by Wes Moore
“No,” the woman with the tissues said. “No, no, no.”
“What’s going on?” said Elijah to a boy he’d played ball with a few times. Darren something.
Darren waved him over and made room behind his section of yellow tape. He pointed at a body in the middle of the street. “You know who that is?”
Elijah craned his head to see around one of the big white police cruisers. Behind it, he caught a glimpse of a leg, and a single Adidas Superstar sneaker, the laces and Velcro strap purposefully undone. Rivulets of dark liquid—too dark to be blood, but he knew that was exactly what it was—collected in a small pothole, glistening.
“No. Who is it?” said Elijah.
“Ray Shiver,” said Darren. “You know. That smart kid.”
Elijah stared, not believing. Ray Shiver, who lived not four blocks away—closer to the Battlegrounds than his own house, but still on the right side—was a good kid. He got straight As and played in the jazz band at school assemblies. “What happened?”
“Gang related,” said Darren, as though that explained everything—the ambulances and police cars, the crying women, and, of course, the body. “At least that’s what I’m hearing. I saw a big hole in his back when they rolled him over. They must have shot him with a forty-five.”
Elijah had no idea how Darren knew this, but he decided not to ask; questions like that often led to unwanted answers, answers that might change how he viewed their neighborhood. And he liked his home. It was safe, and good.
The woman with the tissues pulled herself free from the other women and made a run toward the plastic tape, letting loose a slow, terrible scream.
“Oh, look out!” Darren shoved Elijah out of the way.
The woman hit the tape, and it stretched and wrapped around her thick waist. One of her heels snapped off on the curb, and she went down, howling with grief.
Elijah turned his back on the scene and sprinted the rest of the way home.
“IT’S PAST NINE,” said his mother before he could unlace his worn-out Adidas kicks. “Where have you been? How come you didn’t call?”
“I’m sorry, Mom. I forgot. I was practicing.” Elijah knew he should have told her about the shooting, but it didn’t seem real yet. In his seventeen years he’d never seen a dead person, much less a murdered kid; he didn’t know how to make sense of it. Better to wait and let her find out on the eleven o’clock news.
“Practicing writing your research papers, I hope.” She turned her back and walked into the kitchen, where a casserole dish rested on the stovetop.
“I finished English and econ already. I’ll work on history after I eat.”
“Mm-hmm.” She heaped his plate with baked mac and cheese, and then prepared a much smaller plate for herself. “You were playing basketball?”
“We’ve got the tournament in two weeks. Coach Walters, from school, said he was going to call a college scout who might come see me play.” Elijah pulled up a stool at the Formica island that functioned as a countertop, kitchen table, and desk at which to do homework and pay bills.
“Anything connected with college is good. But does that mean Dylan and Michael were with you, helping you not write papers?”
“Dylan was with me. Michael’s so full of himself these days, he says being himself is all the practice he needs.”
“Funny. That boy’s always been his own biggest fan. Even when he was five years old.” She allowed a brief smile before returning to the business at hand. “Speaking of Dylan, I had a cup of coffee with his mother after church.”
“And?” Elijah pushed the food around on his plate, wondering how he could get out of eating without offering an explanation for his lack of appetite. Sorry, Mom, but I saw a dead kid on the way home. He had a hole in his back. Maybe I’ll eat later. Tentatively he took a bite; his stomach churned but accepted it, and he took another.
“She’s worried about him.”
“Why? What’s wrong with Dylan? I just saw him; he’s fine.”
His mother frowned. “You know he’s falling behind in school. She says he might not graduate on time.”
“He’ll be fine,” said Elijah. “I helped him finish his English portfolio. That’s his worst class. And he’s going to double up next year on gym and tech. That’ll get him the credits he needs.”
“She’s worried he’ll turn out like his brother, who’s in prison. Or worse, his father, who used to be in prison.”
“Dylan loves his father,” said Elijah. “I’ve met him; he’s not so bad. He looks a little rough, but he took us once to the batting cages and to ride the go-karts. And he bought Dylan a gold chain with a basketball pendant for his birthday. Dylan wears it every day.”
“Mm-hmm. It’s awfully easy for a man like that to come by once in a blue moon and do the fun things. What’s hard is sticking around.”
When he’d finished eating, Elijah stood and wrapped his arms around his mother. The top of her head barely reached his chin.
“Go get your homework done,” she said. “And then you can tell me about this big tournament. Maybe I’ll take off from work and come watch you play.”
—
IT WAS AFTER midnight when Elijah put the finishing touches on his research paper. He cleaned his sneakers with a washcloth and dish soap; they were in hopeless condition—scuffed, and worn through the toe—but there was no way of getting a new pair before the tournament. He’d have to make do.
Eventually he lay awake in his bed thinking about Ray Shiver’s body, laid out in the middle of Grider Street. And Ray’s mother, tangled in yellow police tape, wailing like it was the end of the world. He wondered if Ray had a father, and where he’d been. Working? Missing in action?
Why did it always come back to fathers? Probably because of how badly he wanted his to materialize and take him to ride go-karts or to buy him a gold chain with a basketball pendant on it. It didn’t have to be about gifts and fun things, either; he’d be content for them to sit and talk, or run errands together. Anything. Even if it weren’t permanent and, like Dylan’s and Michael’s fathers, he came and went according to his own rhythms. The important thing would be that they would hang out and get to know each other. And Elijah could say in casual conversation, at school or with his friends, My father this, and My father that. Instead of always saying nothing.
But none of that mattered, because this time he had a plan.
He closed his eyes and imagined the scene: stepping onto court number one at the Battlegrounds, in front of hundreds of spectators. Crowds would be lining the fences, little kids sitting on bigger kids’ shoulders to see the action. And Elijah would look out and know that his father was there. Even though they hadn’t seen each other in fifteen years and six months, Elijah would pick his father’s face out of the crowd. Because he was his father, and Elijah his son. And that relationship, that fact, didn’t change, even in the face of time and distance.
Elijah pictured his father raising his fist in the air at key moments in the game, cheering and saying things like, Did you see that? That’s my son out there. Elijah Thomas.
And as he drifted off to sleep, he imagined his favorite part, what they would say to each other after the game.
His father: “I’m sorry, Elijah. Leaving was the worst mistake of my life. I’ve thought about you every single day.”
Elijah: “Then why did you go?”
His father: “Because I was stupid. Because I didn’t understand….”
Elijah: “Why come back now?”
No, it wouldn’t be like that at all, because Elijah wasn’t interested in the back-at-you stuff that played out on TV shows. He wanted to get to know his father. And so it was fitting that, in the end, they would each say the same thing. Something simple and true.
“I’ve missed you.”
“OVER HERE.” Michael waved a thick hand from their table in the crowded cafeteria on the last day of school. His hair was perfectly trimmed, and his round, chubby face sported a narrow line o
f beard and mustache.
“Next time we come here, we’ll be seniors. Do you believe that?” Elijah sat down with his tray, which contained a regular school lunch plus three cartons of milk, a banana, and two apples. He let his heavy pack slide off his shoulders and thump onto the floor.
“I’m ready to be graduated,” said Michael. “Damn, you eat a lot, and what are you carrying, books?”
“That’s right,” said Elijah. “Something you wouldn’t know about.”
“I read books; I just wouldn’t be caught dead carrying them.”
“Why not?” Elijah knew he was playing into one of his friend’s ridiculous setups, but he didn’t mind. Next to basketball, goofing on each other was a favorite pastime, and he was happy to play the role of straight man.
“Because it’s all cool for a while, being literate and stuff. But then you wake up one day wearing penny loafers and a cardigan sweater, working as an office assistant or something. Come home to eat frozen Swanson dinners with your fat, no-sex-having wife, and watch Dancing with the Stars together.”
“You’re crazy.” Elijah shoveled his food while keeping one eye on the clock; even on the last day of school, he wasn’t going to be late for class.
“I’m serious, man. It happened to my uncle Cole. Dude used to be hard—ripped with muscles, drove one of them new Dodge Challengers. Nobody messed with him. But then he started reading all these books like Freakonomics, and Blink, and Outliers, and next thing he’s drinking soy lattes at Starbucks and living in a condo with Ikea furniture and matching towels. Brother went soft.”
“Speaking of soft.” Elijah poked his friend’s belly, which was straining the buttons of his pressed Hilfiger oxford. “When are you going to get in shape? Hoops starts in nine days. We need you fit, not fat.”
“Don’t worry. I got a little something for the team that’s going to make us all run like gazelles.”
“Team T-shirts?” said Elijah.
“Way better. You’ll see. Meet me at my locker after school, and bring Dylan.”
—
ELIJAH FOUND DYLAN in the library with a stack of X-Men comics. “Come on, man. We’ve got to meet Michael.”
“I’m almost done,” said Dylan, flipping the pages as fast as he could follow the pictures. “Wolverine’s about to mess this dude up.”
“Who, Sabretooth? He can’t beat him.”
“Wolverine’s got Adamantium claws. He can beat anyone. Check it out!”
Elijah grabbed the comic out of his friend’s hand and headed for the librarian’s desk. “Bring it with you.”
“Can’t.” Dylan tagged along behind him. “I owe late fees. Again.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know. A lot. Like, way more than the stuff is probably worth. But you don’t owe anything, right? You can check it out for me.”
Elijah sighed and pulled out his card. “Are you going to turn it in on time?”
“There is no on time,” said Dylan. “We get to keep it all summer. What are you, anyway? Some kind of library RoboCop who beats late fees out of villains who read too slow?”
“Exactly.”
They walked to the end of the main hallway and waited at Michael’s locker, faces buried in the comic.
“What’s up?” Michael flashed his trademark corner-of-the-mouth grin. “I’ll be seriously disappointed if that’s not a dirty magazine. Tell me you two ain’t reading comic books.”
“What’s wrong with comics?” asked Dylan.
“Do I really have to tell you?” said Michael.
Elijah held up the cover, which featured an inked cartoon beauty. “It’s not Penthouse, but the Scarlet Witch is hot. Admit it.”
“No way,” said Dylan. “That’s Magneto’s daughter. Even her beauty is an illusion. She can’t be trusted.”
“You can’t be trusted, because you’re too damn simple.” Michael shook his head and spun the tumbler on his locker. “Check out what I scored for you two nerd boys. And remember, the proper show of gratitude is to bow down and address me by my proper title—King Michael. Or Your Majesty.”
Inside were three orange Nike boxes.
“Whoa.” Dylan’s eyes went wide with the promise of a better future, one that began with a pair of new sneakers.
“Are those…,” said Elijah.
Slowly, solemnly, Michael lifted the lid of one of the boxes and peeled back the tissue paper. The most beautiful pair of four-hundred-dollar shoes any of them had ever seen lay before them. A collective sigh of appreciation escaped from the boys as they took in the orange and white swirled mesh, the ubiquitous green swoosh, and, of course, Kobe Bryant’s scrolling signature.
“You got us Kobe 10s?” said Dylan, just one unit of happiness away from an aneurism.
“Houston colors, too,” said Elijah. “I’m giving you a new title: the Grand High Exalted Mystic Ruler of Street Ball. Your name will be spoken in reverent tones from here to the Battlegrounds.”
“I like that,” said Michael, handing the boxes over. “Maybe books ain’t so bad.”
“How did you…,” said Dylan, unable to form the rest of the question.
“Never mind the how.” Michael opened his own box. Size fourteen. “We’re playing in the adult bracket this year, so we got to have our act together. No more broke kicks, and no more tripping on our faces because of a damn footwear malfunction. We’re gonna stand proud this year, and people are gonna say, ‘Who’s that? Michael? Elijah? Dylan? Those ain’t high school kids. They’re men.’ ”
“So, what do we have to do to keep ’em?” asked Dylan.
Michael laughed.
“Seriously.” A worried look spread over Dylan’s face. “You know how my mother is. She heard about Ray Shiver and doesn’t want to let me out of the house. So if I’ve got to do anything…”
“Relax,” said Michael. “How long you known me?”
“Too long,” said Dylan.
“You got that right, but you don’t have to do nothing except kick butt on the court. I’m not setting you two up for nothing shady. Now, what do you think?”
“I think you’re like black Santa and that giant pink rabbit all rolled into one, because this is like Christmas and…” Dylan stared off blankly, searching for the word.
“And Easter?” added Elijah.
“Yeah,” said Dylan. “Anyway, these are awesome. I think I might give you a hug, Michael. Can I give you a hug?” He moved in slowly, arms spread wide.
“Man, get off me,” said Michael.
“Seriously,” said Elijah. “Where’d you get them?”
“Where shoes come from—the shoe store,” said Michael. “What’s it matter?”
“I’ve been dreaming about having a pair of Kobes for a long time,” said Elijah. “But my mom is the same way as Dylan’s….”
“You two need to relax.” Michael put the lid back on his own box. “I found us a sponsor, all right?”
“A sponsor. Who?”
“Someone who recognizes our talent.”
Elijah held Michael’s stare.
“You don’t know him. He keeps a low profile.” Michael added, “He’s got mad money.”
“Like how much?” said Dylan. “You think he’d get us jerseys and shorts, too?”
“Maybe, but you know what?” Michael slammed his locker shut. “If Elijah’s all suspicious, I’ll give ’em back. We can wear our old busted-up kicks.”
“Wait!” Dylan gripped his orange box to his chest. “Elijah, come on. He says it’s all good.”
Michael saluted, and held up his right hand.
“You swear?” Elijah touched one of the sneakers, running his finger gently over the mesh toe box. He looked down at his current shoes and wiggled a dusty sock through one of the many holes.
“Man, I swear to the Patron Saint of Expensive Footwear.” Michael waited for the silence that meant acceptance. “You know you want to try ’em on and play.”
AFTER A ROUGH and fast-paced pic
kup game at the Battlegrounds, the boys stopped under the shade of a live oak tree to listen to Jones, the ever-present courtside bookie who entertained the sidelines with his endless and fast-moving stream of bullshit. Jones was almost as well known for his fashion, which today consisted of a red Kangol hat, cutoffs with tube socks and Birkenstock sandals, and a T-shirt that said DANGER: EDUCATED BLACK MAN.
“Ain’t we been bleeding in the streets long enough?” said Jones to no one in particular. “Ain’t it time someone give us a Band-Aid? And a bottle of hydrogen peroxide? Brothers, I’m talking about the kind in the brown plastic bottle that cost two dollars and thirty-five cents at CVS. Is that too much to ask?”
A circle of men gathered around him, boasting and arguing. Bets were made, and crumpled bills changed hands as the next round of pickup games got underway. Jones’s voice rang out, loud and clear above it all, riffing about politics, music…and whatever else crossed his sharp, frenetic, and, some said, crazy mind.
“Yeah,” agreed a couple of the gamblers. “You’re right.”
Dylan tugged on his friends’ arms. “Come on, guys. I’m hungry.”
“Okay, bro,” said Michael, leading them away.
But Elijah stood still, listening. He didn’t know if Jones was serious or, like most days, just putting on a show. Because today it seemed like his words were hitting dangerously close to the truth—just ask Ray Shiver’s mother. She’d watched her boy bleed, had seen his blood spilled onto the street.
“I don’t want to disappoint you, brothers,” continued Jones. “But ain’t nobody gonna help us. Wanna know how come? Because the best predictor of the future is the past. That’s right. And the past says we’re on our own.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?” someone in the crowd said.
Jones stepped onto his white plastic Igloo cooler, the one he kept filled with cold sodas and bottles of Gatorade that he sold for a buck fifty each. “Because nobody ever helped us before, and they ain’t gonna do it now.” His voice went up another level. “You all understand what I’m saying? You feel me?”
“No, I don’t,” someone said.
