Painting the Black

by Carl Deuker

  The valedictorian was Monica Roby. She’d never come back to school after Josh’s attack, so I figured she wouldn’t be at graduation either. But I figured wrong. She gave a speech all right. Did she ever! It was pure Monica Roby. She quoted Shakespeare and Hemingway, her voice rising and falling dramatically. The applause when she finished was loud and long.

  There were a few more speeches, and then the reading of the names. They went in alphabetical order, so I was way at the end of the list, as usual. It was boring watching everybody else tramp across the stage. But when it was my turn, my heart was pounding.

  The graduation gowns were rented, but we got to keep our mortarboards. That night, in my room, I sat on my bed fiddling with the tassel for a while, thinking about Monica and Josh and all that had happened. Finally I tossed it into a corner, turned out the light, and went to sleep.

  When I got up on Friday morning my father was at work, but my mother and grandfather were sitting at the kitchen table. We talked a little about the night before, then I flipped through the sports pages while I ate my cereal.

  I’d taken about two bites when I stopped cold. Josh’s face was staring out at me from the newspaper. I quickly read the article. Major league baseball had held its June draft. He’d been the sixteenth player selected, chosen in the first round by the Colorado Rockies. The article said his signing bonus would probably be between one and two million dollars.

  My face must have gone pale. “Is something wrong?” my grandfather said.

  I slid the article toward him. My mother read it, too, leaning over his shoulder. She put her hand to her mouth, but Grandpa Kevin just nodded his head up and down as he read. “Well, what do you know?” he said. “What do you know? From what I saw, the kid had great stuff. He might just make it if he can get his head screwed on right.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “He might.”

  Grandpa Kevin put the newspaper down and looked at me. “You know what I think, Ryan? I think you should go over there and wish him luck.”

  “Me?” I said.

  “Why not? You were his catcher, weren’t you? He’s going to be off to some minor league team. If you don’t do it soon, you might never get the chance.”

  It’s only about a hundred feet from my house to Josh’s, but that was a long walk. I wasn’t afraid. I didn’t think he was going to punch me out or slam the door in my face. We were past all that. I just wasn’t sure what I was doing, or why I was doing it.

  When Josh opened his front door and saw me standing there, the huge grin that had been on his face disappeared. He almost looked scared.

  “I saw the newspaper article,” I said nervously. “I wanted to congratulate you.”

  He stared at me for a second, as if he had trouble understanding my words. Then his smile returned, broader than ever. “Thanks,” he said, his voice bubbling with excitement. “It’s great, isn’t it? First round. It’s what I was hoping for. I didn’t even know the Rockies were looking at me. I thought I’d go to the Giants, or maybe the Mariners.”

  “You don’t care though, do you?” I asked.

  “Are you kidding! For the money they’re going to pay me, I’d play for any team. And it’s just the start. It’s just the start.”

  The phone rang inside his house. He looked over his shoulder, then turned back to me. “It’s crazy around here. Sports radio stations are calling. Reporters are calling. Lawyers are calling. The Rockies are going to fly me to Denver for a press conference. Things are happening fast.”

  “Well, I’ll let you go,” I said, stepping back and away. “I just wanted to wish you luck.”

  “Josh!” his father’s voice was excited.

  “Thanks for coming by,” Josh called after me, closing the door. “And good luck to you too, with whatever you end up doing.”

  Back at my own house, my mother was waiting for me. “How did it go?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Okay, I guess.”

  My father had about ten projects he wanted me to do that morning, but I didn’t have the energy to start any of them. I had a feeling that there was something more important I should be doing, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. I ended up going back to my room.

  The graduation program was lying on the floor by my bed. I picked it up and paged through it. Under everybody’s name they’d listed their accomplishments—the scholarships they’d earned, awards, sports, clubs—stuff like that.

  It seemed like exciting things were happening for everybody else. Chris Selin was going to Cal Berkeley. Brandon Ruben was off to Oregon. Monica Roby had a full scholarship to Stanford. And Josh was headed to the major leagues.

  I tossed the program onto the floor and lay there feeling sorry for myself. But you can do that for only so long. Finally I went downstairs. “Can I borrow the car?” I asked my mother.

  “How long do you want it for?”

  “About an hour or so. I’ve got a couple of things I want to do.”

  She started to ask what, but then checked herself. “The keys are on the table. But don’t be gone more than an hour. I’ve got a house to show this afternoon.”

  Shoreline Community College is only about fifteen minutes from my house. I’d driven by it a million times, but that was the first time I ever went onto the campus. It was nicer than I thought it would be. Brick buildings, lots of gardens and pathways. The students looked different than I expected, too. They were older and quieter, more serious.

  I found the registrar’s office and picked up a summer catalog. I sat down in a chair in the office and paged through it. It didn’t take me long to find what I was looking for. I took the catalog back to the main desk.

  “Is this a university-level course?” I asked.

  She looked at the catalog. “Yes, that one transfers.”

  “How do I get into it?”

  She reached under the counter and pulled out a packet of papers. “Fill out this application form, have your high school send us your transcript, and then bring in a check for tuition. You will need to move quickly, though. Summer session starts in two weeks.”

  I sat down and filled out the form right there. She looked it over, then smiled. “Good luck to you,” she said. “I hope you enjoy your time here at Shoreline.”

  “I hope so too,” I said.

  I still had a few minutes before I had to head home, so I walked around the campus some more. The more I saw of it, the more I liked it. I had to fight to keep my excitement from showing. I didn’t want to get caught grinning like some fool high school kid.

  In front of the student union building there was a big bulletin board covered with notices announcing everything from jazz concerts to protest rallies. There was a lot going on, way more than I expected. I was about to turn away when something in the upper corner caught my eye. I looked again and saw that it was the schedule for the Shoreline Community College baseball team.

  I don’t know why that surprised me so much. If I’d ever thought about it, I’d have known they had a team. I’d just never thought about it. But there it was, right in front of me, proof positive. My heart raced then. I thought of what Josh told me when I’d first met him: every team can use a backup catcher who is willing to do the dirty work.

  When I got home, my mom was waiting for me at the door, her fingers to her lips. “Shhh,” she said, stepping out onto the porch and taking the keys from me. “Your grandfather is asleep on the couch.”

  I tiptoed past him and went upstairs.

  I’d only been gone an hour, but my room looked different to me, wrong somehow. I decided to clean it up, to throw out all the clutter and junk from the school year.

  It didn’t take long. At the very end I picked the mortarboard from graduation off the floor. I stood there holding it, wondering what to do with it.

  Finally I opened the bottom drawer of my dresser and shoved it inside. As I did, my hand touched something hard. I reached in and pulled out my trophy.

  For the first time I lo
oked at it closely. Most Inspirational Player, the inscription read. Below those words was my name—Ryan Ward.

  With my sleeve I polished the trophy a little. And instead of putting it back in the drawer, I placed it on top of the dresser. I put my mortarboard right next to it.

  I stepped back and looked at them. They looked good, sitting up there. They belonged out, where people could see them. After all, I’d earned them. And who knows, I may just earn something else someday.

  About the Author

  CARL DEUKER participated in several sports as a boy. He was good enough to make most teams, but not quite good enough to play much. He describes himself as a classic second-stringer. “I was too slow and too short for basketball; I was too small for football, a little too chicken to hang in there against the best fastballs. So, by my senior year the only sport I was still playing was golf.” Carl still loves playing golf early on Sunday mornings at Jefferson Park in Seattle, the course on which Fred Couples learned to play. His handicap at present is 13. Combining his enthusiasm for both writing and athletics, Carl has created many exciting, award-winning novels for young adults. He currently lives in Seattle, Washington, with his wife and daughter.