But it’s not my jump shots that win this game.
By the next day, there is a highlight video on YouTube, because we dunk so many basketballs. Most are of Devin, but I am in one highlight as well. That’s how good this game goes.
Coach Cliff sits down and smiles. Mr. Doig looks very smug, with his arms crossed, leaning back on a folding chair next to the court.
I don’t play the last ten minutes. Neither does Khalil or Devin. We win this exhibition by thirty-six points. When the horn blows, I lean over to Khalil and say, “We are going to kill the Owenses.”
“The Owenses are a lot better than these dudes, you know that,” Khalil says.
“Still, though,” I say.
Khalil smiles. “Yeah, we kill ’em. We kill ’em.”
FORTY-ONE
THE PERFECT LIFE
There is only an hour for us to clean up. Devin, Khalil, and I all shower at the Anderson Athletic Center. This is not great for me, but what can I do? If I will play more basketball, I will have to shower in places where there are other naked people. I will have to keep in mind that this is not a sign I’ve been abandoned to nuns by my drunk dad, but is rather a sign that I am pursuing my dream.
Devin, when he called, told me to bring nicer clothes for the concert. That is difficult, because I refuse to wear anything but shorts or warm-ups, usually. In fact, I only have one pair of regular pants and a shirt that is maybe okay. Renata made me wear khakis and a check button-up shirt for my picture day in the fall. This is what I put on after showering in the locker room. The pants are too short by an inch or two, and I only have basketball shoes and white socks and the shirt won’t button across my chest, so I have to wear a Philadelphia 76ers T-shirt under it and leave it unbuttoned. When I walk out from behind the locker where I dressed, a big smile explodes on Khalil’s face.
“What?” I ask.
“You look like a big-ass third grader,” he says. “I like it.”
“Okay, thanks,” I say.
“Aw, don’t be sad, Farmer. How could you know about fashion when you live out on the frozen prairie where you probably got no internet.”
“I don’t need nice clothes too much.”
Then Devin walks around the corner. He is wearing blue jeans, but also a black jacket, like he’s a professor on TV. He just stops in his tracks when he sees me. His eyes get watery, and he looks happier than I have ever seen him look.
“You like my clothes?” I ask.
“Mmm.” This sound is very high-pitched.
“Yeah?” I ask.
“Bah-ha!” he shouts. Then he falls onto the bench, and he and Khalil hoot and laugh and handshake each other, like they were the guys who dressed me up as a joke. This does not make me feel bad, because they are so happy, I am getting happy, too. A few minutes later, Carli and Tasha pick us up.
Carli looks very nice. Tasha looks very nice.
Khalil says, “You gotta show this young man the way. He’s lost!”
“Not my responsibility,” Carli says. Her face also looks like it might break open. “But, yeah, I think I’ll help next time.”
The joke is now getting old to me.
The church we come to for Saundra’s recital is more like a cathedral than a little Northrup church. In fact, it reminds me of the Warsaw Cathedral on its inside. This church has giant wood arches the color of chocolate holding up a very high, beautiful ceiling. Warsaw Cathedral is not such a good memory. I sat with a nun who pinched me a lot, because I had a difficult time sitting still. There was also music. The arches were not chocolate wood, but made of stone, and the sound echoed around the place, like ghosts were carrying it on their backs.
How long has this memory been tucked in my brain without once coming out to remind me it exists? I would like no more memories of Warsaw.
There is a big difference between then and now. There is no nun. There is Carli, who smells like honey. She doesn’t pinch me, but she does put her hand on my leg. On the other side of me is Khalil. He is the one who can’t sit still, but it is not due to feeling hungry or sick, like I did in Warsaw, but because he recognizes and wants to greet so many of Devin’s family in the audience. “Hey, Ms. Mitchell! Hey, Mr. Fitzgerald! How you doing, Mr. Phelps?” He is twisting and waving and standing and shaking hands. I sit calmly in one spot.
Saundra’s piano recital is with a group of ten student piano players who are all taught by the same teacher. Of the ten, only one other is black, but maybe half the people in the audience are black. This doesn’t make sense to me. “Who are all these black people?” I whisper to Khalil.
He smiles. “What? You scared of black people?”
“No. There’s just so many and only one Saundra and one other girl.”
“They are the Mitchell entourage, dude,” Khalil says.
“If you’re part of this family, you better be ready to go to some event just about every night, because that’s what everybody expects: full support,” Devin says.
“They’re all here for Saundra?”
“That’s why Devin’s got no time for friends,” Khalil says. “Has to pay all these people back when their kids have something to do. Isn’t that right, Devin?”
Devin nods.
Then Khalil whispers, “But you think he’s ever been up to Brooklyn Center to see one of my little brother’s band concerts? His dad wouldn’t allow that, would he?”
The concert begins. These young kids, none of them any older than me, are so good. They play music I remember from when I was a child. It goes into me, through my heart, into my lungs, and it makes me tremble, not just from being sad, but from the joy of having the tunes reentered into my mind. As much as Renata loves jazz music, my Polish mom must’ve loved classical. I read in the program that this music comes from Bach and Brahms and Debussy and from my own Polish man, Chopin. When Saundra plays her nocturne, and the music swirls through the church and into me, I find myself in Adam Sobieski heaven.
It is only later that I recognize Jevetta Mitchell, Renata’s favorite jazz singer. I get a picture with her. I send it to Renata, because Renata is my family and family is important.
This is all I want. It’s so simple. Basketball, family, good concerts.
Life is not so simple, though.
FORTY-TWO
HERE IT COMES AGAIN
Somehow everything turns upside down. It happens so fast. I should have been ready, because I have lived long enough to know how bad things go. When I feared Carli leaving me, I should have listened to myself. Gotten prepared in my head.
I am at lunch in the cafeteria. Barry chomps on chicken nuggets across from me. It is Wednesday. I can’t even make myself eat.
Saturday night was so good. I stayed over with Devin. We watched a documentary film about Larry Bird and Magic Johnson. Khalil also stayed. He cracked good jokes. We tweeted insults about the Owens boys. They tweeted insults back to us. We ate enchiladas. I passed out happy on a soft couch.
But my mind knew the truth. Happiness does not last. During the night, for the first time in weeks, I dreamed of Warsaw and the apartment. The black ink of an octopus flowed in, choked me, no one there to save me. In the morning Khalil said I cried out in the night as if I were dying.
“It’s because I was dying,” I said.
And I couldn’t shake the bad feeling.
The Mitchells and Khalil left the house before I did, because they went to church. Carli was supposed to pick me up early. She had plans with her pouty friends in the afternoon. But she was late to get me. We were supposed to go at nine a.m. She didn’t answer texts. I paced. I worried. I texted Tasha. Tasha did not reply. Finally, Carli showed up at just before eleven.
Her face was pale. “Sorry,” she said when I got in the SUV.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I had a hard time sleeping,” she said.
“Couch at Tasha’s no good?” I asked.
“No. It was fine.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
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“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“What?”
“Nothing, okay?”
“I don’t understand . . . nothing?”
Carli turned to me, her face red. “Well, first of all, I tweaked my knee playing Nerf with Tasha’s little brother. I can barely walk this morning!” Her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh shit. I’m sorry.”
“That’s not even it. Not at all.”
“What is?” I asked.
She bit her lower lip. Shook her head. “It’s nothing. How can you not understand nothing?” Her chin quivered. “Could you just be quiet?”
My heart sank so hard. I am good at being quiet. We said nothing all the way home. She said nothing to me as she dropped me at my house.
I texted her later to ask her what I did so wrong. She didn’t respond.
I texted Tasha after that to get more information on what might have happened. This time Tasha did respond. She wrote:
Dude. She got all weird and freaked out. Think her school friends got nasty on her on Snapchat. But she wouldn’t talk about it.
School friends? The pouty girls? No. Not just the pouty girls.
When I dream about the apartment, it’s because I have been abandoned.
I sit and feel sick at the lunch table. Carli hasn’t talked to me all week. She won’t even look at me. This is abandonment.
Barry is happy as can be.
“I think I have my second-degree form down?” Barry says, mouth full of chicken. “But I have to get it so it’s, like, part of my body? Otherwise my ego might get in the way and make me fail?”
I look up. Carli walks past our table with her pouty friends. She limps like her knee won’t bend. She hangs her head down. Kase Kinshaw is close behind them. He is with Greg Day, who doesn’t acknowledge me, even though we were good teammates. Kase slows down. “What are you losers looking at?” he asks.
“Indomitable spirit,” Barry says.
“Man,” Kase says. “So messed up.”
I shake my head and stare at my milk carton.
Kase follows Carli, the pouty girls, and Greg to a table. He sits down next to Carli. He puts his arm on the back of her chair.
I get up and go to the bathroom so I won’t do anything crazy.
FORTY-THREE
NOT OKAY
I lie in bed. It is Wednesday night.
Khalil texts me:
Dude you can’t hope to understand these girls. Carli’s ok. She will be fine. Focus on the game.
I don’t think Khalil knows about life. I know about life.
I fall asleep and dream of the Warsaw apartment. I am choked by ink. My dad will not save me. He has left me to die. I wake up sweating, cramps in my gut.
This I remember. The few days before my dad took me to the nuns were the best we had together. We ate in a restaurant and we ate a big dessert, and he ordered no beers and he made good jokes and talked about when he and my mom first met at a music festival outside Warsaw. We played soccer two days, kicking a ball across a field. We went to a movie about a kung fu bear. Then one morning he smoked a thousand cigarettes. He put my few clothes in a small suitcase and put two pictures in there, and then a man drove up in a car. We got in the car. I asked him where we were going. He didn’t answer, like Carli doesn’t answer my texts. He said good-bye to his son and never said hello again.
Carli is not okay.
Thursday, I sit in a chemistry test and I can’t do nothing. Anything. The desk is too small. My body doesn’t fit in it. I flunk this test, because my mind hurts.
I try to be normal. I tweet about Kyle Owens after school. Nine days to your defeat @KyOw23.
Khalil does not retweet. I text Khalil. Khalil does not text back. By the time I fall asleep in my bed, I am sure that Khalil has spoken to Carli and found out that he shouldn’t be my friend and that he has abandoned me, too.
I text Devin. What’s up?
He texts back. Nothing. Golden State game on.
I don’t even want to watch NBA.
I don’t even want to sit with Renata and Barry at the breakfast table in the morning. Together they make plans for how I’m going to get to my game the next day. Renata and Professor Mike are meeting with local people who want to garden on the big plot of land next to us.
“You promise to be careful?” Renata asks Barry, because she has just suggested that he could drive me in her car.
“I’m a good driver? I never take my eyes off the road. Right, Adam?”
I stare at my egg sandwich but won’t eat it.
“Are you okay?” Renata asks me.
“I’m very sick. I have to stay home from school,” I say.
Renata puts her hand on my forehead. “You might be a little warm.”
FORTY-FOUR
TRYING TO HANDLE
Basketballs are bouncing. Coach Cliff and Mr. Doig stand to the side, arms crossed, talking quietly. We are in the gyms at Normandale Community College. Not very fancy or new, but bright. There are six teams here. Three on each court. There are plastic chairs surrounding each, with a few spectators sitting here and there, but not many. Barry is one. He gives me a big thumbs-up. He is wearing his karate headband. I dribble the ball with one hand and thumbs-up him back, very quickly. Devin stretches on the floor on the other side of the court. His mom and sister sit very close to Barry. Somehow this makes me nervous.
Speaking of nervous, there was a moment the night before when I thought I couldn’t come to this game, because I had my dream again and again and my stomach was too upset. But two things happened.
First, at nearly two a.m., the phone buzzed in my hand. I was only half-asleep, still wearing the clothes I had worn all day. The text was from Carli.
Good luck tomorrow, dude. You’ll do great.
I had two responses at once to this text: I wanted to tell her I love her. I wanted to tell her she can drive her SUV off a cliff and I don’t care.
I didn’t text back at all. I won’t be fooled again, but I’m sorry to say her text makes me feel a little better.
Second, at seven a.m., Devin texted me.
Have you heard from Khalil? Can’t get a hold of him.
Right away, my anger at Khalil—because I thought he was joining Carli in abandoning me—turned to worry. Khalil and Devin are brothers. There is no way Khalil would ignore him. Has something bad happened to Khalil?
And here we are on the court. He has not made it to the game. The coaches have said nothing about his absence.
“Passing. Passing. Right now,” Coach Cliff shouts.
The Fury, without our point guard, move into serious warming up.
Rashid and I are together. He looks nervous. As we pass the ball, he says, “Where’s Khalil?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“We got no other real points. These dudes are quick, too. Titus Lartey busts ankles.”
The team we will play, the TC Tigers, are all boys from northern suburbs. Some big white boys and African kids from Africa. “Like Liberia and shit,” Khalil had told me after our first game. I eyeball this team. One of them looks a little like my old friend Mobo Bell. At least he has the same haircut and dribble posture. The team has a couple bigger boys than me and Rashid. They have some small, fast kids, too.
We run through our shooting progressions. We do our layups.
Coach Cliff blows the whistle. “Come on in here, fellas. We have to make some lineup changes.”
We gather around him and Mr. Doig.
Before Coach Cliff has a chance to say anything, Devin speaks up. “Where’s Khalil? Do you know?” he asks.
Coach Cliff takes in a big breath. Mr. Doig makes a big frown with his face.
“Khalil got into a little hot water on Thursday afternoon. We don’t know the particulars, but there are charges pending.”
“There’s no damn way,” Devin says.
Mr. Doig glares.
“For now, we have to consider Khalil to be in breach of
the team contract. Until we know something more, that’s all we have,” Coach Cliff says.
“No way,” Devin says, shaking his head.
“Show some respect,” Mr. Doig hisses.
Devin leans in, opens his eyes wide, and says, “No. Damn. Way. Sir.”
“Just cool it,” Coach Cliff says. “This will all get figured out. Right now we got a game to play, and we have no point guard. Devin, you’re going to be bringing the ball up.”
Devin doesn’t say anything. The ref blows the whistle. Other games begin in other parts of the gym.
“Once we get into the half-court, we’ll just go motion. Don’t matter what spot you’re playing. Just do motion. Marques, you’re at the four. Rashid, you’re starting at the five. Farmer, you’re our third-best handle. You’ll move to two.”
“I never played guard.”
“Just do the motion,” Coach Cliff says.
The ref blows the whistle again. The TC Tigers are waiting at center court.
“Do I jump?” I ask as I jog on.
“Rashid. You,” Coach Cliff shouts back.
The game begins with Rashid outjumping a giant fellow for the tip. I see there is nothing to be intimidated about with our opponents’ size, because they are very slow. The rest of the TC Tigers are not like those Owens boys, either. They have no team game at all. They run isolation. Although I go to the wrong spot two times in the first minute and Devin has to point me where to stop, I score one basket at the post, Devin scores on a dunk, and Trey, our small forward, hits a three-pointer. We are up 7–0.
I relax. I am on a basketball court and nothing else matters.
Except, as soon as I relax, the boy named Titus Lartey goes crazy. He does not pass. He only drives for layups or he only stops and shoots. He does not miss. The boy is maybe five foot nine, and he is chili peppers on fire. While Devin makes two more baskets and I miss my stupid jump shot and Rashid misses, Titus flies downcourt, drives to the hoop, scores and scores. The TC Tigers pull within one point just five minutes in.
There is a time-out, and Coach Cliff yells at Trey, who is supposed to guard Titus, to stay in Titus’s face.
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