by April Lurie
He watches me for a while, and I begin to realize that Pickler is very interested in the particulars of my crime. In fact, he’s downright nosy. Since the last thing I want is a heart-to-heart with this guy, I decide to give him an excellent reason to stay away. “Well,” I say, “it’s a little embarrassing, sir, but I’m here because I stole underwear.”
His eyes widen.
“A certain kind, if you know what I mean.” Notice, I didn’t lie.
He stands there, blinking. “Well, Dylan, that is rather…unusual.”
“Yes, sir, I know.”
He takes a step back. “I, uh, probably wouldn’t share that bit of information with any of the staff here. Just…keep it to yourself, okay?”
“Oh, sure thing, Mr. Pickler. I totally understand.” I raise the bottle of bleach and the brush. “Better get to work now. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”
Pickler leaves me alone for most of the week, but even so, I don’t slack off. Each day I show up at 10 a.m.—clean toilets, sweep floors, wash windows, basically do whatever Pickler thinks will reform my deviant soul—and hop back on the bus by 3 p.m. This gets me home before rush hour, and also gives me time to shoot hoops with Jake and the guys later in the evening. So, even though community service sucks, I have to admit that staying busy 24/7 helps keep my mind off Randy and the drug trafficking that seems to be going on in my own house.
By the time Friday morning rolls around, I’m pretty psyched. In exactly five hours I’ll be finished paying my debt to society, and if I’m lucky will never have to set eyes on Mr. Pickler again. But as it turns out, my buddy Jake has other plans for me. At noon he walks into the gym. “Hey, it’s the criminal! Put down that broom and let’s play some ball!”
“Jake?” I say. “What are you doing here?” I glance around; thankfully, Pickler is nowhere in sight.
Jake sprints over and claps me on the back. “Listen to this, Dylan. Our team got some players from Monroe High to meet us here for a scrimmage. The guys are in the locker room right now getting ready.” He raises both hands. “Pretty awesome, huh? Today I brought the Titans to you!”
“But Jake, I can’t play right now, you know that. I have to work until three. And I told you about Pickler. He’s nuts!”
Jake waves this away like it’s nothing. “Aw, come on, Dylan, don’t wimp out on me. Tomorrow’s our big game. And besides, wait till you hear this. Coach Robinson is here. I saw him at the front desk, told him about the scrimmage, and he wants to see our game. Said he’s scouting right now for his varsity players for the fall.”
“Really?” Last year on JV, it seemed like Coach Robinson was either checking on stats or jawing with a ref when I made my best plays. Now is my chance to show him what I can do.
Suddenly the guys come stampeding onto the court. Mike Pappas hits a reverse layup and calls out, “Hey, Fontaine! Where’s your orange jumpsuit? Your ball and chain?” The rest of them start laughing.
I look at Jake. “Thanks for spreading the word, dude. Really, I owe you one.”
“Chill out, Dylan. They’re just joking around.” He hands me a bag. “Here. I stopped by your house and got your jersey and shorts. Hurry up and change.”
Coach Robinson is in the bleachers when I come back. As I sprint over to the guys, Jake announces, “Let’s hear it for the Titans’ starting forward! Number thirty-four, Dylan Fontaine!”
The team cheers and Coach Robinson sits up a little taller. “Whoa, Fontaine!” he calls. “What’d you do, grow a foot this summer?”
“Yeah,” I say, trying hard not to grin. “Something like that.” Pickler is still nowhere in sight, and I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t even recognize me now that I’m in uniform.
After a ten-minute warm-up we start the game. One thing I know about Coach Robinson is that he likes team players, so instead of going for the glory, I make solid passes, get plenty of rebounds, and play a tight defense. We win 41–38, and when Coach comes to the sidelines to congratulate our team, I feel pretty good about how I played. At first, he doesn’t single out anyone, but after a while he takes me aside. “I like what I saw on the court today, Fontaine. You’re a good, solid player, and Lord knows, you’ve got the height. Keep working and there may be a spot for you on varsity this fall.”
“Thank you, sir. I will. I’ll work hard.”
A few yards away, Jake is giving me the thumbs-up. Things seem to be going pretty well until Pickler walks into the gym. “Hey, Coach Robinson!” he says. “Nice to see you!”
Great. Pickler knows Coach. In fact, they seem to be chums. Coach gives him a friendly wave, but soon Pickler realizes that it’s me standing next to him. “Dylan?” He marches over, eyeing my jersey. “You know you are not supposed to be using the facilities. You’re here to work.” He glances at the clock. “You’ve got two more hours. Actually, three, since you’ve obviously been goofing off.”
Coach is confused. “Um, is there a problem, Mr. Pickler?”
Pickler sighs. “Well, yes, actually. Dylan is here for community service. He’s not supposed to be playing ball.”
“Community service?” Coach looks at me and grins. “Jeez, what’d you do, Fontaine? Forget to help a little old lady across the street?”
“Um…well, not exactly,” I say.
While Coach waits for an explanation, Picker begins to smirk. I have a sneaking suspicion that Pickler can’t wait to spill the beans about my crime—about the certain type of underwear I stole. I could kick myself for being such a wiseass. “Well, Dylan,” Pickler says, “I believe the front hallway needs mopping. I suggest you change back into your work clothes and begin.”
“Yes, Mr. Pickler,” I say. “Bye, Coach. Thanks again.”
Glumly I walk to the exit door, and when I turn around I see Pickler whispering to Coach Robinson. Coach looks up, stunned. We lock eyes. I kiss varsity ball goodbye.
Eight
WHEN I ARRIVE HOME—hungry, tired, and convinced that I am the biggest jerk on the planet—I hear the Dead Musicians Society in the basement playing Jimi Hendrix’s “Voodoo Child.” The kitchen is littered with dirty dishes, empty beer bottles, and a variety of pot paraphernalia, and there is a note from my dad taped to the refrigerator. It reads: There’s a full moon tonight so Labor & Delivery is already a zoo. If I’m lucky I’ll see you guys in the morning. Dad. Inside the fridge is the pan of vegetable lasagna I made last night, but when I peel back the foil, I find out that, except for a spattering of tomato sauce and few stray mushrooms, it’s empty.
All of this, combined with Coach Robinson believing that I like to dress in women’s underwear, and the fact that the police might show up soon to arrest my brother, is enough to put any guy over the edge. But when I hit the Incoming button on our phone’s answering machine, hoping to hear a message from Angie about her sucky time in the burbs and how much she misses me, instead I hear a distantly familiar voice say, “Hi, guys, it’s me, Mom, calling from Paris. The art show is going very well, and as it turns out, Philippe and I may have to stay a bit longer—” I decide I’ve had enough. I stop the message midsentence, grab a basketball from the garage, and march downstairs.
The guys are really into the music and for a while they don’t even realize I’m there. Moser’s head is bobbing up and down as he plays a loud, steady bass line, and Headbone is magically keeping rhythm to a song that seems to move all around the room. Randy holds his guitar, effortlessly sliding his fingers up and down the frets, while Nick, all sweaty, belts out “Well, I stand up next to a mountain, and I chop it down with the edge of my hand….” The only one missing is Chloe, which is no surprise, really, considering the state of the kitchen.
I take a seat atop the banister, waiting, gripping my basketball until my knuckles turn white. Apparently my father’s recent threat didn’t faze Randy’s friends at all. Not only are they back, they’re high, and as Nick belts out the chorus, “’Cause I’m a Voodoo Child…,” it really hits me how unfair life can be. I mean here’s a
guy who lives on Pop-Tarts, Dr Pepper, and reefer, and just because he’s lead singer in a band and occasionally lifts a few dumbbells, he winds up with the build of Brad Pitt in Fight Club and has all the babes, including Chloe, falling all over him. But as I continue to listen to the music, I realize that what pisses me off the most is how good they all sound—my brother best of all.
When the song is over, I throw the basketball at Randy. It grazes his right shoulder, bounces off his amp, and smashes into Headbone’s cymbals. They all look up. “Dylan!” Randy shouts. “What’s going on, man? What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing’s wrong with me.” I jump off the banister and look him straight in the eye. “And what’s going on is this: you and I, right now, are gonna go outside and have a game of one-on-one.”
“What?” He laughs. “You want to play basketball? Dylan, come on, man, do you need to talk or something? You’ve been acting pretty crazy lately.”
Headbone picks up the ball. “Yeah, dude, you all right? You’re looking kind of strange.”
I grab the ball from Headbone. “Yes, Headbone, I’m fine.” I turn back to Randy. “And no, I do not need to talk. In fact, talking is the last thing I want to do right now.”
They all stare at me like I’ve completely lost my mind. Then Moser flashes me a guilt-ridden smile, revealing a telltale piece of spinach stuck between his two front teeth. “Hey, uh, Dyl,” he says, “if this is about the vegetable lasagna, which was really good, by the way, we’re sorry. And if you want to know the truth, it was Headbone who finished off the last piece. I told him not to, but—”
“Hey!” Headbone says. “Get it straight, Moser, you ate half the pan!”
Nick sets down his guitar and looks at me like he’s all concerned about his best friend’s little brother, but he can’t fool me. “Dylan,” he says, “you are looking pretty strung out. Did something happen at the Y? Something with Pickler? Do you want to talk about it?”
I’m not in the mood for Nick’s Freudian psychobabble. “No, nothing happened. And if you don’t mind, Nick, this is between me and my brother, all right? So stay out of it.”
“Ooooooo,” Headbone says. “This appears serious.”
It seems that Randy doesn’t like the way I spoke to his best bud and fellow band member. He walks over and swipes the ball from my hand. “All right, Dylan, if that’s what you want, fine, we’ll play some one-on-one.” He waves to his friends. “Come on, guys, let’s go.”
The five of us head outside to the driveway, where, years ago, my dad sank a basketball pole into the ground for Randy and me. You’d never know it now, but Randy was a starter on his middle school team and even played part of freshman year. That was before he got ultraserious with the Dead Musicians Society and way too cool for team sports. Anyway, back then we played a lot together, and because Randy was always taller and stronger than me, he usually won. Today, however, I have the clear advantage. Not only have I grown half a foot this year, but while Randy was smoking dope all summer, I was lifting weights and playing AAU ball.
Nick, Headbone, and Moser take seats along the driveway while Randy and I face each other under the net. “Twenty-one-point game,” I say. “You get possession first.”
Randy laughs. “Sorry, Dylan. I know you think you’re all that, but let me tell you something. Playing basketball is like riding a bike. Two seconds and it all comes back.” He throws the ball at me, hard. “It’s your possession.”
“Hey, do you guys need me to ref?” Headbone calls from the sidelines. “’Cause I’d say you’re both looking pretty psycho right now.”
“No ref,” I say, keeping my eyes on Randy. “In this game, anything goes.”
Randy nods. “I’m down with that.”
Moser stands up and scratches his armpit. “Hey, you guys are making me nervous. I mean, what happened to the Dead Musicians Society’s code of honor? I thought we were all about love and peace and—”
“Shut up, Moser!” Randy says. He turns to me. “Now, let’s play ball!”
My adrenaline is pumping, and it feels like every cell in my body is on fire. I take the ball and right away fake Randy out, run past him, and score an easy layup. On the sidelines I see Nick, Moser, and Headbone with their eyes popping out, and when I steal the ball from Randy and score again, I hear them moan. Next Randy tries faking me out, but I call his bluff, put up a solid defense, and block his shot; he falls to the ground. “Hey, that’s a foul!” Headbone yells.
“Dylan!” Nick shouts. “It’s not cool to play dirty, man! Especially against your own brother!”
I toss the ball to Randy and walk directly up to Nick. “Well, guess what, Nick? Right now I don’t need you or anyone else telling me how to play basketball. So keep your mouth shut. Got it?”
Nick glares at me but keeps his cool and, surprisingly, backs off. I walk onto the court with a feeling of invincibility. This doesn’t last long, because a few minutes later, Randy wakes from his drug-induced stupor and starts putting the moves on me. He drives in hard and scores, then boxes me out, steals the ball, and makes a reverse hook shot. With each play the game gets rougher, and when Randy takes the lead, I grab the ball and charge him like a raging bull. We both fall to the ground.
“What’s your problem, dude?” he screams.
I’m lying on top of Randy; the heels of my hands are all torn up, and Randy’s right elbow is bleeding. I grab his wrists and pin him to the ground. “The only one who has a problem, dude, is you!”
Randy seems to have superhuman strength, because he breaks free, puts two hands on my chest, and gives me a powerful shove. I fall back and hit my head against the pole. Everything starts to spin. Next thing I know, he’s standing over me. “So what is it, Dylan? What do you think my problem is? Except for the fact that I might kill you!”
My ears are ringing, but I manage to stand up. I’m a little wobbly. I feel a warm trickle run down the back of my scalp. “Why don’t you write songs anymore?” I blurt out.
Randy stands there blinking. “What did you say?”
“You heard me.” I point to Nick, Headbone, and Moser. “Why do you waste your time playing music with a bunch of stoners who don’t—”
“Hey, I resent that!” Headbone shouts.
“Shut up, Headbone!” I say. I turn back to Randy. “Who don’t have half the talent you do? Think about it, Randy, you play dead people’s music. And why is that? Are you dead? ’Cause ever since Mom left, you—”
Suddenly Randy’s fist connects with my face and I am back on the ground seeing stars. I scramble to my feet and pounce on him, and then it’s pure mayhem. It could be my imagination, but in the midst of the fight I think I hear a girl screaming, “Break it up, you assholes!” I manage to get a few good punches in before Nick, Moser, and Headbone pull me and Randy off each other.
As I sit there tasting blood and feeling a little nauseated, I see Chloe, hands on her hips, shaking her head at the two of us. “Well, well,” she says, “what do you know, it’s Cain and Abel. Is this what you guys do for fun when I’m not around?”
Headbone throws up his hands. “Clo, I swear to God, we tried to stop them, I even offered to ref the game, but they just wanted to kill each other!”
I’m breathing hard and my chest hurts. “Does Chloe know?” I say to Randy.
Randy’s lip is busted, and little pebbles from the driveway are embedded in his right cheek. “Know what?”
“That you’re dealing.”
His eyes widen and he starts to laugh. “Dealing? As in drugs? Is that what you think I’m doing?”
Every member of the Dead Musicians Society, including Chloe, is staring at me with their mouths hanging open. “Dylan,” Moser says, “you are seriously mistaken, man. I mean, sure Randy and the rest of us occasionally smoke the stuff, well, maybe more than occasionally, but we’re not stupid enough to deal. It’s not like we’re into capitalism or anything. Our band’s not about the legal tender.”
“Yeah,” H
eadbone says, “we just do a little mind altering from time to time, all in the name of music, of course.”
Nick gives me a strange look. “Dylan, what makes you think Randy’s dealing?”
“It’s not what I think, Nick, it’s what I know.” I look at Randy. “You even admitted it the other day. Remember? You said your stash was buried on Mr. Pellegrino’s property.”
Randy rolls his eyes. “My own personal stash, Dyl. An ounce, maybe, that’s all. And I was only joking about old man Pellegrino. Besides, do you really think the cops would bust a ninety-year-old World War Two veteran?”
“All right then, what about the huge bag of purple-bud under the floorboards in Mom’s studio, and the metric scale you stole from McKinley High?”
Randy’s eyes practically pop out of his head. “Dylan, are you totally whacked? Purple-bud in Mom’s studio? A scale? I haven’t even been in there since she left!”
Chloe walks over and kneels beside me. Her hair is tied up in that signature messy knot, and when the breeze blows I smell her perfume. She studies the back of my head, which is really throbbing now, then gently runs her fingers over my cheek. It wouldn’t be a bad way to die. “Dylan, are you sure you’re okay?” she says. “I mean, a lot of stuff has happened lately, with your mom leaving and all. Maybe you just need to talk about it. Get some things off your chest.”
Moser chimes in. “Yeah, dude, in fact, I can give you the name of this therapist my parents sent me to after they confiscated my computer because they thought I was obsessed with Kurt Cobain’s suicide-slash-murder. Which we all know was a premeditated plot by the evil Courtney Love. Anyway, she was really nice, the therapist, I mean. Pretty, too.”
Headbone throws up his hands. “Come on, Moser, Dylan doesn’t need a shrink! He’s got us!”
Randy picks up the basketball and throws it at Headbone. “Yeah, right. Doctor Headbone. What a joke.”
Nick, who obviously doesn’t like the fact that Chloe is tenderly stroking my face, crosses his arms over his chest and says, “I have an idea. Why don’t we take a look? We can dig up Randy’s stash in the backyard and then check out the studio. That way Dylan can see for himself that no one here is dealing drugs.”
