Sticky holds the envelope in his hands and stares at the return address: UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA TROJANS. It’s so official with the school name on the envelope like that. It makes it seem totally legit. Important.
He smiles at the lady, who is pointing at her watch again and shaking her head. Then he pulls the letter out of the envelope and unfolds it in his lap. He reads it again.
In the Heart
of Santa Monica, the beautiful people come out at night. They step out of fancy rides in hip gear, stroll into trendy clubs with no name above the door. You see dudes in black leather jackets, black leather pants, black leather boots. Surfers in sandals wearing a curvy blond girlfriend around their waist. Spiky-haired hipsters wearing cool throwback shirts plucked off a retro rack in some pseudo-thrift shop on Melrose. You see ladies in short skirts and backless tops. Tight jeans. Pointy high heels. Cowboy hats. You see some forty-year-old dude escorting a twenty-year-old model-type into some bar off Second Street. See a little white honey holding a big black cat’s hand, checking out of one club and rolling into another two doors down. See two six-foot French-looking ladies stepping out of a stretch limo and walking hand in hand into some crowded café. Smoking long fancy cigarettes and giggling at a crowd of gawking guys.
It’s a little before eight and a bright moon has nudged the sun completely offstage. The air is warm and full of salt. Sticky watches all the different people from a patch of grass outside Sanwa Bank on Colorado. He takes big bites of the Hostess Cup Cake he swiped when he got off the bus and chews with his mouth slightly open.
Some suit guy walks past him to the ATM, slips his card in the mouth of the machine. Sticky wads up his wrapper and holds it in his hand, watches the guy from behind: punching in numbers and waiting, pulling out seven or eight twenties and shoving them deep in his wallet. The guy snatches his receipt and heads off toward a nearby bar.
Sticky reaches in his bag and pulls out his own stash of cash. Counts out the bills in his hand over and over. Slowly. Straightens out each buck and sets it on the grass in front of him. Licks a finger and peels off the next bill.
He does this repeatedly, but each time the total remains the same: twelve bucks.
Anh-thu stands next to Sergio as he totals up the sales from her drawer. He does the numbers, but she’s staring across the store at a family. A young black man holding a baby on his shoulders, his wife’s arm wrapped snugly around his back. They stop at the T-shirt rack and while the dude sifts through the extra-large section, his wife makes faces at their baby and pulls at its toes. The baby laughs. Anh-thu feels her stomach tighten up as she stares. She feels the anxiety of her and Sticky’s meeting climbing into her lungs, making it tough to get a deep breath. She turns her eyes away from the family and goes back to Sergio’s counting.
When everything comes up even, Sergio points over to the broom. Just the dressing rooms and the back, Annie, he says. Don’t worry about the store floor, I wanna get you out of here a little early for your birthday.
Anh-thu forces a smile and grabs the broom. As she walks over to the dressing rooms, she scans the store. Her tired legs carry her across the floor while her green eyes sweep over every detail in the store. The place is almost empty now—aside from the black family, a couple kids from the valley rifling through what’s left of the half-off table, a guy with a bad flattop holding up a pair of baggy jeans and sizing himself up in the mirror—but the store looks like a tornado has just rumbled through. Shirts are scattered everywhere, pants are hanging from the jacket rack, sweat-shirts are turned inside out and lying on top of the hat table. For the girls on the floor the real work starts not when Sergio flips the OPEN sign on in the morning, but when he cuts it off at the end of the day.
Julie is in the middle of the store sorting out a pile of swim trunks that somehow ended up on the floor by the jackets. She’s folding and stacking according to size. Laura is at the far register ringing up an elderly guy. She smiles at the old-timer as she takes his credit card. She swipes it through and they both stand there waiting.
Anh-thu pushes open the door to the first dressing room and thinks about Sticky again. How he’ll act if she tells him how late she is. She runs through the different scenarios as she sweeps pins, tiny threads, ripped-off tags and dust into a little pile. As she reaches down and pushes the pile over the plastic lip of the dustpan.
Sticky watches a couple ladies stick their cards into the ATM one at a time. The first has long pasty legs shooting out of short khaki shorts. The second is shorter and heavier and is wearing a tacky pink skirt. They both have fake blond hair with awful dark roots. They stand next to each other and talk in voices so loud that everyone on the block knows their business.
Sticky’s watching these ladies, but he’s brainstorming about hoops. He figures if Lincoln Rec is shut down tomorrow, because of the fight, he might have to suck it up and ball with those scrubs on Twentieth and Pico. On that beat-up outdoor court with chain nets. Or maybe he could track down his school custodian, Manuel. Ask him to leave the back door of the gym open a crack. If he had the gym to himself all night he’d flip on the court spotlights and make like the dark bleachers were filled with screaming fans. Or maybe he’d smuggle in the new OutKast CD and slip it into the gym’s beat-up old boom box. He’d shoot five hundred jumpers while jamming to his beats. A thousand jumpers. And after that he’d get in a little ball handling work. Do some passing drills off the wall. It’s time to buckle down, he thinks. Time to get his game right, with that camp only a couple weeks away. And the mere idea of the camp hypes him up even more. Matter of fact, he’ll shoot more than a thousand jumpers. He’ll keep on shooting and shooting until his arms feel like they’re gonna fall off. Dribble so many dribbles the ball will turn into an extension of his hand. Run home so hard from the gym that the muscles in his legs will feel like they’re catching fire. He’s gotta go into that camp with every part of his game clicking. Everything perfect. Dante says the most important hours of hoops you’ll ever spend are the hours you spend alone.
Sticky decides only a few things really matter to him right now: his rhythm on the court, his performance at the camp, the college coaches who will be watching, the letter from USC in his bag, and Annie’s birthday. Everything else is secondary, he thinks. Everything else is a million miles away.
As Anh-thu is diligently sweeping through the back of the store, Laura comes walking up to her with a brown paper bag. She hands it over and winks.
What’s this? Anh-thu says, leaning the broom against the wall.
Just somethin I thought you might need, Laura says. Don’t open it here, though. Serious. Wait until you get off.
OK, Anh-thu says, confused.
Trust me, girl. I been there.
OK.
And no matter what, Laura says, know that I’m totally here for you. Anh-thu nods her head. Laura gives her a long hug and tells her in her ear: Later on tonight, it doesn’t matter what time, call me. OK?
I will, Anh-thu says back.
After Laura takes off, Anh-thu stares at the brown paper bag in her hands, folded over at the top. She presses through the outside and determines it’s a box of some kind. But a box of what? And is it for her birthday? Because Laura’s already given her the picture frame. Strange, she thinks, setting the bag on top of a shirt bin and grabbing for the broom.
She begins sweeping again, though she can’t help continually glancing over at the bag. What could be inside? What did Laura mean when she said she’s been there? Been where? She rolls a rack of returned jeans to the side so she can sweep underneath, and a tiny spider scurries across the floor. Anh-thu lunges back and smacks at it with the broom. She picks it up with a paper towel, throws it in the trash and continues with her sweeping.
A pack of tourists walks up to the ATM, talking all loud in a foreign language. Sticky can’t figure out what language it is, but he knows it’s not English. One guy goes to the machine at a time while the group hangs back. Each guy pulls ou
t a wad of twenties from the slot and shoves it deep in his pocket. When all of them have had a turn at the ATM, and they’re armed with enough money for their big night out in Santa Monica, they move quickly down the street as a group, like a pack of excited dogs. They hook around the big parking structure and head toward the Third Street Promenade. Even when they’re completely out of his sight, little pieces of their loud language still funnel back to Sticky’s ears.
A cab rolls to a stop in front of Sticky and a light-skinned black dude hops out of the back. He hands over some money to the driver and slams the door shut. The cab rolls off, and the guy heads for the ATM.
Sticky watches this guy and for some reason he thinks back on the incident with Fat Chuck. The way Chuck seemed cool at first, like he was trying to help, and then all of a sudden tried some crazy shit. Sticky feels himself getting pissed all over again. He should have kicked Chuck in his teeth, man. Blasted him with a heel to the back of the head. Booted him in the ribs over and over until he couldn’t breathe. And Sticky wonders why he ran off to tell all the guys. Why didn’t he just handle business on his own? Like Dante told him to. Like he did with Rob. And Dante’s right about what he said. About him taking care of himself. Dante’s right about a lot of things.
He leans his head back on his bag and stares up into the sky. He stares at the bright moon and watches his fight with Rob play out in his head. The way he leaped up off the hardwood and clocked Rob in the neck. The way Rob tackled him to the ground. Everything happening so fast, like when you’re on some pitch-black roller coaster at Disneyland. Space Mountain. Everything flashing by before you even know what’s happening. All you have time to feel is the exhilaration, the twists and turns, your heart climbing into your throat. And then suddenly it’s over.
Sticky’s eyes slide shut.
An old woman screaming at no one pulls Sticky out of his dreams. He wakes up as Dante’s laying out that last stone. The third one. Look how far away he is from the wall. Look. He’s the bottom of the barrel, man. The last rung on the ladder. He wakes up and acknowledges what Dante is explaining to him. That people keep giving him away. That they keep sending him back. But then Sticky sees himself playing ball. Dominating guys twice his age, twice his size. He sees his grace on the court. His beauty. His secret refuge. Those foster parents never saw him play ball, he thinks. They never saw him on the wing with the rock in his hands. Something incredible happens out there, man. Something he can’t even explain. If only they’d come to watch. Like Anh-thu did. Then they’d see it for themselves. That he’s not retarded. That he’s actually really good at something. Great, even. That he’s been blessed.
Maybe then they would have wanted to keep him.
When Anh-thu is finished sweeping she puts the broom and dustpan back into the storage closet, picks up the brown paper bag and carries it with her into the employee bathroom. She takes off her work clothes, a brown Millers T-shirt and jean skirt, and pulls her summer dress out of her bag. She lifts it above her head and slips it on. She changes her shoes, too, all the while staring at the brown paper bag in front of her.
Anh-thu finally takes the bag in her hands, unfolds the top and slides the box into her palm. Her stomach drops. It’s a home pregnancy test. How could Laura have known? Does everybody know? Does she even want to know what it will tell her? She’s too young. Sticky’s too young. He has his basketball, and there’s college. Her dad and brothers would kill her. But then to have the chance to do right what her own mom did so wrong. Even if it started today, on her sixteenth birthday.
Anh-thu tries to push all of these thoughts out of her head as she follows the directions. Then she waits.
A chorus of honking pulls Sticky out of his head.
He looks over at the road and spies three cars stopped at a green light while an old man is trying to pull off a tight U-turn. The people in the waiting cars have no patience; they throw their hands in the air all dramatic and shout out their windows.
When Sticky snaps his attention back to the ATM, he finds a skinny-looking white dude in a suit standing alone. A briefcase at his side. He watches the guy pull out a chunk of money and take his card from the machine, then slip another card out of his wallet. He shoves the new card in, punches in a series of numbers and pulls out another stack of cash. He peeks quickly over both shoulders, as if aware that someone’s watching him, and then reaches for the second receipt. He stands there organizing himself, slipping a thick stack of twenties into a gold money clip, then slipping the money clip into his back pocket.
Sticky sits up, leans his weight on his hands behind him and checks the big clock above the parking structure: 8:15. He’s gotta go get that bracelet now. Before the store closes. The bear. He’s only got forty-five minutes before he’s supposed to meet Anh-thu, and a feeling of failure spreads through his stomach.
The guy walks away from the machine and cuts through the alley between Third and Fourth. Sticky gets up and grabs his bag. He follows the guy.
The alley behind Third Street is dark and grimy. The asphalt slick from all the years of trash bags being left outside the back doors of fast-food joints to rot. There are small cars parked against the wall, wet mops leaning against giant trash receptacles and mysterious warm smells drifting out of exotic restaurants. Sticky follows behind the guy like a private detective. He keeps him in his vision but stays far enough back that nobody would ever know. He wants to see where the guy’s going, and then he’ll go get the bracelet and the bear and meet Anh-thu.
Sticky slides his right hand into his pocket, fingers the twelve bucks, fingers the steak knife. He looks up as the guy walks out across Broadway and into the alley on the other side. The thing about Annie, Sticky thinks as he crosses the street, is she wouldn’t care if all she got for her birthday was a stuffed bear. She’d love it. That’s just the way Annie is. And maybe he doesn’t need to be out stealing stuff so close to his basketball camp. What if he got nabbed? The judge warned him last time to straighten up. He brought up juvenile hall and military-style work camps. And how could he show those coaches what’s up if he was standing behind bars? Annie just wants them to spend time together. That’s what she’s always telling him. She’s doesn’t trip on all that other stuff. Material things. That’s not the kind of stuff she thinks is important.
And that settles it, Sticky thinks. He’s not stealing anything today. He’s gonna go get the bear and maybe take Anh-thu down to the Santa Monica Pier. They can watch all the different people circling around on the Ferris wheel and talk. The most important thing is to be with her on her birthday.
And without even thinking about it, Sticky starts kind of jogging through the alley. He’s excited now because he’s settled on a plan. The weight of decision has lifted from his shoulders. He’s kind of jogging behind the suit guy, slowly cutting into his lead, while at the same time thinking about Anh-thu’s face when she sees the bear. When he sings her “Happy Birthday” in her ear and kisses her sixteen kisses on the lips. And without even thinking about it, Sticky reaches into his pocket and pulls out the steak knife. He pulls the knife out and jogs through the dark alley with it clutched at his side.
The suit guy whips his head around when he hears Sticky’s footsteps, but it’s too late. Sticky slams into him like a free safety. He lowers his shoulder, lunges at the guy and sends him flying into some plastic trash cans. He thrusts the jagged blade against the guy’s neck and grabs a fistful of his hair.
The guy’s eyes are wide. His teeth are long and yellow, lips thin and white. His jacket is ripped at both elbows and tiny drops of dark red blood are starting to soak through. The tip of a dark green tattoo juts out above his collar.
Sticky spies the briefcase, which has sprung open in the fall. It’s full of little white baggies of powder. Drugs. The guy’s a drug dealer. He’s tackled a drug dealer. Sticky goes back to his man, opens his mouth to talk but nothing comes out. Instead of talking he yanks at the guy’s hair and watches his face cringe.
; What the hell you want? the guy says, his voice altered by the pressure of the knife against his throat.
Gimme the money! Sticky says, pressing the knife harder against the guy’s throat. The money in your back pocket!
OK, OK, OK, the guy says, and he holds his hands out to his sides. All right. Just hold on. He reaches behind his back slowly, the whole time staring into Sticky’s darting eyes, and into his back pocket. He pulls out the wad of cash and sets it gently on the pavement. Then he holds his hands out to his sides again. All right, buddy, he says, almost in a calm voice now, there it is. There’s the money. But you don’t know who I am, buddy. You have the money, but I’m just telling you, you don’t know me.
Sticky releases the guy’s hair long enough to pick up the money clip and push it into his own back pocket. He has no idea what to do next and this makes him panic. He cracks the guy in the back of the head with the butt of the steak knife and takes off running. He races down the alley as fast as he can. Fists pumping, mouth sucking in air. Chest pounding, burning. He sprints away from what he’s just done as fast as he can, still clutching the steak knife in his hand.
Sticky flies out into Santa Monica Boulevard. He dodges a couple slow-moving cars and ducks into the alley on the other side. He whips his arms at his side, barreling through the length of the alley, and then pops out onto Arizona. A woman in a minivan has to slam on her brakes to avoid hitting him. Her eyes grow huge and she covers her chest with her hand. Sticky slips into the alley on the other side and hurdles a homeless man, an empty crate. On the run, he anxiously looks back over his shoulder but nobody’s there. He pops out onto Wilshire and barely slips past a bus speeding west toward the PCH onramp. The driver sounds his deep horn, swerves slightly, and all the people out walking turn to look. But Sticky’s already halfway down the alley behind the big Catholic church. When another anxious glance behind him reveals nobody he slows down, ducks behind a big trash receptacle and bends over, hands on knees. He begs for breath. Salty sweat rushes down his face and neck. It runs into his eyes and ears and mouth and he can’t get his wind. He leans his head against the church wall. His hands and knees are shaking. When he thinks about what he’s done a wave of panic rushes over him. And then guilt. And then shame. And then incredible excitement. He looks up at the stained-glass windows of the church and prays for a deep breath. Just one good deep breath and he’ll figure out what’s happened.
Ball Don't Lie Page 19
