Ball Don't Lie

by Matt De La Peña

  Chuck releases Sticky’s elbow and folds up his arms. He glances at the door, looks over at the stalls. How much money you got?

  Twelve bucks.

  Twelve bucks?

  Sticky nods his head.

  Shit, Stick, Chuck says. You can’t do nothing with no twelve bucks. Chucks looks at the floor, takes his right mitt and adjusts himself a little. Well, hell, you ever snatch some lady’s purse?

  Sticky leans back against the sink and starts messing with the empty soap dispenser. I ain’t gonna take no lady’s purse, he says. I’ll swipe somethin from a store, you know, but I can’t be rippin off no lady’s purse.

  Oh, I see, you some sorta moral thief, right? Chuck throws his hands in the air. He reaches up to scratch the top of his head and looks Sticky right in the eyes. Stealin is stealin, Stick. Don’t matter if it’s from a store or some little old lady, it’s the exact same state of condition.

  Sticky hops up on the sink and stares at the floor. He gets his legs swinging like a little kid might.

  Chuck walks over in front of the door, puts his hands on the overhang and looks out. Fat-man sweat stains under both arms. Shirt raised where you can see his stretch-mark stomach climbing up over his sweatpants drawstring. You need money, Stick. I’m gonna tell you that right now.

  Sticky gently touches his cut with his fingers.

  Chuck lets his eyes wander outside again, looks both ways. Brings a hand down to adjust his sweatpants a little. He turns and lumbers back into the bathroom. That’s your only option, the way I see it. He puts a round hand on Sticky’s shoulder.

  Sticky slides off the sink. Feels warm Fat Chuck energy pass through his shirt and skin.

  First-stall resident pipes up. At first he’s whining and coughing. Both Chuck and Sticky turn to the sound. Chuck drops his hand. Then the homeless guy starts slurring out some crazy political statement. Down with the white man, he says. It’s the white devil that done it to us, he says.

  Shut up, old man! Chuck yells.

  It’s the white devil, the guy says again.

  Shut up!

  Sticky gets the water shooting out again, splashes it on his face. This type of talk never gets to Sticky simply because he’s never seen himself as white. He hears it all the time. The antiwhite stuff. It’s up in the bleachers. It’s out by the hot dog stand. It’s in Jimmy’s office. Guys always talk a little lower when they spot him coming. Or they say things like We don’t mean you, Stick. Or You’re different, Stick. But the truth is, it never would have crossed his mind. That they might group him with the whites. It’s something that has never even occurred to him.

  Sticky cranks out a few paper towels and rubs his face dry.

  Anyways, Chuck says. What you gotta do is find some old rich-looking broad walking an empty street. Come up from behind her and snatch her purse. Simple as that. If she tries to scream, smack her over the head.

  I hear what you sayin, Sticky says, hoping the lecture is over. He nods a couple times and tosses the damp paper towel on top of the rag. But as he starts toward the door, Fat Chuck picks him off again.

  Only one other idea I could come up with, Chuck says, running a fat left hand up Sticky’s inner thigh.

  Sticky fights to get away, but Chuck has too much bulk. Too much power. Like being posted up by Rob on game point. Do me this one favor, Chucks says, struggling to keep Sticky still. Do this one thing for me and I’ll personally drive you there. Buy whatever she wants.

  Sticky jerks his arm back, yells: Come on, man! Lemme go! But before he can gain any leverage, Chuck shoves Sticky’s hand into his lap.

  Sticky fights even harder. He pushes and pulls, kicks, scratches, bites. But Chuck won’t let go.

  That’s it, white boy, he says. I’ll buy your little girlfriend whatever she wants. He grabs Sticky’s head with one hand, pulls down the front of his sweatpants with the other.

  The homeless guy starts whining again. Sticky’s Nikes squeak against the concrete. Something pops when Chuck leans all his weight against the sink.

  Sticky finally spins out and pulls away. He boots Chuck in his sloppy stomach two times quick and darts into the parking lot.

  Chuck doubles forward and holds himself. He goes down on one knee and then hurriedly grabs the sink and pulls himself back up. Before both feet are even on the ground he is sprinting out into the parking lot toward his car. Duck-footed. Stomach bouncing.

  Sticky rushes into the gym and goes straight up to Dallas, who’s sitting in the bleachers. That faggot Chuck, he says, sucking in breaths. He tried to . . .

  Dallas straightens up, says: What, boy?

  Chuck tried to make me . . . Sticky shoots a look out the gym door and tries to wipe Fat Chuck off his hand.

  New York and Dreadlock Man stop shooting. Dollar Bill looks up from tightening his laces.

  Dallas stands up.

  Sticky tries to catch his breath. Tries to wipe Fat Chuck off his hand. Onto his shorts. He points out the door, toward the parking lot. Chuck tried to make me suck him off.

  Dallas looks down the barrel of Sticky’s finger. Outside the gym. He spots Chuck lumbering through the parking lot and takes off sprinting. New York takes off too. Dollar Bill. The game stops and Trey and Slim ask what’s going on.

  A group of Lincoln Rec regulars drop everything and take off after Dallas and Dollar Bill.

  Jimmy hears the rumbling outside his office window and rushes out. Wh-wh-wh-what is it? He brings up the rear of the pack, yelling the whole time for someone to tell him what’s going on.

  Sticky races after the pack.

  When they reach the parking lot, New York spots Chuck squeezing into his old, paint-chipped Buick. Everybody charges after him.

  The suits on the sidewalk stop walking to watch this pack sprinting through the lot, cutting and leaping over cars.

  Chuck slams his heavy door shut and fumbles through his bag for his keys. When he finally gets ahold of them he frantically shoves the car key into the ignition and cranks it. As the big boat coughs and turns over a few times, he looks over his shoulder. It finally starts and he pulls it into reverse, tires squealing as he hastily backs out of the parking spot.

  New York is the first to arrive just as Chuck is slamming it into drive. He pounds on Chuck’s hood and kicks the door in. He reaches for the handle but misses, yells: Faggot!

  Chuck floors it. Tires spinning to grip pavement. Smoke lifting into the air.

  Dollar Bill and Dallas catch up to New York. Dreadlock Man picks up an empty forty bottle and heaves it at Chuck’s car. It shatters against the back door. Old-man Perkins and Johnson catch up. They both pick up rocks and fire them at the Buick as it speeds through the lot. One of the rocks crashes through the driver’s side window. Chuck ducks, puts a meaty hand up to save his head.

  They all stop running when Chuck rounds the last island in the parking lot and peels onto the street.

  Sticky watches as Chuck’s Buick blazes down the road and out of sight.

  Heads shake. Language flies. Old-man Perkins says he knew there was something not right about that cat. They all underline fierce words with forceful hand motions. Declare what they would have done if they were just a couple seconds quicker.

  Sticky kicks the tire of somebody’s Pathfinder. He lowers his head and wishes he was invisible. The Fat Chuck thing was bad, yeah, hell yeah, but this is even worse. All the guys asking him to explain, asking him to review the situation. In detail. The sun pounding off the pavement. His knees all weak like a sissy. This is the worst part of it. He messed up the games by running in there like a little bitch and now everybody’s looking at him, waiting for him to speak, telling him it’s OK. But it’s not OK. It’s all messed up.

  Everything’s messed up.

  The suits that were walking the sidewalk are now in one big group, speculating. There are curious faces pressed against most of the business windows. Sticky reaches up to his cut and discovers that it’s bleeding again. It’s dripping blood onto h
is shirt, his shorts, the pavement. He starts back toward the gym, tries to wipe Fat Chuck off his hand.

  Everybody asks him question after question, about what happened, where it happened, why it happened, and Sticky keeps his cool. He answers clinically. Detached. But the minute Dante comes up, something changes. Sticky’s face looks like a little kid’s and he stares at the ground. He doesn’t want Dante to see him like this. Like a victim. Like he can’t take care of himself.

  What happened? Dante says.

  It was Chuck, Sticky says. And then he kicks another SUV tire as hard as he can. He clenches his fists and slams the hood of an SUV. His face turns into a vicious frown and he quickens the pace of his walking.

  New York and Dallas come jogging up. New York tells Dante: Chuck tried to fuck with Sticky.

  Dallas says: We gonna find that fat-ass, though. Trust me.

  New York says: Might not be today, tomorrow, but we’ll get him.

  Dante looks at the blood streaming down Sticky’s face. Nods his head.

  Dollar Bill adds: We’ll get em soon enough. Don’t you worry.

  Big Mac comes jogging out of the gym all sweaty and asks what happened. Carlos comes out. Even Rob peeks his head through the doors.

  Jimmy marches past the others and goes right up to Sticky. He takes him by the arm and marches with him toward the gym. L-l-l-l-let’s g-g-g-g-go, Sticky! We g-g-g-gotta c-c-c-call the p-p-p-p-p-po-po-po-po—armed forces!

  Mrs. Smith Brought

  her whole family to Sticky’s foster care pad for the pickup: Mr. Smith with his Coke-bottle glasses; Tammie and Jamie, their two well-developed and wide-eyed daughters (seventeen and fifteen); and Johnny, their seven-year-old son with the two missing front teeth. Sticky was fourteen when they pulled along the curb in a sparkling white minivan. When they filed out wearing big smiles and hustled up the driveway together.

  This was Sticky’s third try at finding a family that fit. Mr. and Mrs. Smith shook hands with all the counselors. Mrs. Smith placed her hand on the old Mexican director’s shoulder like they were old friends and told him: We both have degrees in social work. She turned and smiled at her husband. So don’t worry, we know what we’re getting into.

  All the counselors nodded their heads. They smiled, too.

  When Sticky came walking into the office with his bag, Mrs. Smith gave him a long tight hug. She pressed his cheek against hers and told him: Welcome to our family. Then she tousled his hair with her hand.

  Sticky bristled under all that touch.

  Mr. Smith walked up when it was his turn, wrapped hairy arms around Sticky’s stiff frame and squeezed. We know about the troubles you’ve had finding the right home, he said, pulling his face away and fishing for Sticky’s eye. Well, that search is over now. He placed a soft hand on the back of Sticky’s head and took a deep breath. Young man, he said, I’m going to let you know this right up front, the only way you’re going to see this place again is if you want to visit a friend. Either that or I drop dead of a heart attack.

  Honey! Mrs. Smith said, poking her husband in the arm. That’s a terrible thing to say.

  Well, that’s how strongly I feel about this, sweetheart.

  Mrs. Smith blushed and looked at the old Mexican director. Hopefully it’s just to see a friend, right? she said. I mean, my God .

  The director nodded.

  Let’s hope, Mr. Smith said, and he laughed.

  Tammie walked up and gave Sticky a hug, told him: We’re really happy to have you.

  Jamie giggled a little and hugged him next. Nice to meet you, she said.

  Mrs. Smith shot a look at little Johnny, and he timidly stepped up for the hug too. Do you like the Dodgers? he asked as they separated, and everybody laughed. Sticky nodded.

  Then the Smiths loaded all their own kids, plus Sticky, into the van and drove off toward their home in Oxnard.

  The only problem was, by the time the Smiths got their hands on Sticky he’d already started to figure out who he was supposed to be. How he was supposed to fit in. And for the first time in his life he was determined to play the role.

  The Smiths tried their hardest to treat Sticky like one of their own. Bought him new shirts, new jeans, shoes and socks. Mrs. Smith cooked dinner every night. But Sticky was trying even harder to be a thug. On the way to those dinners he would cruise past a crowded park and ride home on somebody’s unlocked ten-speed.

  The Smiths set up “family hour.” Every night they’d all sit around the living room with the TV off and talk about their days. Something good that happened and something not so good. But the first week Sticky missed a meeting. He was hanging out in a baseball dugout on the other side of town with some kids from school. A pack of black dudes who stayed in a local group home. Two crazy Mexican cats who somehow managed to smuggle beers from their dads’ stashes.

  The second week Sticky missed two meetings. One of the black dudes showed up with a stack of old Playboys. One of the Mexican dudes brought smokes. They started setting up meetings of their own after school. Told people they were forming a new gang. Every night, as the sun set over the right-field fence, they’d file into the dugout with new recruits and try to one-up each other. The shadier the show-and-tell, the bigger the impression.

  After a month Sticky stopped showing up to “family hour” completely.

  He started skipping certain classes to smoke out behind the track-and-field shed. A couple hits off a buddy’s blunt and he’d be flying above the goalposts. Or he’d bail out on school altogether and cruise down to the arcade with his boys. Street Fighter and Mortal Kombat, old-school Mr. Do! and Police Trainer.

  Foosball.

  One night when Sticky walked into the house, Mr. and Mrs. Smith were sitting at the kitchen table waiting for him. Sticky, Mrs. Smith said, could we talk to you for a minute?

  Grab a chair, son, Mr. Smith said.

  Sticky took a seat and Mrs. Smith held up his report card: five Fs and a C in PE.

  Now, this is just a progress report, son, Mr. Smith said. You have a chance to turn this around if you put forth the effort .

  But it’s unacceptable, Mrs. Smith said. We called the school and your attendance is horrific. Why aren’t you going to class?

  Mr. Smith took his wife’s hand and told her: All right now, sweetheart, this is about turning things around from here. We have to remember to look forward.

  I know it, honey. OK.

  I think the boy needs to know that we believe in him. That we love him.

  And that we’re here no matter what.

  Exactly.

  They both turned to Sticky.

  You do know that, don’t you, son? Mr. Smith said. That we love and support you one hundred percent?

  The following Saturday Sticky was brought home by the cops. He got caught swiping a pair of binoculars from Kmart by undercover security. (This was back when he was still refining his skills.)

  Mrs. Smith was stunned when she opened the front door and found her foster boy in handcuffs. Oh, my God, she said, and yelled for her own kids to hurry upstairs.

  Mr. Smith tried tough love after that situation. Restriction. Extra chores. An early curfew on Friday and Saturday nights.

  Son, Mr. Smith said a couple nights later, as he moved Sticky’s bed, piece by piece, out of little Johnny’s room and into the sewing room. I want you to know that I understand what you’re feeling inside. He lifted one side of the single mattress and Sticky picked up the other. They moved awkwardly through the door frame and into the hall. I’ve seen it all before, you have to realize. They leaned the mattress against the sewing room wall and walked back into Johnny’s room, picked up the headboard. I know how awful you must have felt after what happened with your mother.

  Sticky dropped his side of the headboard after that comment. Just dropped it on the rug and walked out of little Johnny’s room without a word. One mention of Baby and he was gone. He cruised straight down the stairs and out the front door.

  At around fou
r in the morning, Sticky staggered back into the house through the side door. He was so high he passed out in the middle of the kitchen floor with an open half-gallon of orange juice in his hand.

  Jamie found him like that when she walked into the kitchen for a drink.

  Sticky? she said. Oh, my God. Sticky!

  Sticky lifted his head to look at her. There was blood all over his face and hands, and he was smiling.

  Jamie dragged him into the upstairs bathroom and gently cleaned his face with a warm washcloth. What happened to you? she said.

  Sticky shrugged his shoulders.

  You’re, like, on drugs, aren’t you?

  He reached up and touched her face. You look good, he said, and ran a finger through her long blond hair.

  Well, you better go back to your room and act like you’re asleep, she said. I’ll tell them you’re home. They’ve been, like, freaking out all night. She wrapped Sticky’s arm around her neck and helped him walk to his room. She put him on his bed, pulled off his shoes and socks and covered him with a blanket.

  Sticky was asleep before Jamie even left the room.

  This prompted a big family meeting the following night before dinner. There were discussions about hard-core counseling and antidepressants. Mentor programs and outpatient drug rehab centers.

  But Sticky talked his way out of everything when Mr. and Mrs. Smith brought it up again over dessert. I’ll change, he said. I swear I’ll change. He put down his fork and gave them both his most honest expression. I wanna be better now.

  Mr. Smith turned to Mrs. Smith, told her: You know, honey, I think he means it.

  I do too, Mrs. Smith said.

  I think it’s about trust right now.

  It’s a trust issue.

  I wanna be better, Sticky said.

  Mrs. Smith turned her attention back to Sticky and reached over the table for his hand. All right, son, we’re going to trust you on this one.