Stealing the Game

by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

  “Where?” Dad asked. “It’s a school night.”

  “A girl’s house. She invited him.” He grinned at me, and I know it took every bit of his strength not to tease me.

  Mom and Dad exchanged looks again. This one said: He’s never been to a girl’s house. What are they going to do together? Should we have The Talk with him? Should we let him go?

  “Her name is Brooke Hill. We’re just going to watch some French movie that Mr. Laubaugh gave her.”

  Another exchange of concerned looks: French? Sounds dirty.

  “What’s the film?” Dad asked. He liked to think of himself as a foreign-movie expert.

  “The 400 Blows.”

  His face lit up. “Oh, that’s excellent. French New Wave, directed by François Truffaut. He’s one of my favorites. Remember Day for Night, Denise? Let’s see, what else has he directed?”

  He was determined to ruin it by Wikipedia-ing all over the place.

  “Are her parents going to be home?” Mom asked, thankfully cutting Dad off.

  “Yes.” I was guessing on this one.

  “I’ll make sure when I drop him off,” Jax volunteered. “No parents, no movie, Mister Smooth.”

  It was weird, but now that all the mysteries were solved, I no longer cared about basking in the glory of victory. I didn’t care about Fauxhawk or Hannah or the Undertakers. I just wanted to see Brooke.

  I stared at Mom and Dad, waiting for their answer. Could I go to a girl’s house to watch a French film? The pool water boiled around them.

  THE TALKING CURE

  “WOW!” Jax said when we pulled up to the giant iron gate. “This place looks like it could withstand a Viking attack.” Huge stone walls extended from the gate. On top of the walls were two feet of razor wire. “All it needs now is a shark-filled moat.”

  He pressed a button on the speaker box. “Hello?”

  Brooke’s voice crackled through the intercom, “Right on time. Come on up.”

  The intercom buzzed off. The iron gate slowly opened, the way creaky doors open in horror films.

  “She didn’t even ask who it was,” Jax said. “Trusting.”

  “Not really,” I said, pointing at the video cameras hidden in the bushes and aimed at us.

  “Master Thief strikes again,” he said.

  We drove through and started up a long winding road. It took another few minutes through some woods before we arrived in a circular driveway so large that it could have hosted the Super Bowl.

  “I hate to repeat myself,” Jax said, “but wowwww!”

  The house looked like an English castle, constructed by stacking giant blocks of stone on top of each other. We got out of the car and walked to the front door, which was made of black wood and was the size of a garage door. Knocking on it made me feel like I might wake a dragon.

  Fortunately, we didn’t have to wait long. Brooke pulled it open and said, “Welcome.”

  I just stared at her. If I’d seen her on the street, I might not have recognized her.

  Jax tried to bail me out with, “Hi, I’m Jax, Chris’s handsomer brother. Lovely home.”

  “Be it ever so humble,” she said. “I’m Brooke.” They shook hands.

  “You look different,” I said, finally finding my voice.

  “I have no idea how to take that,” Brooke said. “Different like hideous monster under the bed? Or different like brilliant but approachable goddess?”

  I meant that at school she wore the fanciest clothes. Everything she wore kind of glittered or shimmered or glowed. There were other girls at school whose parents dressed them in expensive clothing from exclusive shops, but somehow Brooke carried it off better. I think it’s because you could tell she didn’t really care about the clothes or the shoes or the jewelry. They were more like a costume to her.

  Standing in front of me now, she wore white denim shorts that went to her knees, a loose blue sweatshirt with a red moose on it, and a pair of black-rimmed glasses. She was barefoot, with a thin silver ring around her pinkie toe.

  “I just didn’t know you wore glasses,” I said, trying to recover.

  “Smooth,” she said, and Jax laughed. “I wear them for watching TV. Contacts irritate my eyes.”

  “Oh,” I said. Then added, “They look good on you.”

  “Of course they do,” she said. “Why wouldn’t they?”

  “Where are your parents?” Jax asked. “Not prying, just following parental orders.”

  “Downstairs in the basement, scrubbing the meth lab,” she said.

  Jax laughed again and nudged me. “This is going to be an interesting night, bro.”

  Brooke pointed at two sets of marble stairways that curved up to the second floor. “Mom’s upstairs. She’ll be down in a minute, so you don’t have to worry. No hanky-panky or whatever you oldsters call it.”

  “Oldster?!” Jax said in mock offense. “I’m only twenty-two.”

  “Wow. You’re even older than I thought.”

  Jax threw up his hands in surrender. “Okay, you win. Oldster it is.”

  Brooke laughed. They were getting along so well I was starting to wish he’d leave. Jax must have seen that on my face because he suddenly said, “I’ve gotta book, kids. Be back at nine sharp.” He shook a warning finger at Brooke. “I want him in one piece, Dragon Lady.”

  She shrugged. “We’ll see.”

  Jax left, winking at me as he did.

  Dude, who winks anymore?

  “Follow me,” Brooke said. She took me through rooms so lavish they might have been in a movie about rich people forced to spend as much money as possible every day. Through the windows that looked out on the backyard, I saw a swimming pool the size of a lake, with three waterfalls of different heights. Several automatic pool cleaners floated on top, sucking up dead bugs and leaves.

  Finally, we came to a room that had an actual movie marquee over the door. The black letters spelled out: WELCOME CHRIS.

  “I know there should be a comma before your name, but I couldn’t find one.”

  “I won’t report you to the punctuation police this one time.”

  We entered the room, which was a tiny movie theater with about twenty actual movie seats. Except these were leather and they flipped back like my dad’s La-Z-Boy chair. Each had a wooden cup holder. In the back corner sat a small popcorn machine and a soda fountain with Coke, Diet Coke, root beer, and lemonade.

  “Help yourself,” Brooke said. “I’ll be right back. I have to go get that surprise I told you about.”

  “Can I get you a drink or something?” I asked.

  “Yeah, thanks. A lemonade and a bag of popcorn.”

  I got the drinks and a couple popcorns and sat in the front seat. The screen was the size of my bedroom wall.

  I wasn’t sure how I felt right then. Nervous. Excited. Scared. I just wished she’d get back and start the movie so I could sit in the dark with my thoughts.

  After a couple minutes of drinking my Coke and eating popcorn, I heard the door open behind me. “You are so lucky!” I said. “This is the coolest theater ever.”

  “You’re right, Chris,” the woman’s voice said. “I am lucky.”

  I turned in my leather chair and saw a woman who looked like an older version of Brooke. Except this woman was hunched over, supporting herself on two metal forearm crutches. She started walking slowly forward, and I could see by the tightness in her face that each step caused her pain.

  I jumped up and walked quickly to her so she wouldn’t have to move. “Hi, I’m Chris Richards.” I didn’t know if I should offer to shake hands. Would she lose her balance and fall if she tried?

  She raised her right hand for me to shake. I did, and felt a slight trembling in her fingers as we shook.

  “I’m Ellie, Brooke’s mom. You’re the first friend she’s had to the house in three years, so I just had to come see you for myself.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. I couldn’t help but feel like I would disappoin
t her. She didn’t seem disappointed. She smiled brightly. Then she slowly turned and started back out the door. “I hope you two have a lovely evening. The film is one of my favorites.”

  Had everybody but us heard of this dumb French film?

  “Can I help you…?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure what I could help her with. I just didn’t like standing by helplessly while she staggered up the aisle.

  She laughed sweetly in a way that reminded me of my mom. “No, Chris, I’m used to this now. I have an elevator that will take me back to my room. But I have hidden cameras in this room, so if you try anything with my daughter, you’ll be surprised at just how fast I can move.” She whacked the side of a seat with her crutch.

  “Oh, I…I won’t try anything.”

  She laughed again. “I’m just kidding, Chris. There are no cameras. But if there were, they’d be for your protection, not Brooke’s.”

  She chuckled as she worked her way out the door.

  “Nice meeting you,” I called after her.

  Outside the door, I heard Brooke and her mom talking, though I couldn’t make out the words. Then they both laughed in a way that sounded like they were harmonizing. It made me smile to hear it.

  Brooke entered the room with a red folder. I reached for it, but she pulled it back. “Later,” she said in a way that said there would be no arguing.

  We sat in our seats and she picked up the remote. “Parkinson’s,” she said to me. “That’s what she has. In case you were wondering.”

  “I’ve heard of that. It’s what Muhammad Ali has. And Olympic cyclist Davis Phinney.”

  “And Michael J. Fox.”

  I shook my head, not recognizing the name.

  “He’s an actor,” she said. “He was in those Back to the Future movies.”

  “Oh, right. I’ve seen those. He also starred in that old movie Teen Wolf where he becomes a werewolf and plays great basketball.”

  “That’s him. Anyway, it’s a degenerative disorder of the central nervous system. Causes shaking, rigid movements, slowness, trouble with walking.”

  “Is there a cure?”

  Brooke shook her head. “Nope. She’s just going to keep getting worse.”

  I didn’t know the right thing to say. I remembered that discussion in Mr. Laubaugh’s class about the poem “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night.” And how she’d been so detached when talking about death. Maybe because she’d been living with her mom’s illness for so long.

  I didn’t want to make her sad, but I didn’t want to pretend nothing had happened. I had to say something.

  “Is that why you never invite anyone to your house?” I asked. “Are you afraid kids will make fun of you?”

  She shook her head. “Just the opposite. I’m afraid they’ll get all weepy and sympathetic and I’ll have to put up with their sad doe eyes and constantly asking me, ‘How are you today, Brooke?’ or ‘Is there anything we can do to help, Brooke?’ Then everyone will be quick to cut me slack or forgive me for anything I do. Then where am I? Who am I? I’ll be the kid who has an excuse to fail.” She shook her head as if she was having a heated conversation with herself. “Let’s just watch the movie.”

  She pressed the remote, and the lights went down. She pressed another button, and the DVD started.

  The screen filled with a black-and-white image of an empty Paris street. I knew it was Paris because the Eiffel Tower was in the background. The name Jean-Pierre Léaud appeared, and under that was the word dans. I figured that must be the star. Then the words Les Quatre Cents Coups appeared. Quatre sounded like cuatro in Spanish, which meant four. Cents was like century, which meant hundred. The 400 Blows.

  I looked over at Brooke, but she just stared straight ahead at the screen. Light and shadow flickered across her face like a flock of birds. I didn’t want to seem creepy, so I, too, turned to the screen, glancing at her out of the corner of my eye. I knew she was probably doing the same thing. Neither of us wanted to be caught looking at the other.

  That’s when I realized something about her—I guess about both of us. We were both prisoners in a way, like the boy on the DVD cover looking through the fence. I was a prisoner of my own silence, keeping quiet so people could see me as they wanted to see me. But Brooke was a prisoner of her voice, of talking and snorting and attitude, so people would see her the way she demanded that they see her. Yet, neither of those versions was the real us. To see the real us, you had to look out of the corner of your eyes.

  I don’t know if I was right or not, but just thinking about it made me feel better. I offered her some of my popcorn, even though she had a full bag in her cup holder. She looked over at me, smiled, and reached into my bag. She tried to take so much popcorn in one grasp that her hand ripped the bag and popcorn spilled out on both of us.

  We both laughed and sat back to enjoy the movie.

  Actually, the movie was pretty good, despite all the French, and the small subtitles, and it being in black and white. I could see what my dad, Mr. Laubaugh, and Brooke’s mom liked about it.

  Then suddenly, about an hour in, the movie stopped and the lights came on.

  I looked around in a panic, afraid I’d see Brooke’s mom glaring down at both of us, even though we hadn’t done anything.

  But then I saw the remote in Brooke’s hand.

  “I couldn’t wait any longer,” she said excitedly. She opened the red folder she’d brought from her room and handed me a sheet of drawing paper.

  I opened it. As I stared at the paper, my heart gave an extra thunk.

  On the sheet was a beautifully drawn black ink figure of a man in his twenties leaning against a doorjamb. He was dressed elegantly in an expensive suit, yet he wore it in a way that made it look casual. Sunglasses were slid halfway down his nose, so you could see the roguish twinkle in his eye. His slight grin announced to the world that he was afraid of nothing except being bored by too few dangerous challenges. When you looked closer, you could see through the door behind him the faint outline of the Mona Lisa on the wall. He was in the Louvre Museum, preparing to steal.

  Beneath the drawing in bold lettering: Master Thief.

  “This is amazing, Brooke. You didn’t tell me you could draw.”

  “I can draw,” she said.

  “It’s so professional. This could be in an actual comic book. It’s that good.” I couldn’t stop myself from gushing. It was the first time I’d actually seen Master Thief as I had imagined him.

  “I have one even better,” she said. “I did it after talking to Theo. He told me you were working on solving the garage burglaries.”

  “You asked him about me?”

  “I asked him why a cop had pulled you into the principal’s office. That’s when he told me the cops wanted your help.”

  Good ol’ Theo.

  I shrugged. “A little.”

  She handed me another sheet of drawing paper.

  I stopped breathing.

  This was no roguish thief in a shiny suit, driving a Ferrari and living in fancy hotels. It was a boy wearing jeans and a flannel shirt over a T-shirt. He had a backpack slung over one shoulder and a basketball under his other arm. And he had my face. Except it was my face smiling and confident and open. No secrets. It was me the way I wanted to be. Only I hadn’t even known that until just now.

  Beneath the drawing in bold lettering: Master Sleuth.

  “Maybe you’ve been having trouble with your story because you’re telling the wrong story,” she said.

  “What are his superpowers?” I asked.

  “Doesn’t have any,” she said. “Doesn’t need any.”

  I started breathing again. Brooke had drawn this picture before I’d actually solved the case. She saw it in me before I did.

  You probably want to know what happened next. Just like you wanted to know who won the rematch between us and the Undertakers. This time I’ll tell you some of what happened.

  We talked.

  I told her about what had
happened with Jax and Fauxhawk and Hannah. I told her about me being a designer baby. I told her everything I could think of.

  We never got around to watching the rest of the movie.

  We just talked.

  And it was awesome.

  What color is an orange?

  Any color it wants to be.

  If you liked this book, look for

  SASQUATCH IN THE PAINT

  STREETBALL CREW BOOK ONE

  by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Raymond Obstfeld

  “A crisp tale of sports, smarts and what it means to be your own man.…[T]his obviously is a work of someone intimate with sports and, by extension, how sports can serve as metaphor for a way of being in the world.”

  —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

  “This funny and inspirational story based on Kareem’s sudden growth spurt as a middle-schooler captures the excitement of playing basketball and the anxiety of growing up—while growing tall, which I know a little something about. Kids will learn about the wonderful world of basketball and the importance of friendship and following your dreams.”

  —Magic Johnson

  “The pages fly. It has a great message.”

  —Dr. Phil McGraw

  “This smart, sensitive novel is full of simple truths that extend far beyond the court.”

  —Booklist

  “[A] humorous novel that delivers a heartwarming story about growing up, facing down bullies, and learning what true friendship is all about.”

  —School Library Journal

  “The depth and realism Abdul-Jabbar and Obstfeld bring to the novel keep it from being a run-of-the-mill sports story.…Readers will feel a kinship with Theo as he maneuvers through tough but realistic choices.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Sasquatch in the Paint is terrific.…Here’s how you know you’re reading a really good book: when you get to the last page, but keep turning, looking for more. Honestly—that’s what I did.”

  —Barry Saunders, Raleigh News and Observer

  A Junior Library Guild Selection

  Kareem Abdul-Jabbar played basketball for the Milwaukee Bucks and the Los Angeles Lakers, leading his teams to win six NBA Championships. A nineteen-time NBA All-Star, he is the NBA’s All-Time Leading Scorer, with 38,387 points, and he holds records in nine other categories. Kareem gave the game the skyhook, considered basketball’s most indefensible classic shot. He was inducted into the Basketball Hall of Fame in 1995, and since retiring he has become a New York Times best-selling author. In 2012 he was selected as a U.S. Cultural Ambassador by then Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton, and in the same year he was honored by the Los Angeles Lakers with a sixteen-foot bronze statue showcasing his signature skyhook, which was unveiled in front of the Staples Center in Los Angeles, California. Currently he is a columnist for Time magazine and the society editor for the Tokyo Journal magazine.