Ball Don't Lie

by Matt De La Peña

  Hold up, hold up, Rob. I got a rock in my shoe. Slim jogs over to the bleachers and starts unlacing his shoe.

  Before anybody can start in on Slim, Crazy Ray staggers up to the sideline from the homeless court. You lazy sons a bitches, he says. Look at ya. Don’t know nuthin about no goddamn game of basketball. A bunch a gang-bangin thugs is all you is. Ray’s words spew out forty proof, and he points an old bony finger at everybody on the court. Like he does every day. A dark green plastic bag, outdoor size, wrapped around his thin upper body. Hanging down like a dress. He takes a few more unbalanced steps until he’s standing at half-court. Armholes cut out on both sides. Pulled over a dull orange T-shirt.

  Halloween in late July.

  His black face mashes up and he yells: Ain’t like it was back in my day. We had respect for the game.

  Everybody starts in on Ray to get off the court.

  Go on, old man, get back over where you belong.

  Ain’t nobody tryin to hear about no 1940.

  Somebody get that decrepit, cryin-ass bum off the court.

  I got em, I got em, Dallas says, hustling over to Ray. Let’s go, old man, come on. He takes hold of both arms and backs him up slow.

  Ray shakes a fist over Dallas’s shoulder as he retreats. Y’all got no heart, he says in a weaker voice. No heart. And then the tears start rolling down his cheeks. Big heavy tears that launch off his quivering chin. The second he wipes all the wet away with a big right hand, six or seven more make the dive.

  Same script, different day.

  Dallas settles the Crazy Ray situation whenever it pops up. Most of the time it’s just once a day. He’ll walk out onto the court each morning with the same rap, get pulled off by Dallas and break down as he shouts a last line or two. But some days the old cat has a little more energy and comes staggering out again before closing. When most guys have taken off and all that’s left are a couple ragged games of three-on-three.

  Sticky spits on his right hand, watching. Lifts his right foot up and wipes the dust off his sole. Spits and wipes. Spits and wipes. He’s watching Dallas handle Crazy Ray, but he’s thinking about that smooth-looking gold bracelet. Figuring out the different ways he can go about snatching it. Trying to picture Anh-thu’s face when he drops it on her tonight. Never thought he’d actually be excited to get a girl a gift. But Anh-thu’s different. Anh-thu’s his lady.

  He spits again and wipes his right sole. Spits and wipes. Does the same thing again and again and then starts in on the left. Spits and wipes.

  Spits and wipes.

  Spits and wipes.

  Dante watches the whole deal from a few feet away, says to him: Hey, yo, Stick, as Slim jogs back out onto the court claiming he’s cool now, he’s ready. Yo, Stick, for real, what the hell you doin over there?

  There’s This Whole

  thing where Sticky sets a cup down fifteen, twenty times when nobody’s looking. Thirty times. Until the heavy base meets the garage-sale coffee table with just the right feel. One of the dudes who lives with him in his current foster home, the only other white kid, calls him “Sticky Two Times.”

  A couple years back, a friend’s mom went to pick her boy and Sticky up from a park when thick gray clouds opened up and drenched everything in sight. Heavy drops slapped against the blacktop, streaked down the metal backboard, gathered at the ends of the ragged chain net. The mom sat with her wagon running as her boy jumped into the front seat all wet. But Sticky couldn’t leave until he hit the perfect shot. No rim. He kept shooting it over and over.

  Come on, Stick! his buddy yelled out the window.

  Middle finger in the groove, thumb between the 7 and F. Another shot went through but grazed iron.

  Middle finger in the groove, thumb between the 7 and F. Shot bounced off the back rim and caromed out toward the sideline.

  Please, son, the woman pleaded, you’ve got to get out of this rain! She sat on her horn.

  Sticky kept chasing down his ball, though, carrying it back out to the arc to try again. Couldn’t stop. He swallowed down hard at the lump in his throat. His chest burned. The salty rain dripped off his hanging bottom lip, ran down his neck and into his soaked tank top. He squinted his eyes and spit.

  There was the crashing sound of thunder.

  Let’s just go, Mom, the boy said. Sticky’s foster place is only a couple blocks down. Another shot floated through the air again and rimmed out. I told you how he is. We’ll be here all night.

  Sticky ran to get another rebound, clawing at the skin on his forearm, elbowing himself in the stomach.

  We can’t just leave him here, the mother said. Goddamn it!

  Back even further, when Sticky was six and still lived with his mom in Long Beach, he already had this weird thing with change.

  Baby would get them both on a bus going out to Santa Monica on certain weekends. When the government check she picked up every two weeks didn’t stretch far enough. She’d set him up in the middle of the Third Street Promenade with a big white bowl. She’d dress him in dirty rags and rub dirt into his paper-thin cheeks, put a construction-paper sign around his neck that said: MY BOY NEEDS MONEY TO EAT.

  This is back before he could ride a two-wheeler.

  Back when Baby was still calling him Travis.

  An older lady might tilt her head when she saw him there, sitting Indian style next to the freshly trimmed acacia, make that cooing sound older women make. She might go straight to her change purse and fish out a few quarters. Drop them in the bowl one at a time.

  A guy in a too-cool suit might pimp by and look back over his shoulder. Reach into deep pockets for a dime or nickel and lob it the couple feet underhand. He’d slap hands with a fellow suit-buddy if the coin went straight in.

  And every time Sticky got a new coin he would pull it out and toss it back in. Pull out and toss back in. He’d keep doing it again and again until something in the sound felt right.

  Pull out and toss back in.

  Pull out and toss back in.

  It annoyed Baby on certain days. When there was nothing in her blood and all she could do was scowl. She’d slap at his hand and snarl. Jesus Christ! Leave the money alone!

  And he’d stop. Like a good boy. But the urge to reach back in the bowl was torture. A thousand drips on the forehead, tied up. He’d stare at it. Heart racing. Everything around him shutting down. It was just his body and the bowl. And his trembling hands.

  Another woman would walk by and pat Sticky on the head. Oh, here, honey. Toss a quarter in.

  Now he was behind. Two quarters in wrong. Or one quarter and one nickel. Two dimes. He’d look up at Baby standing above him.

  She’d glare down. Please, for the sake of my sanity, leave the goddamn change alone.

  Back to the bowl. Everything crashing in. His limbs warming. Eyes burning.

  Everything else in the world turning off.

  Third Street Promenade

  is blowing up. A hundred shopping bags swinging in rhythm. Marching, marching, marching. Plastic people with plastic hair, pushing and shoving. Plastic world. Stop in the middle of traffic on a cell phone. Dana, I’m like already here. I’m just outside Crate & Barrel. A near pileup just outside Gap Kids.

  There are stairs and elevators in Santa Monica Place. An escalator shooting up to the third floor with blinking lights. There are open doors and red Sale signs. This-is-who-we-are music oozing out of every mall shop.

  Can I help you?

  Is there something in particular you’re looking for?

  Hi, my name is David.

  My name is Veronica.

  I’m Stuart, if you have any questions don’t hesitate to ask.

  Anh-thu and Laura are sitting in the middle of the food court, finishing up teriyaki bowls. Their first break in a marathon day. Everything in Millers Outpost is at least twenty percent off. The super-sale table is knocked down fifty percent. Since the doors first swung open at eight-thirty, Millers has been madness. Hundreds of hands pulling out shir
ts, unsnapping snaps, unzipping zippers, reaching into pockets, unfolding and throwing back, holding up against a body in the mirror and spinning around. Anh-thu’s on until nine this evening. Even if it is her birthday. Laura’s scheduled to leave at nine, too. Both have been dreading this sale for weeks.

  The food court is slammed throughout the day during the summer. European tourists with shiny cameras and black socks, folding greasy slices of pizza. Japanese businessmen looking every blonde up and down, staring them around a corner or up an escalator. Quarter Pounders with a knife and fork. A mother and daughter shoveling Chinese into open mouths. Leaning over plastic plates with mouthfuls of chow mein. Cutting through excess noodle with bright white teeth and lifting smiling faces to one another. Fancy bags full at their feet. Groups of bored kids run in packs between the crowded tables. From the valley. From the South Bay. From East L.A. and West L.A. and Culver City.

  The lines at each food stop extend out into the walkway like crooked trails of ants.

  Anh-thu pinches a piece of broccoli with her chopsticks, slips it into her mouth. She notices a group of Mexican guys staring as she chews. One of the guys flips out a long tongue and wiggles it around. His friends laugh and throw playful punches at each other.

  Hey, Laura, Anh-thu says, your friends are trying to get your attention.

  Laura swings her head around. Gets the same tongue wiggle from the same guy. Hey, why don’t you go hang out at the junior high! she yells, and turns back around.

  The guys all laugh at their boy. Ahhh, she punked you, man.

  She’s clowning.

  Laura pulls a piece of fat from her mouth with two fingers, wraps it in a white napkin. Why guys gotta do that shit, Annie? What they think, we gonna go right over there and give em some?

  Anh-thu forces a smile and picks up her drink. She focuses on a piece of rice that has tumbled onto the table between the Styrofoam bowl and her cotton tank top. She rubs a hand across her cramping stomach and sucks her Coke through a straw.

  What’s the matter, girl? Laura says.

  Nothing.

  Nah, I could tell when somethin be wrong with you, Annie. Your lips go all tight in a circle. She points to Anh-thu’s lips, tries to make her own into the same shape as an example.

  Anh-thu frowns. I don’t know, she says. It’s nothing.

  What, you can’t tell your girl nothin no more?

  It’s stupid, Laura. . . . I mean, I’m stupid.

  Hey, heina! the Mexican guy yells. Yo!

  Laura doesn’t bother turning around this time, gives an over-the-shoulder flip-off. Pendejos. Anyways, go on with what you was saying, girl.

  Forget it. It’s nothing. Anh-thu moves the food around in her bowl, grabs hold of a piece of chicken, lets it go.

  Anh-thu’s half Vietnamese. She’s tall and thin with straight black hair falling down a pretty brown back. Green eyes like two tiny mirrors when the sun’s in a certain spot in the sky. Sticky tells her she’s his jujube when they meet at night in the park. Jujube like the candy she’s always chewing on between classes at school. And when somebody asks how to say her name right, he tells them: You know, Anh-thu. Like, not on one, but on two. Anh-thu.

  They’ve been hanging together almost a year now and everybody says they match good together.

  The crew pull out chairs and stand up cool. They leave dirty trays on dirty tables and walk smooth slow toward the girls. White wife-beaters and baggy khakis hanging off skinny bodies. Fifteen-year-old gangsta style. Hair slicked. Earrings and tats. Gold chains.

  Anh-thu sees them coming but pretends she doesn’t.

  Laura pulls out a mini mirror from her bag, checks her made-up face from different angles. Long lashes and penciled-in eyebrows. Thick cherry lips. Fake mole. She lightly pats each cheek with powder.

  The guy with the tongue leads his boys to their table. Hey, homegirl, he says, ain’t no need for no attitude.

  Laura brings a frown up to him slow. Puts her stuff away.

  For real, he says. We gotta just start over and shit. He smooths out four or five peach-fuzz mustache hairs and looks at Anh-thu. He leans his hands on the table and turns back to Laura. We about to go smoke some a this chronic right now. He peeks a baggy partially out of his pocket, looks around the mall for somebody spying his petty crime. You down?

  The crew hang back a little, hands deep in pockets. One kicks a cigarette butt across the black and white tile. It comes to a spinning stop under a table of businesswomen.

  Laura turns to Anh-thu with wide eyes, then back to the guy. First of all, dude, that tongue thing you did was rude. Like the biggest turnoff. Secondly, you and your friends look like you’re in junior high and we both in college. She motions between herself and Anh-thu. And lastly, we got serious boyfriends who go to UCLA. Having said all that, Laura tilts her head a little to the side and smiles. So, uh, probably not.

  The guy’s sneaky little smile runs away. He pulls his hands off the table and smooths his stash again. Looks at his boys and pulls up his sagging pants. You got an attitude, you know that? Better watch it before someone puts their foot in your mouth.

  One of the other guys pulls a small knife from his pocket and flips open the blade.

  Anh-thu moves her eyes off the guy and stares down at the table.

  Laura slides her bag over to Anh-thu, pulls her chair out and stands up. She gets right up in the tongue guy’s grill with her finger. Yo, why you coming over to me and my girl’s table anyway, man? Somebody invite you?

  It’s OK, Anh-thu says. Laura, we’ll just move somewhere else.

  Screw that, Annie. Laura kicks her chair over on its side. Everybody around them turns to look. Veins push out on her forehead. Teeth lock. When the guy takes a baby step back, she takes one forward. Nobody said for this punk to come over here.

  She turns to Anh-thu. We ask them over here?

  Anh-thu shakes her head quick and folds her arms. Laura puts her palms in the air and tells the guy: Nobody wants you over here, man.

  Crazy broad! the guy says. He turns to his boys and backs up. Look at this crazy psycho broad, yo!

  Laura puts her palm in his face and shakes her head. Weak little cholo.

  The guy with the knife moves forward, toward Laura. His boy spots the blade and stops him short. Be cool, yo, he says. Not here.

  Anh-thu watches the guy fold the knife back up and drop it in his pocket. Watches him put his hands in his pockets too, then take them back out.

  Go play your little games with kids your own age, Laura says, setting her chair back upright. She sits down slowly, keeps an eye on them the whole time.

  The tongue guy tries to get all hard again. Mad-dogs a couple seconds. He runs a hand through his greasy hair and motions to his boys. Come on, man, forget about this psycho-broad, let’s roll. And they start off.

  He looks back halfway through the food court and yells so everybody can hear: Yo, that’s a crazy bitch over there! He points at the girls’ table.

  Everybody drops their small talk again and turns to look. All the bangers glare back at different times. They strut through the food court, chains swinging beside thighs, into the center of the mall and out of sight.

  Fakers! Laura yells out. Everybody turns toward her again, and she breaks into laughter.

  Anh-thu forces another smile and smooths her hair behind each ear. I didn’t know what they were gonna do, she says.

  Don’t worry, Annie. They wasn’t nothin but posers. I could tell you that right now. Laura touches Anh-thu’s arm. You see his face, though, girl? You see how serious he got when I told em what’s up? She imitates his look and then bends over laughing.

  Anh-thu puts her chopsticks back in her bowl, sifts around for a piece of broccoli.

  A few Japanese men at the table in front of them spin around straight-faced. Their thick ties stuffed inside stiff white dress shirts while they eat. Laura looks up at them and puts on her serious face, tells them: Sorry.

  When they turn back she
starts laughing again.

  She slows down and picks up her fork. Moves a strand of curly brown hair out of her face with the back of her hand. Like we was gonna go smoke out with them fools.

  Anh-thu pinches a piece of broccoli and slips it into her mouth. She pulls at her bra through her tank top.

  Laura shovels a forkful of rice into her mouth and puts her fork down. As she chews, she reaches into her bag and pulls out a small wrapped gift. Sets it up on the table. Anh-thu places her chopsticks in her bowl and wipes her mouth. She rolls her eyes. Laura, you didn’t have to get me something.

  It’s your sweet sixteen, of course I’m gonna get you somethin. Laura pushes the gift across the shiny plastic table. You my girl, ain’t you?

  Anh-thu picks up the gift and slips her hand under one of the folds. She pulls it apart by the tape without ripping the red and blue paper. Laura watches, smiling and sitting on her hands. Anh-thu folds the paper back up nice and sets it to the side. Pulls the box open and carefully peels the tissue paper. Oh, my God, Laura, this frame’s totally beautiful. She reaches over the table and hugs Laura. I love it.

  Happy birthday, Annie.

  They let go and Anh-thu holds the frame up: sparkling black plastic with white roses in the upper right corner. Laura takes it from Anh-thu and turns it around. It’s one of them ones you can put like twenty pictures in. See? She pulls out the bottom lever and the sample picture is replaced by another.

  Anh-thu takes it back and pulls the bottom out. Pictures switch places again. That’s so cool, she says. I’ve never seen one of these. Pulls the bottom again. Pictures switch.

  Laura picks up her fork, moves the rice and vegetables around until she uncovers a piece of chicken. She stabs and slides it into her mouth. I was thinking you could have a bunch of pictures of you and Sticky in there, she says with her mouth full. You guys are so cute together .

  Anh-thu holds the frame to the side before putting it back in the box. She puts the folded paper on top and then closes the box back up. If we had any. She unzips her backpack, puts the box inside and zips it closed. You know, I don’t even have one picture of us together? We went in that booth outside Sam Goody like a month ago, but Sticky says he lost them all. She looks inside her bowl and pushes it to the side.