Pass It Forward

by Patrick Jones

  I head back onto the court. I see Trina in the stands. No Mom or Mark, but it is a big crowd, so I tell myself that I might just be missing them. But then I remind myself to get rid of the fantasy that Mark’s going to leave his life of crime and Mom’s going to welcome him back into the family.

  I set up down low. Elijah dribbles and I cut up. He passes me the ball. I see daylight, just a sliver in the gray between the defender and the baseline. They double-team me. It creates nothing but blue sky for Paul. I bounce it toward him. Two. And a foul. Make it three.

  As the seconds tick down and we hold onto our thin lead, Coach, who is normally smart, yells out the stupidest thing: “Let’s think out there!” It feels like he’s yelling only at me.

  Doesn’t he know that I play at this level on pure instinct? Since I first touched a ball at maybe age three to the first time I saw Mark play. From the first time I shot a jumper to the first time I stuffed the ball. From then until now, it has all led to this moment. This time and place.

  Their forward gets the ball, fakes a pass, and tries a baseline jumper. I time it perfectly and smash the ball back in his face. Life’s done that to me. It is about time that I paid it back.

  25

  Sunday Morning

  February 26

  Ryan’s Steak Buffet

  The bing-bing of the bus cord wakes me up. I look over at Trina. She’s the one who pulled it. I was so tired from staying up all night celebrating with the team that I barely made it out of bed. “You saved me,” I tell her. She smiles in return. That saves me a little bit too.

  “So are you going to work more now that the season is over?” she asks. She’s getting off in front of Ryan’s too. Wal-Mart is at least two stops away. I nod my sleepy head.

  “We can catch the bus right in front of school.” I like the word “we” from her lips. “I mean, that is, if you’re staying in school now that the season is over. I hope you do, Lucas.”

  “I have to graduate.” I then tell her about Coach saying that his California friend will offer me an athletic scholarship. I point at my CD player. “Maybe I’ll hear the beach for real.”

  She talks about going to Jefferson State Community College. She chats the entire walk to the Ryan’s employee door. “I gotta go,” I say. Then I lean over to kiss her. Trina doesn’t back up; she pushes forward. The door opens and Mr. Robbins stands there gawking. I feel embarrassed.

  I walk inside. Mr. Robbins invites Trina to join us. Where I normally dump my bus tray is a big cake. Written on it is “Congratulations, Lucas!” Nobody’s ever done this for me before.

  “You made the front page.” Mr. Robbins holds up the local newspaper. Not just the sports section, but the first section of the whole paper. It is a photo of my blocked shot in the closing seconds.

  I take the paper in my hands. It is like I’m holding a pile of bills, investing in my future.

  “We’re proud of you,” Mr. Robbins says—like, I imagine, a dad might proclaim. People applaud. They’re coworkers, but at this minute, it almost feels like they’re family. Trina hangs on my arm, which makes me feel strong and safe. I gaze at the photo. Up front there’s me looking so tough, but I look at the faces in the background. I can’t make any of them out, so it is easy to pretend that one of them is Mark feeling proud of me too.

  26

  Sunday Afternoon

  February 26

  Grandma Washington’s house

  The doorbell chimes at Grandma’s house. It takes a little time for her to get to the door, but once she does, it takes no time for her to shoot a look of scorn since I’m not alone. Not with Mom, but with Trina. Nor am I empty-handed. I march into her house and place the tournament MVP trophy on her table.

  “Get that off my table.” Grandma shuts—actually, slams—the door behind us.

  I leave the trophy on the table. I help Trina with her coat. I take our coats, which are covered with rare Alabama snowflakes, to the coat rack by the front door, where Grandma stands.

  “At the start of the season, everybody said we had a snowball’s chance in hell,” I tell Trina, since Grandma’s not talking to me. All Grandma’s energy goes into that glare. “But here we are.”

  “Take that off my table.” Grandma repeats. She re-opens the door, her message clear.

  “No.” As I say the word, I think about my family and our lives. What if Mom and those guys would’ve said “no” and not had two kids before they were eighteen? What if Josh would’ve said “no” to the guys selling him drugs? What if Mark would’ve said “no” to the guys getting him to deal? One tiny word would’ve changed one life big-time. Mine.

  “I will not tell you again.” The tone tells me what we both already know. This isn’t about the trophy but her lack of faith in me. I proved her wrong, and Grandma is always right.

  “Lucas, please, show some respect,” Trina whispers.

  “I am, for myself,” I answer. Grandma chatters about praying to the Lord for strength.

  “Do it for me, please.” Another Trina whisper. I return to the table and remove the trophy. I cradle it in my lap like I’ll do with my son or daughter when I teach them to say “no.”

  Grandma closes the door. She walks to the table and then sits and starts to pray, again.

  I hang my head and mumble the words that Grandma says and Trina repeats. Grandma believes that praying hard is the path to an easier life. I proved that playing hard is my way forward.

  27

  Sunday Evening

  February 26

  Tuxedo Park

  The dented snow shovel scrapes against the pavement. We clear it to get a game going, but I don’t know if we’ll play since all Mark’s friends seem like they’d rather put me down than throw shots up.

  “Mr. Cock of the Walk,” Scott says. He puts his hands under his shoulders and parades around the court pretending to be a rooster. I keep shoveling. Mark’s friends keep laughing.

  Tony pitches in, kicking snow with his big, clumsy feet. “Mr. MVP. Mr. Front Page!”

  “I’m going to college,” I say to shut them up. It just makes it worse. They rag on me harder, but I continue, “I don’t even know which one. Coach says recruiters are going to be all over me.”

  By the time the court’s uncovered, they’ve run out of insults. Once we start to play, Tony and Scott hack with machete hands every time I touch the tingly cold basketball.

  “Knock it off,” I tell Tony. “That’s a foul.”

  “Toughen up, college boy” is his first response. Another hack is his second. I hurl the ball to the pavement and walk away. “Before you know it, you’re going to be back here, Li’l Mark.”

  I stop and realize that’s what this is all about. I’m moving forward. They’re standing still. I don’t turn around as I listen to Tony and Scott call me out, until Kevin shuts them down.

  “Li’l Mark!” Kevin runs and catches up with me. “Mark wants you to know something.”

  I turn around. The air’s so icy I can see my breath. Even it looks gray. “What?” I snap.

  “He wanted me to tell you that he’s proud of you.” Kevin puts out his fist for a bump.

  I put my hands in my pockets. I think about Mom on the bus in the morning and Mark in his Mustang, out partying all night. I think how I wanted to be Mark from the first time I saw him dunk. He was my hero, but I will not follow his path. “Can you tell him something for me?” I ask.

  “What?” Kevin smiles. He must not notice that my voice is colder than this snow.

  Another flash at Mom’s life compared to Mark’s. “Tell him that I’m not proud of him.”

  28

  Tuesday Morning

  February 28

  Jackson High School

  The hard slap of a hand on my baggy new Long Beach State T-shirt, courtesy of Coach’s recruiter friend, echoes in the small science lab. “Congrats, Lucas,” Joshua says. He’s not the first one. For the past two days, that’s all I’ve heard, sometimes from people I barel
y know giving me hand slaps, high fives, and hosannas for winning state, getting named MVP, and the story in the paper. They’re giving me props for reaching the first rung of the ladder out of here.

  I thank him. I’m going to have to get used to speaking to people I don’t know before I start talking to recruiters. Coach told me yesterday that I can use his phone and office to talk to them, but he wants to be there too.

  “Yes, congratulations, Elijah and Lucas. You’ve made everyone in this school very proud,” Mrs. Thompson says. She points at both of us and then claps. Everybody else joins in.

  “But now our focus must return to the classroom,” she starts. I take notes, writing down every word she says like it’s gospel. I don’t stop until the bell rings. She stops me as I exit.

  “Did I do something wrong?” I ask her. Mrs. Thompson points to the empty chair by her desk. I sit.

  “I understand from Mr. Unser that you might go to college. I’m proud of you, Lucas.” I blush in every shade of red on the spectrum. “What will you study? Pre-med? Chemistry?”

  Students for the next class start to file in, picking up their lab notebooks. I’m silent as I watch them copying Mrs. Thompson’s notes on the chalkboard.

  “I will study education,” I finally say. “I want to be a science teacher like you.”

  She laughs kindly. “Lucas, that’s nice, but you should aim big. You should—”

  I turn and look at the students who come to class every day with odds against them, as much as me, maybe more so. Beaten down by economics, but raised up by education. “I am.”

  “Lucas, that’s very nice.” She’s all flustered. “But maybe you should consider something other than teaching—”

  “I’d agree with you, Mrs. Thompson,” I say and then smile. “But then we’d both be wrong.”

  29

  Tuesday Afternoon

  February 28

  Jackson High School cafeteria

  That afternoon, I skip my appointment with Mr. Edwards, where he would have just told me all the same things. Instead, I use my time smartly. Mr. Edwards can’t argue with that.

  I see Russell Walker banging two metal spoons against the cafeteria table, playing drums along with whatever music pours through the leaky headphones barely hanging on his pierced ears.

  I walk up to Russell and tap him on the shoulder. He puts down the spoons. He sits on the table next to his tray without a speck of food on it, holding a CD player more busted-up than mine.

  “Hey, congratulations on your championship,” Russell says. “I got one more chance. But even if we do win, I doubt I’ll be getting one of those MVP trophies.” I know from sports banquets that Russell plays football, wrestles, and catches in baseball. He’s built like a fireplug.

  “Don’t say that,” I tell him. He kicks the empty chair toward me so I can sit.

  “Hey, easy for you. You got on the front page of the paper. You’ll go to college and—”

  “Mr. Edwards said you’re going to trade school, so it seems like you have a plan.”

  Russell laughs. “Big difference between college and A+ Auto Mechanics school.”

  “Different roads maybe, but both a path out of here.” I stare at the empty cafeteria chairs around us. In my head, I start listing the names of all the people I knew who used to fill them. Some dropped out, some got kicked out. Some are behind bars, some are buried under the ground. “Any honest path will do.”

  “Maybe,” he says. Not yes, or no, but maybe. A shade of gray. It fits this place. Then we start talking, and I’m surprised by how much we have in common. We chat until the bell rings. “I gotta go.”

  “Me too.” I race not toward the door but to the lunch line. I grab handfuls of fresh fruit and take them to checkout. The checkout lady motions for the MVP to pass by without paying.

  “Thanks.” I bite into the green apple easily, thinking how hard it’s been for me to resist the green that Mark offers. That’s an apple filled with nothing but worms.

  30

  Tuesday Evening

  February 28

  Lucas Washington’s apartment

  Mom’s going to try to go back to work at the nursing home. “I hurt too bad to lift people at the hospital,” Mom says.

  I finish off the dinner of salty beans and rice with a side of Dollar Tree canned veggies. “Is there anything I can do?” I ask. I ask her every day and “no” is always her answer. Until now.

  “You can sit with me for a while.” That is odd, because normally after dinner, I get a game until my curfew to study, and Mom reads library books. Although the past two days, the only physical activity I’ve gotten after school is kissing Trina. “I feel nervous about going back to work.”

  This somehow leads to her telling stories about growing up in Birmingham. “I never got out, like Rachel. I made some bad choices. Like Josh did. Like Mark does. But not you, Lucas.”

  “I’m doing my best for both of us. I just hope I don’t get hurt playing ball, like Mark.”

  Mom’s eyes go glassy. Her jaw drops open. “I know that’s what we told you, but that’s not it. You should know. He got kicked off that team for selling drugs.”

  I feel like I’ve been punched. He was my hero for a long time, even if he hasn’t been recently. “But his ankle?”

  “He broke that running from the cops,” Mom says. “We lied to you, Lucas. I knew how much you respected and admired him. I didn’t want to shatter that when you were young.”

  “I know what he is now.” Why am I shocked he was that way back in the day? But I am.

  “And that’s all that matters,” Mom says. “Don’t look back. Look forward.”

  Mom and me talk until it’s time for bed, mostly about my possible future. I don’t talk about the NBA or getting drafted, just about going to college and doing well there. Small dreams.

  As she heads off for bed, Mom calls out, “Mark didn’t break just his ankle.” Mom’s crying now. I head back toward her, but she waves me away. “He broke his life—and my heart.”

  She turns off the light. I lie on the sofa and close my eyes. My ears await the alarm clock buzzer.

  About the Author

  Patrick Jones is a former librarian for teenagers. He received lifetime achievement awards from the American Library Association and the Catholic Library Association in 2006. Jones has authored several titles for the following Darby Creek series: Turbocharged (2013); Opportunity (2013); The Dojo (2013), which won the YALSA Quick Picks for Reluctant Young Adult Readers award; The Red Zone (2014); The Alternative (2014); Bareknuckle (2014); and Locked Out (2015). He also authored The Main Event: The Moves and Muscle of Pro Wrestling (2013), which was placed on the Chicago Public Library’s Best of the Best Books list. While Patrick lives in Minneapolis, he still considers Flint, Michigan, his home. He can be found on the web at www.connectingya.com.