Stealing the Game

by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

  “I don’t want to break any house rules,” I said to Sharon. For a moment she looked disappointed, then she smiled brightly, as if by refusing to go against her parents’ wishes I had proven that I was even better than she’d first thought.

  She bounced up the stairs, her red ponytail flopping up and down.

  When we returned to the kitchen with the supplies, Theo was taking an extreme close-up photo of Hobbit’s nose. Damon held his dog’s head steady while Theo snapped a couple more shots. When he was done, he took a few of Brick’s nose.

  Then he sat at the table and used the knife to shave the graphite from the pencil, making a small pile of black dust on a note card.

  “Okay, Theo,” Sharon said impatiently. “Tell us what the heck you’re doing.”

  “Detective work,” Theo replied, squinting at the pencil point as he scraped the knife blade across the graphite. “You know that every person has unique fingerprints, right?”

  “Yeah, we watch CSI and NCIS,” Damon said. “You got one of those blue light things?”

  “They’re called a forensic light source, and I don’t need one.” Satisfied that his pile of graphite dust was now big enough, Theo slowly lifted the note card, careful not to spill any. “Just as each person has unique fingerprints, dogs have unique nose prints.”

  “That’s stupid!” Sharon said with a disbelieving frown.

  “It’s true,” Theo said. He lowered the note card until it hovered over the broken iPhone glass. Then he gently sprinkled the black dust over the glass. When he’d emptied the card, he softly blew across the top of the glass, spreading the black dust evenly.

  The three of us watched him without saying a word.

  Theo placed a strip of clear plastic tape across the bottom of the screen. When he peeled it back, the tape lifted all the black dust. He then pressed the dirty tape across a blank note card. He repeated this action until he’d completely re-created the face of the iPhone onto a note card.

  He held up the note card for Sharon and Damon to see. “And that is the nose print of our phone chewer.” A clear dog nose pattern was revealed in the black pencil shavings.

  Theo pulled out his own phone and displayed one of the photos. He enlarged it so he could see the dog’s nose pattern. He did the same with the photo of the other dog. We went back and forth a couple times.

  “Well?” Sharon demanded. “Which dog did it?”

  Theo looked sadly at Damon. “Sorry, dude. Looks like Hobbit broke your phone.”

  “I told you!” Sharon said. She squatted down beside Brick and briskly petted him. “See, baby Brick, I knew you were the good dog.”

  Damon looked stunned for a moment. Then he shrugged, stooped down, hugged Hobbit, and said, “You’re still my good boy, aren’t ya?” Hobbit drooled his answer.

  Theo and I looked at each other and shrugged.

  As we climbed onto our bikes, Damon handed Theo a twenty-dollar bill. “Thanks, man,” he said.

  “No problem,” Theo said, pocketing the money.

  We started pedaling away. Sharon waved from the front stoop. “Now you know where I live,” she hollered after us, smiling directly at me.

  “Looks like you made a new friend,” Theo teased.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You know,” Theo said, “not talking about things doesn’t actually make them disappear.”

  I know, I thought. But I didn’t say it out loud.

  GREAT EXPECTATIONS

  (LEAD TO GREAT DISAPPOINTMENT)

  AS SOON as I walked through the door into my house, my parents rushed at me with their “we have company, so act happy” smiles frozen on their faces.

  “Chris, we have a surprise for you,” my mom said. She pulled me into a hug and whispered into my ear, “She’s considered the best in the county and is costing us a fortune, so be nice.”

  My dad just smiled and gave me an awkward thumbs-up, like he’d just read about the gesture in Time magazine and was trying it out for the first time. The way he did it looked like he was about to start sucking his thumb.

  I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. My parents are pretty cool when it comes to caring about me. I’ve never felt anything but unconditional love from them. Yes, they have expectations. Yes, they want me to be the best version of myself that I can be. And that can be massively annoying. The fact that I have to hide parts of who I am from them because I know they’d disapprove is painful.

  But I get where they’re coming from.

  They’re both overachievers who excelled in school and now excel at being lawyers. They love what they do, they love each other, and they love Jax and me. In their minds, they found the perfect formula for success and happiness. And they want Jax and me to follow their formula, because they think it will make us as happy as they are. I thought Jax was doing just that, and the formula was working for him. Which left me as the oddball of the family. I had no interest in law; I barely had interest in finishing high school. The only things I actually liked doing were playing basketball and working on my comics.

  Jax dropping out of the Richards Foolproof Formula for Success and True Happiness must have scared the bleached teeth out of my parents. I had to admit, it even scared me a little. I mean, I’d always figured that if everything else failed, I’d always have the Richards Formula to fall back on. But if it didn’t work for Jax, how could it possibly work for me?

  Which is why I was now being introduced to Hannah Selby. The best (something) in Orange County.

  “Hi,” I said as we shook hands.

  Hannah was about my height, five feet eleven, tall for a girl. She was in her early twenties, though her pale blue eyes were so piercing when they stared at me that she seemed older. She was that rare California blonde who was actually born that way. I could tell, because her hair was nearly white from the sun. She even smelled like sunscreen. She reminded me of a younger Pepper Potts, Iron Man’s girlfriend in the movies. Except she had a little scar under her left eye that was shaped like a long comma. I tried not to look at it, but I couldn’t help myself.

  “Fencing accident,” she said, touching her scar. “I used to fence in college. I was showing my little sister how to do it, not noticing that she’d accidentally knocked off the protective tip.” She shrugged. “That’s what little sisters are for, I guess. To remind us to be more careful.”

  “Little brothers, too,” a voice said. Jax closed the front door behind him. “Hey, Hannah. What’s new at the zoo?”

  Jax knows her?

  “Hi, Jax,” Hannah said stiffly. She pronounced his name like it was something nasty she’d stepped in and couldn’t scrape off her shoe. Okay, some bad history there.

  I could smell beer on Jax’s breath. From Mom and Dad’s sour expressions, so could they.

  Mom stepped forward, took Jax by the arm, and walked him toward the stairs. “I’m sure you’d like to freshen up a bit, Jax. Then Dad and I would like to hear all about your day.”

  Jax snorted as he climbed the stairs. “Sure, Mom. I’ll tell you about how me, Bucky, and Tommy hung out at the malt shop reading Archie comics and playing punch buggy all day.”

  I watched him climb the stairs, my jaw literally hanging open. I’d never seen Jax be such a smart-mouth before. My dad glared after him, barely able to contain his anger. But we had a guest, and that took precedence over yelling at Jax.

  “So,” Hannah said, her warm smile back in place, “your mom and dad say you need a little help with math and science.”

  More than a little, I thought. But I said, “I guess.”

  We heard the shower turn on upstairs. Then we heard Jax singing an oldies rock song I’d heard when driving with Dad. The group was the Zombies and the song was “Tell Her No.” “‘Tell her no, no, no, no…’” There were a whole lot more no’s, which he screeched loudly.

  “Why don’t we go into the living room,” Mom said. “I’m sure we’ll be more comfortable there.”

  “That’s okay, Ms.
Richards,” Hannah said. “I should be on my way. I just wanted to stop by, meet my newest pupil, and set up a schedule.” She took out a small planner and a pen. “Now, how many days a week do you want me here?”

  “What do you suggest?” Mom said.

  Hannah shrugged. “I’ll know better after our first session. Will you or Mr. Richards be home during these sessions?”

  “I’m not sure. Some days we both work late. Will that be a problem?”

  “Not for me. Sometimes students work better without distractions. They can focus more.”

  They kept talking about me as if I were some wounded bird that had to be nursed back to health even though I might never fly again.

  “‘Tell her no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no…’” Jax sang. I wished I’d said that.

  THE FAVOR

  “IT’S just a little favor, Chris,” Jax said. “A favor for your beloved older brother. Is that asking so much?”

  I didn’t say anything. I was sitting at my desk trying to answer Mr. Laubaugh’s study questions for The Catcher in the Rye.

  Of what significance is it to Holden that Jane keeps her kings in the back row during checkers? I’d wondered the same thing. Holden keeps talking about this girl he knew who never moved her kings from the back row when she played checkers because she thought they looked good there. Why wouldn’t she just use them to beat the other player? It’s like stealing the ball, dribbling the full length of the court with no one around, then not taking the shot until the other team gets downcourt. Was she just crazy?

  “Come on, bro,” Jax persisted. He was lying on my bed, spinning a basketball on his fingertips. “You love playing basketball, and I owe this guy a favor. What’s the big deal?”

  “I have homework, Jax. Can we discuss this later?”

  “Nope. He’s expecting my call.” He sat up without disturbing the ball’s spin. He slapped it a couple times on the side and it spun faster. “I sorta promised him.”

  “Not my problem,” I said.

  He chuckled. “Oooh, tough guy, huh?” He let the ball drop onto his lap and beat it like a drum. “Listen, man, I just need you to do this one thing. I think we agree that I’ve done plenty of favors for you. Don’t make me embarrass you by listing them.”

  It was true. He’d never turned down doing a favor for me. He owed his life to me, after all. But I’d never held that over his head, and I wouldn’t have turned down Old Jax. But this New Jax worried me. He was mysterious and secretive.

  “Why is it so important?” I asked. “Is this the same guy I saw you giving money to?”

  Jax looked surprised, then embarrassed. “I owed him some money. No big deal.”

  “Why did you owe him money?”

  Jax reached over and picked up my copy of The Catcher in the Rye. “Aren’t you too young for this? It has dirty words. And mature themes.”

  I grabbed the book out of his hands. “It’s Advanced English. We had to get parental approval.”

  “That’s what we’re all trying to get around here, isn’t it? Parental approval?”

  “Wow,” I said, “that’s so deep. No wonder you went to Stanford. Must be where you learned to avoid answering my questions.”

  He sighed and said in a soft voice, “Must be.” He bent over the basketball, his forehead touching it like it was cooling his face.

  “You never used to be so evasive, Jax. I could always count on you for the truth. What the heck happened at Stanford to change you?”

  Jax didn’t look at me for a while. He just rolled his head side to side across the ball. Then he sat up straight and looked at me with a sad expression. “I made a bet with the guy and I lost. I don’t have enough to pay him, and he’s not the kind of guy who just says, ‘Pay me whenever.’”

  “What does that mean? He’ll break your arm or something?” I joked.

  He shrugged. “Or something.” No joke.

  I felt the blood drain from my face. “Jeez, Jax.”

  He saw my face and laughed. “I’m kidding, Chris. Nothing will happen. Except he’ll add interest to my debt, which I’d like to avoid. I’m kinda on a tight budget right now, until I figure out what to do next.”

  I didn’t know whether or not to believe him. I certainly didn’t want to take the chance that he might get hurt. “Since when do you gamble?” I asked.

  “I don’t, usually. It was a onetime thing. Anyway, he has this club team he coaches and they’re going to be in a big tournament this weekend. He wants a competitive team for them to practice against. I mentioned you and your buddies. I didn’t think he’d take me up on it. Anyway, he said he’d forget the rest of my debt if I got you and your teammates to play them tomorrow at Palisades.”

  “Just this once, right?”

  “Right.” He stood up as if the meeting was over, even though I hadn’t actually agreed to anything. He knew I couldn’t say no to him.

  So, I didn’t say anything.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” he said. He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his back pocket. “Mom and Dad had this out on the kitchen table. I think they wanted to ambush you with it in the morning. That’s why I’m giving you a heads-up.”

  I took the paper and unfolded it. It was a color printout about Stanford University. The beautiful campus. The impressive buildings. Happy students. Why wouldn’t they be happy? They were going to one of the best universities in the world. Their future was certain to be happy. Not one of them held a comic book.

  “With me, at least they waited until I was in high school to start the Stanford Push,” Jax said. He was smiling, but there was no humor in his face. He looked kind of angry. “Next it will be pre-SAT classes on the weekends”—he started counting on his fingers—“then meetings with professional counselors, who lay out a plan for how to get into Stanford, social clubs to join, community service organizations, science camps in the summer….” He sighed. “You get the picture, little man. They’re expecting you to wipe away the stain that I caused. Good luck with that.” He snorted and walked out of my room.

  Middle school had just gotten a whole lot more complicated.

  TWO DAYS EARLIER…

  THE AMBUSH

  JAX was right.

  The next morning, they were waiting for me at the kitchen table. Both were dressed in their freshly dry-cleaned lawyer suits. His and hers leather briefcases were standing on the counter, filled with important papers that would change people’s lives forever.

  My school backpack lay sloppily next to them, some old crinkled papers sticking out at wild angles like unruly hair. Nothing important in there. Nothing that would change anyone’s life. Especially mine.

  My mom held a fresh color printout of the Stanford University info. They smiled lovingly as they slid it across the kitchen table to me. I could see in their smiles that they only wanted the best for me. Because of that, I wanted to do my best for them.

  I took the paper and pretended I was seeing it for the first time. I tried to look enthusiastic. I hoped my eyes said, “Go Stanford!”

  They talked about what a great school it was. Sports. Academics. Girls. My dad chuckled when he pointed out the pretty coeds on the printout and said, “Not bad, right?” My mom looked away. I wanted to look away, too, because that was as close to a your-body-is-changing talk as we’d ever had. One time he did ask if we’d discussed sex in health class. I’d nodded, and that was the end of the topic. Thank goodness.

  I didn’t say anything. I kept the fake enthusiastic expression pasted on my face.

  They talked about tutors, consultants, science summer camp. Pretty much all the things Jax had said they’d say, plus a few more.

  I cranked up my phony smile to ten thousand watts. Holding a smile for your parents is harder than doing squats for the coach.

  “And we think you should quit the school basketball team,” Dad said.

  “What?” I said. I couldn’t have heard that right.

  “Your mom and I have been looking into club te
ams. The college consultant I talked to said that club teams provide more playing time, tougher opponents, and showcase your talents better for college scouts. It just makes more sense.”

  I didn’t know what to say. They were lawyers. I’d never won an argument with them. But I tried anyway. “Club teams are expensive,” I said.

  Mom nodded. “The one we called was four thousand dollars for the year. But if that will help you have a better future, we’re willing to pay it.”

  Crap! They’d pulled out the better-future-for-you card. I tried, I really tried, to come up with some sort of logical argument that they would accept. But I couldn’t think of one. So I just blurted out what I felt. “But I don’t want to quit the school team. I like the guys. I like the coach. We have fun.”

  Mom and Dad looked at me with disappointment. I wasn’t sure whether it was because of the lack of reason in my outburst, or that I was defying their plan.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” Dad said, and the two of them hurried out to work, their briefcases gripped more tightly than usual.

  See? That’s why I don’t talk.

  HAMSTER BASKETBALL

  “THIS is your best?” Coach Mandrake barked. “You call this your best?”

  Roger and Sami Russell were running downcourt as fast they could. Roger’s extra heft slowed him down to the point where he looked like he was running through ankle-deep mud. Sami, smaller by thirty pounds, scampered like a Chihuahua toward the ball as it rolled away from both of them.

  Coach Mandrake called this little exercise the Fox Hunt. The players called it the Gut-Buster.

  “Please don’t tell me this is your best,” Coach said, shaking his head in frustration. “Because if this is your best, then we need to find a new definition for the word. Something like ‘almost adequate’ or ‘slightly better than a toddler.’”