by Mike Lupica
“I was trying to have a conversation with Molly,” Kimmy said.
“Okay,” Molly said. “What don’t you get?”
“I don’t get how, in a couple of weeks, you’ve gone from nowhere to being his best friend.”
She didn’t even have to say who she was talking about. By now Kimmy was obsessed with Josh and his relationship with Molly.
“I guess he just feels sorry for me,” Molly said. “I’m sure he’ll get tired of having me around. Look how fast you got tired of having me around.”
The bus pulled up at the bottom of Mount Vernon Street. They all got out.
“You know I’m not tired of having you around,” Kimmy said. “And, besides, we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about Josh Cameron.”
“All Josh,” Sam said, “all the time.”
Kimmy ignored him.
“This is like one of those music videos,” she said. “Like the one my mom made me watch one time on MTV. The one where Bruce Springsteen picked out the girl from Friends to dance with him on the stage.”
“Courteney Cox,” Sam said. “‘Dancing in the Dark.’”
Kimmy stared at him. Molly said, “Don’t even ask why he knows. He just knows everything.”
Kimmy walked ahead of them up the hill.
“One of these days,” she said over her shoulder, “I will, too.”
Just loud enough for Molly to hear, Sam Bloom said, “There’s something to live for.”
Mattie drove Molly and Sam up to the Sports Authority Training Center, walked them through the lobby and into the gym, and said that she had some shopping to do and Josh would drive them back to the city.
“He doesn’t mind?” Molly said.
“Not after I told him he didn’t mind,” Mattie said, and left.
As soon as L. J. Brown, who’d pretty much adopted Molly from the first day she showed up at practice, spotted her walking into the gym, he called out, “Well, if it isn’t Miss Miss.”
The Celtics had just stopped scrimmaging and were taking a water break.
Molly, wearing the Celtics cap L.J. had given her turned backward on her head, came right back at him, because she knew that’s what he expected her to do.
“Should a thirty-nine-percent shooter really be using the word miss twice in the same sentence?” she said as he reached down to give her a high-five.
L.J. laughed his high-pitched laugh, the one that made him sound like he was wheezing. Then he made a shooting motion with his right hand. “Miss Miss,” he said, “from downtown.”
The Celtics coach, Paul Gubbins, came over and gave a little pull on the bill of Molly’s cap. “Stop distracting my players,” he said. “You know how easy that is.”
“Hey, Coach,” Molly said.
“Hey, kiddo.”
Molly knew already that no matter what was happening with the Celtics, in a game or at practice, Coach Gubbins was the calmest one of all of them, somehow in control of everything without ever raising his voice or blowing a whistle. Josh said one time over pizza that the only time Paul Gubbins ever stood up during a game was if a couple of players were blocking his view.
He was another one who had been nice to Molly from her first day at practice. Now he called her his assistant coach in charge of “quality control.” When he gave her the title, she said, “Wouldn’t the head coach be in charge of quality control?”
“Only when they let me,” he’d said.
“When they let you?”
“Molly,” he said, “there’s a reason why I’ve lasted as long as I have, and the reason is that I figured out a long time ago that these guys allow me to coach them.”
When the water break was over, the Celtics went back to allowing him to coach them, and Sam and Molly took their usual places, sitting on one of the basket supports. As usual, Josh was so focused on basketball that he didn’t even seem to notice them.
That was all right with Molly. She was as thrilled watching them practice up close this way as she was watching games from Josh’s seats behind the Celtics bench. And it wasn’t just watching Josh. It was L.J. and Nick Tutts and Terry Thompson—the size of them and the way they could move, at least when the bigger guys weren’t pounding on each other under the basket. It was their grace, the way they could make basketball look almost beautiful.
This was ballet, she thought.
Coach Gubbins sat with his legs crossed and watched while Josh played the role of coach on the floor. The slaps and grunts and squeak of the new sneakers in the echoing gym were like music.
And for the first time since her mom had died, Molly felt like she was a part of something. Like some big, crazy family. She didn’t feel like that with the Evanses and knew she probably never would. She didn’t feel that way at school, or even when she was visiting the Blooms, as much as Mrs. Bloom tried to make Molly feel at home.
She certainly wasn’t close to feeling that way at Josh’s, even with Mattie around.
Yet somehow she felt that way at Celtics practice, even with the players who acted embarrassed because Molly had to keep reminding them what her name was.
She didn’t know where all this was going, mostly because she didn’t know where things with Josh and her were going.
What she knew was this: She sure liked being a Boston Celtic.
As soon as practice was over, L.J. grabbed her hand and pulled her off the basket support.
“Okay, Miss Miss,” he said, “let’s see how much game you brought here with you today.”
“Can Sam play, too?” she said.
“No, no, no,” Sam said. “You guys go ahead. I wouldn’t want to show you up.”
Molly could swear Sam was starting to sweat, even thinking about playing a little ball with her and L.J.
“You’re sure?” she said.
“I’ll just sit here and think deep thoughts,” he said.
“Can’t you do both?” L.J. said, joking with him.
“Of course I can,” Sam said. “I just don’t choose to.”
Sometimes Molly wasn’t sure how much Sam really loved sports, even with all the sports information he had inside his amazing head. But he knew how much Molly loved coming to practice, how much she missed it when the Celtics went out of town for a couple of days. So he came with her when he could.
Sam being Sam.
Molly dribbled around a little bit, even put the ball behind her back because she knew that would get a rise out of L.J.
He whistled and said, “You know what they say?”
“What do they say?”
“You go, girl.”
Molly drove to the basket and laid the ball in. When she dribbled back up to the top of the key, L.J. came over to guard her, even if they both knew he was just out there as a kind of prop to make her look good. And feel good. So Molly gave him a little head fake. L.J. let her get a step on him. When she got inside, not even knowing what she was doing, she leaned her left shoulder into him, catching him in his hip, stepped back, and made what passed for her jump shot, even though she didn’t jump, mostly just got the ball on her right shoulder and shoved it toward the basket.
“Well, now, look at Miss Miss and her moves,” he said, “creating space for herself and everything. Just like Josh Cameron, star of stars.”
Molly looked over to see if Josh had seen her shot. Or was even paying attention to her and L.J. But his back was to her. The Celtics had a policy that the writers and TV people and radio people couldn’t come into the gym until practice was over. So they had filed in now, like kids on a fire drill. As usual, they had gone right to Josh, surrounding him to the point where Molly could only see the back of his head in the center of the television lights that seemed to follow him everywhere.
“Okay,” L.J. said, “we got time for a quick game of H-O-R-S-E.”
Molly looked at him with her serious face.
“Am I allowed to dunk?” she said.
L.J. gave her his he-he-he laugh and told her she could have first
shot and the rules were the same as always. No dunking from him, no left-handed shots, no going so far outside she couldn’t reach the basket.
And he had to try.
After about fifteen minutes, during which Molly felt like she couldn’t miss any of the simple shots she was taking, the game was even at H-O-R-S to H-O-R-S. Some of the Celtics players, the ones who had been doing some extra shooting at the other end of the court, came down to watch.
Nick Tutts said, “Um, L.J.?”
“What up?”
“If you lose, it will only be a secret between all of us and everybody at Molly’s school. Isn’t that right, Molly?”
Molly nodded.
“That ain’t right,” L.J. said. “You know the deal, right, Miss Miss?”
“No deals at game point,” Molly said, and the rest of the Celtics hooted.
L.J. pointed a finger at her and said, “What happens in Waltham stays in Waltham.”
Molly flipped him the ball. “Your shot, big fella.” L.J. missed a turnaround jumper in the lane. Molly went to the free-throw line, which was about as far away from the basket as she could get, and threw her longest shot at the basket.
Swish.
Now the Celtics sitting on the floor at half-court stomped their feet and clapped and whistled.
L.J. missed.
But because it was game point, he got to shoot again. Molly passed him the ball. He went through his whole foul-shooting routine, bounced the ball a couple of times.
Made it.
Game still on.
Now Molly decided to try a shot she’d been practicing, mostly because it was one of Josh’s signature shots, one he said he’d copied from Bob Cousy, who he told sportswriters would always be the greatest Celtics point guard of them all. It was a shot he could only shoot when he was open. The motion for it always made Molly think of somebody pushing a friend over a fence. Josh would stop short of whoever was guarding him, and his left knee would go up in the air at the same time the ball did in his right hand.
His right foot would never leave the ground.
Molly tried to do it exactly that way now.
Made it.
More cheers from the Celtics.
“Aw, man, I hate that dinky old-school stuff,” L.J. said.
And missed.
Then he missed again.
Ball game.
L.J. laid down on his back, kicked his legs wildly in the air, then went completely still. “Take me now, Lord,” he said. “I done lost to a girl.”
“Hey, watch it there,” Molly said.
She looked over again to where Josh was with the reporters. He still had his back turned. Even the commotion L.J. was causing, making the end of practice sound more like recess, didn’t get him to turn around.
Molly went back and sat with Sam until Josh was finished answering the reporters’ questions.
When he finally came over, he said, “You guys have fun?”
Molly almost said, Like you care.
But didn’t.
“It was great,” Molly said.
Josh said, “What was going on with L.J. when he was making so much noise? I could barely hear the questions those guys were asking, even if they were the same ones they ask me every day.”
Molly tried to tell him about the H-O-R-S-E game as fast as she could, but knew as soon as she started that it was like trying to tell somebody about some neat TV show they’d missed, or some movie.
“Great,” Josh said, with about as much enthusiasm as if she’d told him she’d just bought a new backpack for school.
Just as they were about to walk out the side door of the gym, the one that led to the parking lot, Adam Burke walked through the same door, out of breath, looking more like a college kid than ever, Molly thought. This one late for class.
“Hey, man, I got stuck in traffic. I was afraid I was going to miss you,” he said to Josh.
Josh grinned. “I’ll give you my answers bumper-sticker style,” he said. “We might be better than last year. Young guys fitting in faster than I thought they would.”
“But it’s still early,” Adam said.
“And,” Josh said, pointing a finger at him, “it’s a long season.”
“Really long,” Adam said.
It was then that he noticed Molly and Sam.
“Hey,” Uncle Adam of the Boston Globe said. “What are you guys doing here?”
CHAPTER 17
Molly looked at Sam. Sam looked at her. Then they both looked at Josh.
“Forget about that,” Josh said to Adam Burke. “Where you been at, man? Have I seen you since opening night?”
Adam said he had never gotten to take any time off after the World Series, so after the Celtics’ opener he’d gone to Los Angeles for a couple of weeks to stare at movie stars drinking cappuccino and try to pitch movie ideas.
“Got any good ones?” Josh said.
“Not according to any of the producers I talked to,” he said. “All of whom looked to be about Sam and Molly’s age.” He nodded at them. “So what are they doing at practice?”
“Not for print?” Josh said.
It was interesting, Molly noticed. He wasn’t talking to Adam like he was Sam’s uncle. He was talking to him like he was a sportswriter. And maybe a snoopy one at that.
“Aw, don’t do that to me on a day when I got here late,” Adam said, almost whining. “‘Not for print’ always means it’s something good.”
“Not for print?” Josh said again.
“Fine.”
Josh said, “Sam must’ve told you about Molly’s mom. Did he mention that we went to college together? Her mom and me?”
“He might have.”
“After a few minutes with me,” Sam said, “what he mostly hears is blah blah blah.” Sam tried to raise his eyebrows but failed miserably, as usual. “Even when I’m telling him an interesting story.”
“Shut up, junior,” Adam said.
“Shutting up,” Sam said.
“Anyway,” Josh said, “now that I’ve gotten to know Molly a little, I decided that maybe she could use another friend.”
Molly watched him as he said that and noticed something she’d noticed before: When he was playing the part of Good-Guy Josh, when he wanted somebody to like him, he had this way of putting his hand in his hair and mussing it all up, the way a kid would.
Totally phony.
“Pretty cool,” Adam Burke said.
“I’m just doing what anybody would do.”
Now Josh tried to put his arm around Molly. She knew it was just for show. She pulled away, bent down, untied her shoelaces so she could make herself real busy tying them back up.
One of these days, he was going to put his arm around her—hug her, even—and mean it.
“Aw, man, this is a perfect column for me,” Adam Burke said.
“Not happening.”
“And did I mention that it’s a slow news day?”
“Write about what a long season it is,” Josh said, grinning. “Your readers need to know stuff like that.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m not doing this because I want publicity,” Josh said.
Sam had moved behind Josh and Adam. Molly saw him stick a finger in his throat. Gag me.
“I’m doing it,” Josh continued, “because this girl has gone through a lot and came through it as a greater kid than ever.”
Sam must have put his finger too far into his throat, because he actually started coughing now. Josh and Adam turned around. Sam put up a hand, as if indicating that nobody was going to have to do the Heimlich maneuver on him.
“I can write the living…daylights out of this,” Adam said.
“I’m sure you could,” Josh said.
“Think about it, at least?” Adam said.
“Okay, I’ll think about it,” Josh said to him.
To Molly and Sam he said, “C’mon, you guys, we gotta bounce.”
“You, Josh Cameron, are their ride home?�
�� Adam said.
“Pretty much.”
“Aw, man, you’re killing me.”
Josh tried to put his arm around Molly one more time as they walked out the door into the parking lot. She pulled away again, saying “don’t” as she ran ahead of him.
“God, you’re tough,” he said.
“Runs in the family,” Molly said.
By now Molly had discovered that there were two floors to Josh Cameron’s condominium at Two Commonwealth. The first floor was all him. Upstairs was Mattie’s room, her small kitchen, a laundry room, and a spare bedroom that Mattie used for television watching.
That one had become Molly’s when Barbara would allow her to stay over once in a while after a Friday home game and a late pizza at Upper Crust.
When Josh finally woke up—he could sleep, Molly had decided, even better than he could play basketball—Mattie would whip them up some pancakes and for a little while, it would feel like a regular Saturday morning for Molly.
With a regular dad.
Even though there was nothing regular about this situation at all.
And she was running out of time to make it regular.
Sometimes she felt as if she were putting a gigantic puzzle together a piece or two at a time, first one corner and then the other. Knowing as she did that it wasn’t coming together nearly as fast as she wanted it to.
Or needed it to.
And sometimes she wondered if she could ever make the pieces fit the way she wanted them to.
He didn’t know how to talk to her, for one thing. Didn’t know how to be with her. It’s why, Molly was sure, he always had Mattie around when Molly came to visit, why he had Mattie bring Molly to practices and games. When he didn’t know how to talk to her, Mattie could do the talking. And when Mattie wasn’t around, if she was having dinner with friends or having a night off, that was when Josh struggled. They’d rent a movie, and he’d start watching it with her. But then he’d seem almost relieved when his cell phone would go off—instead of a ring or a chirp, it played “Beast of Burden” by the Rolling Stones—and he’d have to leave the room to go talk to somebody. And wouldn’t come back for what would feel like half an hour.
Then Mattie would be back, and Molly would want to laugh, hearing Josh telling her how the two of them had watched a movie together. Only it wasn’t like that, not at all.
