are closed.
Very quietly I stand next to her bed and watch her breathe.
The swelling in her face has gone down considerably.
The IV drip in her arm means she’s heavily drugged.
Her bad leg is locked in a slightly bent position and—through the sheet fabric—I can see things poking through, which I imagine to be part of the metal skeleton that will hold her leg together as it mends. I don’t want to see the damage just yet, so I don’t peek.
I think about running with Erin, sprinting, climbing out onto my roof—her using her knee in all sorts of ways. Almost anything can be ruined. Everything is fragile. Temporary.
Because I can’t help it, I lean down and kiss her forehead once, and I think I see her smile for a second in her sleep, but it’s dark so I can’t be sure.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” a nurse whispers from the doorway. “She needs her sleep.”
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