by Katz, Bob;
Rudy was plenty angry. He did not have the ball—Troy did—but he tried to demonstrate anyway, pretending he was holding a ball with one hand and hitting that hand with his other. “Hand. Ball. Hand. No foul.”
I could’ve stepped forward to explain what the rule said. But the snow was coming down in gusts now; it was so cold out. And recess was just about over. And anyway, Troy was too sure of himself to want to listen to what the rule book had to say. And what good is the truth if nobody wants to hear it?
I figured I would find the opportunity, if not today then sometime soon, to tell Rudy privately that he was absolutely correct in his interpretation of the rule. Although I had a clear sense that he did, in fact, already know that.
Troy, at the top of the key, put the ball back in play by dribbling once, twice. The other team, Rudy included, just stepped away and allowed him to score with no resistance.
Chapter Eighteen
My little brother ZZ was ridiculously good at sports. By “ridiculously,” I mean simply that he was extremely skilled at all of them, and that the skill came naturally. Plus, he was determined to improve and succeed, and he hated, really hated, to lose. He was a little like Troy Rutledge that way. If ZZ had a father like Troy’s—pushing him all the time to get better, better, better, to win, win, win—he’d be one dangerous dude. Maybe he’d even become a pro.
For all his natural talent in sports, ZZ was the opposite when it came to schoolwork, especially reading. He didn’t like to sit still. He didn’t like to be quiet. And he definitely did not like to be by himself, sitting alone in silence.
The solution, according to my mother, was to establish a regular reading session every weekday evening. I had to be involved—which didn’t seem fair. I was an excellent reader, and enjoyed reading, and probably did too much of it, if you want to know the truth. But Mom insisted that the family was a team—she did not have to point out that our captain was currently in prison—and we all needed to play a role.
So the plan was for ZZ and me to sit in the living room and read together, in silence, with no TV, for forty-five minutes. It was exactly the sort of plan that would make sense to a mother. I hated it.
Reading was fun for me, even if the book was not as great, say, as Treasure Island. I liked quiet. I liked the sound of my own thoughts. I liked being alone. Having to read alongside ZZ ruined everything.
The book he was supposed to be reading was Marvin Redpost: Kidnapped at Birth. I’d read it a few years ago and liked it. It was about a kid who had nothing in common with the rest of his family, so he comes to the conclusion that he had been kidnapped. It made me wonder if perhaps I had been kidnapped at birth. I mean, I wasn’t a great athlete like Dad and I wasn’t high-energy and super-organized like Mom. And I had nothing in common with my brother.
The sofa in our apartment was the same one we’d had at the Hunter Lane house. It was lumpy and soft, and not very long. ZZ insisted that we sit on it together during the reading sessions. He said he felt more secure with me sitting nearby. Maybe that was true if by “secure” he meant being able to dangle his feet over my knees, or nudge me “by mistake” with his elbow, or lean incrementally closer, inch by inch, until he was practically in my lap. At which time, he’d act astonished at how that could’ve happened, and make a grand show of an apology, then sheepishly retreat to his end of the sofa.
Then, inch by inch, it would start all over again.
I wanted to scream, but I didn’t. After all, we were a team.
And the noise! ZZ was like a robotic toy with battery-
operated sound and no volume control. He’d smack his lips and giggle and crack his toe knuckles and blurt out words that he was supposedly reading silently to himself. When I’d tell him to cut it out, he’d claim that I was making it up and if I didn’t cut it out this very minute he was going to complain to Mom that I was bothering him.
As a result of all these distractions, I was finding it harder and harder to make progress with Treasure Island. (Yes, I’d read it once before and had heard portions of the audiotape. But some books can get better each time around, just like movies and music.) I wanted to be stranded on a remote tropical island with Jim Hawkins, not trapped by ZZ’s restless feet on the living room sofa. I wanted to be on the very edge of a grand adventure, not on the very edge of losing my temper, swatting away my pesky little brother’s supposedly innocent pokes and jabs.
“Sorry,” ZZ would yelp. “I didn’t mean to.”
“Then how did it happen?”
“Marvin Redpost got exciting. I couldn’t help it.”
I pointed to Dad’s gray suede armchair. “Why don’t I sit over there?”
“No! I won’t do it again, EZ. Promise.”
ZZ was big on making promises. They were always broken, usually within minutes. But he was always quick to apologize. And he’d promise that it—whatever it was—would not happen again.
Chapter Nineteen
I had not seen my father for over two months—not since that late-summer visit. But Mom talked to him on the phone every week, and he wrote us letters.
I had never known that my father was so good with words. I had heard people sometimes refer to him as a “smooth talker,” but their tone of voice made me think that this was not entirely a compliment.
There really hadn’t been much conversation around the house in the year preceding his trial date. Mainly, Dad had grumbled about household business, about what was for dinner, or the nuisance of having to repair the tail pipe on the Corolla. When he and Mom argued—which they did a lot—the words that got hurled were hurtful and slashing.
Dad’s letters from prison were not hurtful or slashing. Mostly, they were thoughtful and reflective. They weren’t even all that sad unless I pictured him alone in his cell writing them. He didn’t dwell on describing details of his life. He understood that what we really cared to know was whether he was okay, and in each letter he told us that he was fine. Was his cell getting darker and colder as winter came on? We did not need to know that. Were his fellow prisoners bullies or crazies or miserably depressed? Didn’t need to know that. The guards? The couple that I had encountered seemed ordinary enough. If there was more to know, we didn’t need to know it, and Dad seemed to honor that unstated request.
He’d write pretty much every week—sheets of lined notebook paper in a modified script that combined block lettering with linked curlicues. Mom read all the letters first. Then she’d pass them to me. It was my task to read them aloud to ZZ.
Reading Dad’s letters together became part of our regular evening sessions. Interestingly, when I read these aloud, ZZ would cease his restless sniffling and snorting. He’d sit perfectly still and keep his hyperactive feet to himself—which just went to show that he could behave like a normal human being if he really wanted to. He could behave, if the reading material
captured his attention. Maybe ZZ should’ve switched to reading non-fiction.
Instead of describing prison life, Dad liked to write about his fond memories of family life, and how it was all going to be when he was released and returned home—it would, he swore, be even happier!
Dear ZZ, EZ, and my beloved BZ (Mom’s name is Beth), was how each letter began. As this introduction was the same in every letter, I felt I could skip it when reading aloud—which irritated ZZ.
“Read every word,” he’d whine at top volume to make sure Mom was aware of his complaint.
I would shove the paper at him. “Read it yourself.”
As soon as I did this, I felt bad. That was not a team player move. “Okay. Sit still.”
Dear ZZ, EZ, and my beloved BZ,
I arose early this morning and I heard a bird chirping, probably one of the last ones that hasn’t already flown south for the winter, and I was remembering…
Every letter began in this way—with some minor observation that cau
sed Dad to reflect on some happy past event in our lives. My impulse was to skip over these preliminary details to get to the meat of the letter. But if I tried, ZZ would inevitably throw a fit.
…remembering the time we spent during Christmas week up at Dexter Lyman’s mountain cabin, just the four of us. Wasn’t that great with the snow dropping down thick as one of those little glass snow-globes and the way the whole cabin rattled with each blast of wind pouring down the valley? And then the power went out, but we didn’t care, did we? We had wood for the stove and wood for the fireplace, and we didn’t even need a flashlight because the place was lit up bright as a jack-o’lantern.
And the next morning, the four of us just walked out the door in our boots and caps and coats and hopped on that old hand-made toboggan of Dexter’s, and it was a straight run over fresh snow down to the frozen duck pond. Mom sat in front. She was our leader then, still is. You two boys were scrunched between us, screaming the whole way down. Happy screams, they were. Scary but safe.
Wasn’t that great, gliding across that blanket of snow, having so much fun, and when we got back to the cabin after a few runs, we’d heat up hot chocolate in that old dented saucepan while our boots and gloves dried out in front of the fireplace? Raise your hand if you would like to do that again!!!
Love, Dad.
Dad would do that a lot—end his letter like he was in our living room, seated in his armchair, casually chatting like he used to do before his legal problems. I thought it was a neat way to write, like the writer was looking straight at the reader, like the letter was nothing more than a conversation between people who had something to share.
Once I heard Mom mention to Aunt Liza on the phone that she thought Dad was depressed and she was worried about his “mental state.” It scared me to hear that phrase. Mental states can lead to danger; every time a news bulletin talks about a psycho you learn that. But Dad’s recent letters had been fairly upbeat, so maybe things at FCI Montgomery were improving.
Chapter Twenty
I decided to try out for the school basketball team. Mom said that I owed it to Dad. And I decided that I owed it to myself.
I know, I know. I’d said that I would never play organized basketball again. The reason I’d practiced so hard over the summer was simply to prove to myself that I had what it took. I didn’t care about proving anything to other kids. Or coaches. Not even to my Dad.
That’s what I’d told myself and, at the time, I’d meant it.
But the pick-up games at recess forced me to admit something: I enjoyed playing. I enjoyed being part of the flow of the game. And that was something I could not do by myself. It couldn’t just be EZ vs. The Cheaters every single game for the rest of my life.
Try-outs were held the week before Thanksgiving at the Highcrest gym. There were two sessions, Tuesday and Wednesday after school. Twelve kids would make the team. Troy’s dad was the head coach, and no one doubted that Troy would be one of those twelve. So eleven spots were up for grabs. Thursday was Thanksgiving—our first without Dad.
I understood that I was a long shot, and felt quite prepared for the disappointment. I’m not even sure if I wanted to make the team. All I knew was that I wanted to try. I had to be able to tell Dad that I had tried. I couldn’t lie to him about that.
Last year’s team, the fifth-grade squad, had won the conference championship. Every kid who’d played on that team was trying out again. Some, like Troy, were guaranteed to make it no matter how they performed in the tryouts. Plus, there was the new kid Rudy from Germany. While there might be some resentment toward a stranger from another country moving into Longview and grabbing a roster spot, Rudy was good enough to be a starter. Coach Rutledge would certainly take note of that.
I envied Rudy. I wished I could start over again. I wished I could be the new kid in Longview. The try-outs would be my debut. They’d see that I could dribble with my head up, not looking at the ball. They’d see that I could lay it in with confidence from the left. They’d see how accurately I could shoot—particularly from that one sweet spot on the left corner of the charity stripe. They’d see I was taller. A lot taller.
I would have loved to have been able to walk onto that court as a complete unknown; the very first thing anybody in the entire town of Longview would see of me would be my nifty behind-the-back dribble. If I were new to Longview, there would be no shadow hanging over me. There would be no whispering about the crybaby son of the loser dad. They would know one thing and one thing only—That kid can flat-out play!
On the first day of try-outs, I stank—really stank. It was like my entire body, legs as well as arms, had been taken over by an uncooperative (and uncoordinated) alien who refused to follow the simplest directions.
I choked on the easy stuff, like the three-person passing weaves. On the back-pedaling defense drill, I tripped on my own feet and landed on my butt. Someone laughed.
The final test was the full-court scrimmage. My strategy here was to concentrate on the “intangibles.” I was determined to play smart D, to box out under the boards, and to set intelligent screens. I wasn’t going to take any shots. Teams always need a player who contributes with intangibles. I was fairly sure Coach Rutledge shared this outlook and I was hoping he would notice the small things I was trying to accomplish out there. It really is too bad there were no precise stats for small things.
Unfortunately, even the intangibles I messed up. I got back-doored for an embarrassing lay-up by Matt O’Neil. I got whistled for a moving screen by the smug eighth grader with a plaster cast on his forearm serving as ref. On my best play, I stretched high to snag a rebound in traffic, but fumbled it out of bounds off my own forehead.
The final selection would be posted online right after Thanksgiving. I wasn’t at all anxious. I definitely knew where I stood.
When I got home that evening, Mom asked how the try-out had gone. I told her the truth: I stank.
She didn’t want to hear it. “I want you to write your dad,” she insisted. “I want you to tell him you tried out. And I want you to tell him you’re on the team.”
“But, Mom…”
“He called yesterday. He’s pretty low. This is what he needs to hear.”
“But, Mom…”
“And if he ever asks how many points you scored, we’ll just say you didn’t get much playing time.”
“But it’s a lie.”
“You know that saying, ‘No harm, no foul?’”
There was harm. There was a foul. I just couldn’t put my finger on it.
“Tonight.” Mom was adamant. “I want you to write that letter tonight. Dad needs to hear it.”
So I did. I used a blank page from my wide-ruled spiral notebook, the purple one I used for social studies.
Dear Dad, I wrote. I tried out and it looks like I could be on the team. I’ll tell you more when there’s more to tell. Love, Ethan.
Mom read it over. “It’ll do,” she frowned. “For now.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Needless to say, I did not make the team. There was no need to even check the online results.
Monday morning as I entered the classroom, Mr. Freeman handed me a sealed envelope. What had I done wrong? Private notes that teachers handed to students during classroom hours did not usually contain good news. But Mr. Freeman was smiling, so I figured it couldn’t have been that bad. I mean, if it had been a real emergency with really urgent information, I wouldn’t be notified by a sealed letter. After all, this wasn’t Treasure Island.
I kept the envelope tucked in the back pocket of my jeans without opening it. It was nearly time for recess and I’d have plenty of time to read it then. I wouldn’t be playing pick-up basketball any more. I’d be resuming my old ways, wandering the outer border of the playground. I had plenty of thoughts to keep me occupied.
After recess, Mr. Freeman came over to my d
esk.
“What do you think, EZ?”
I figured he was referring to the note that I should have read already. But I’d forgotten about it.
“About what, sir?”
“About what Coach had to say.”
Was the letter from Coach Rutledge? That hardly seemed possible. And since when did Coach Rutledge communicate with Mr. Freeman?
Mr. Freeman coaxed me further. “Not a bad idea, don’t you think?”
I didn’t want to look dumb, so I shot him a thumbs-up, like characters on TV do to signal that everything’s fine and under control. Which was very far from the truth.
“I agreed with Coach that it would be a great use of your talents.”
My talents? Nobody, except possibly my mom, had ever made mention of me having any talents.
I hurriedly read the note at my desk, struggling to figure out how this all could have happened.
Highcrest has a school counselor, Mrs. Jamison. She’s also the assistant principal. I’d met with her once after Dad was sent to prison. Maybe twice. It wasn’t my idea.
Mrs. Jamison was a nice lady with carefully combed gray hair and rosy skin. I guess you’d say she was pretty, for a lady that age. She’d told me that she knew this was a stressful time and if anything was bothering me, anything at all, she was available. “It helps to talk,” she’d told me. “You’ll be surprised by how much it helps to simply talk.”
I never took Mrs. Jamison up on her offer. I never felt the need. I was getting As in my schoolwork. But I guess she’d kept track of me by checking in with Mr. Freeman.
You wouldn’t think it was any business of the school counselor’s who gets cut from the stupid basketball team, but Mrs. Jamison knew. She apparently believed that getting cut from the team would be difficult for me to handle, psychologically. She furthermore assumed that I was the sort of lonely, sensitive sixth grader who would greatly benefit from being part of a team, any team.
