Blue Star Rapture (12 page)

Perplexed, T.J. reread this passage a time or two before he continued to the end of the feature. The story quoted LuAnn's parents, in a later paragraph, as saying that membership in a religious cult was the one thing LuAnn didn't need, in her condition.

The word
cult
, T.J. thought to himself, wouldn't go down very well with LuAnn herself or Sister Simone or other Camp Shaddai participants. It was a word that signified brainwashing or thought control, and they would all say that was nonsense, all they were doing was serving the Lord. But
depression?
How could she have been depressed? LuAnn was all smiles and serenity in her service to the Lord, wasn't she?

Rita was back at his table again. She had her elbows on the table and her chin cradled in her hands. She was staring at him. “It looks like you found what you wanted,” she observed.

“I found something,” he admitted. “I'm not sure if it's what I want.”

“Have you ever thought about writing for the school paper?” she asked him.

“Why would I do that?”

“Oh, I don't know. You seem interested in newspapers, and you do have brains, T.J.”

“Now you sound like my mother.”

“I sound like everybody's mother,” Rita responded.

T.J. wondered if that was why Rita was staring at him, because she was hoping she might recruit him for the school newspaper staff. He tried to ignore her long enough to redirect his thoughts back to the Tempo feature. It still perplexed him, though; he decided he didn't know enough about depression.

“Do you know anything about depression?” he asked Rita.

“What are you asking me?” Her body language changed abruptly. She sat back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap.

“I said, do you know anything about depression?”

“Why would you ask me that? Why would you ask me that question?”

Rita's sudden change in behavior was startling to him. “Because I'm trying to figure something out in this article.”

“But just right out of the blue, right out of nowhere, you ask me if I know about depression. Does that seem likely?” Rita's eyes were suddenly moist, as if she might be on the verge of tears.

“Jesus Christ, Rita, what's your agenda here? They're talking about depression in this article, and I'm asking you if you know anything about it. If you can't be cool with that, okay, but you can't be on my case about it.”

“Does it seem like I'm on your case?” She stood up quickly and turned to leave. Before she headed in the direction of the reference desk, she added, “Just leave the papers where they are. I'll put them away later.”

“Fuck your papers,” said T.J. angrily, while turning away from her. He didn't get any of this. What did depression have to do with LuAnn Flessner and why was Rita Esposito pissed at him? Somewhere, somehow, there had to be something easy. He thought about the gym, where guys would be shooting by now. He decided to go and join them.

It wasn't until two weeks later that T.J found the time to return to the back issues of the newspaper in the school library. This time it was during his study hall, and Rita Esposito was nowhere in sight. He requested the same feature on cults he'd read before, and another library aide fetched it for him.

This time, before he read any further than the headline, he made two copies on the Xerox machine, the second one darker and clearer than the first. It was at the table he was sharing with Tyron where he attempted to reread the feature from start to finish. But the big guy was keen on sharing something with him.

“How'm I gonna pass the ACT?” Tyron asked him.

It was a good question
, T.J. thought,
as good as it always had been
. “You know I'm workin' on it, right? That's where we hope Mrs. Osby will help. That's what counselors are for.” Having said this, and hoping it would close the discussion, T.J. returned to the photocopy of the news feature. There was a paragraph near the upper right corner that was too faint to read.

Tyron was squirming in his chair. He interrupted again with an announcement: “Anyway, I know what I'm gonna use for my term paper.” He made this proclamation with a certain tone of defiance. “Look at this.”

T.J. looked at the open book, a huge hardcover nearly the size of a road atlas, with page after page of color comic illustrations. “Okay, I'm lookin', but keep your voice down, okay?”

“But look at this! You know what this is?”

By turning the cover, T.J. could read the title.
Encyclopedia of Super Heroes
. “You can't check this out, it's a reference book.”

“I don't want to check it out, I'm gonna use it!”

“Use it for what?”

“For my report! For my term paper! Don't you get it?”

“Didn't I tell you to keep your voice down?” T.J. interrupted his thoughts long enough to rub his eyes. “Bumpy, this is a book about comic book heroes. This doesn't work for a history term paper. Mrs. Kemp won't okay it.”

“That's what you think.”

“That's what I know.”

“You called me Bumpy.”

“I'm sorry. I promised no more Bumpy. I don't want you to get your hopes up with a book about comic book figures.”

Tyron adjusted his pick so that it extended from his afro at a more acute angle. He stood his ground uncharacteristically when he said, “You think you know everything, but maybe you don't. Guess where I found this book.”

T.J. glanced in the direction of the far end of the library, where the 600 stacks formed a T by joining with a lower counter. “Let me guess. The reference section?”

The big guy's flicker of disappointment was apparent, but short-lived. “Yeah, but you don't get it. That means nonfiction. I got this book in
nonfiction!
”

“SHHHHHHHHH! SHHHHH!”

T.J. looked both ways self-consciously, but he couldn't tell whether this shushing came from Mrs. Kemp or one of the librarians at the reference desk. He moved his face closer to Tyron's before he said, “Didn't I keep telling you to hold it down?”

“Okay, okay, but I found this book in non-fiction, which means it's real.”

“What does that mean,
real?
”

“It means superheroes are real! People think they're just pretend, but they're not. They're real because they're in nonfiction!”

T.J. watched the eagerness spread across Tyron's face. Could Neal Armstrong's face have registered any more elation when he took his first step on the surface of the moon?
I got myself into this
, he reminded himself,
there's no one else to blame. He has to be encouraged, but there has to be some contact with reality
. Before he spoke, he let out a deep breath. “Tyron. Listen.”

“I'm listenin'.”

“There's reference books about everything. Gods, goddesses, evil spirits, nursery rhymes, leprechauns, et cetera et cetera. That doesn't make them real, just because they're in print.”

“Miss Eades said fiction is false and nonfiction is true.”

“Well, sort of, maybe. But not exactly.”

“That's what she said.”

“It's more like this: fiction stories are invented. They're made up. Reference books are books of information. You see the difference?”

What Tyron saw was the rising tide of disappointment. “Maybe I was the one listenin' to Miss Eades and not you.”

T.J. couldn't argue with him, since he'd never had Miss Eades for English. “Maybe so, but I don't think you got the words quite right. It's not the difference between true and false, it's the difference between information and made-up stories.”

Even though Tyron had to know how reliable T.J.'s understanding of these matters usually was, he was reluctant to let this one go. “I don't have to take your word for it,” he said.

“That's true.”

“I don't have to take your word for it.” Tyron repeated the words, but his quieter voice betrayed his sense of resignation. “I can still ask Mrs. Kemp about it.”

“Yeah, you can do that,” said T.J.

“That's probably what I'll do.”

“Do me a favor, Tyron. Take the pick out of your hair, okay?”

“No.” Tyron rested his head on his arms. He was so huge that in this position he covered most of the table. “We're gonna shoot tonight, remember?” he asked. His voice was muffled by the crook of his left elbow.

“Not until after seven-thirty, though. Remember?”

“Yeah, I remember. I wish you never took that job at Hardee's, T.J.”

“Most of the time, so do I. I guess we both wish it.”

By the time T.J. got to the gym after work, it was crowded. In addition to little kids who were playing on the decks, the main gym was peopled by players from the other high schools in town, as well as his own. He got into a pickup game with Tyron on his team, as well as two guys from West High. He couldn't help thinking, for the umpteenth time, how odd it was to be friends with players most of the year, and then turn them into enemies as soon as the season started. It wasn't natural.

T.J. didn't think about it for long. He made six jump shots in a row, pure, with elevation he didn't normally have and high extension with his arms. The ball rolled from his fingertips with proper rotation. His swishing shots hardly touched the rim.

Before long he was whipped, though. He sat on the first row of bleachers, gasping for breath, when Coach DeFreese took the seat next to him. It wasn't legal for the coach to actually instruct the players, in any organized context, before November first. But it wasn't against the rules to watch and give tips or advice to individuals.

“Why are you so bushed?” he wanted to know.

“I'm not that tired,” T.J. lied. “I just want to give other guys a chance to play.”

“You're not still smokin' those Marlboros, are you?”

“Who, me, Coach? Never.”

“Good-lookin' jump shot tonight. Did they work you on that at Full Court?”

“No, Coach,” T.J. replied haltingly though his gasps for breath. “They taught me other things.”

“Good,” said the coach. “Anything you learn will help.”

It would be a waste of breath to try to explain to the coach what he meant. And he didn't have any breath to spare, at this point in time. “God, Coach, I
love
this game,” said T.J., speaking like a parrot echoing the slogan of the NBA promotional television spots.

“Are you coming out for the team, then?”

“Don't know yet; haven't made up my mind.”

“Why not? I thought you said you loved this game.”

“I do. This game tonight, right here and right now. I love it. As for the team, I need to think about it. I'd have to quit my job.”

“You know, Nucci, you're a spook sometimes. You know that?”

The coach left after delivering this observation. T.J. could ignore him with no difficulty. He was watching Tyron slam home a rebound and punch his fist in the air triumphantly.
Superman is real
, thought T.J.
People think superheroes are pretend, but they're really not
.

With his breathing restored, T.J. seemed to recover most of his brain. The thing with Tyron was more than he could process by himself. He needed advice. The only person he could think of whose input might be valuable was Mrs. Osby.

TWELVE

The day Tyron showed him the letter from Coach Lindsey was the third day in a row T.J. had postponed talking to Mrs. Osby. The letter said:

Dear Tyron:

Due to recent developments since the conclusion of Full Court camp, we find we will be unable to offer you a basketball scholarship this year at North State. We are sorry to have to tell you this, but we are confident you will find a situation at another school that will suit you better. Thank you for your interest in us. We wish you the best of luck
.

Coach Lindsey's signature was at the bottom.

Tyron was crestfallen. “Does this mean for sure I won't get a scholarship?”

T.J. read through the letter a second time before he answered. “Yeah, Tyron, that's what it means.”

“But they promised.”

“More or less they did, but not in writing.”

“They promised if I passed the ACT I'd get the scholarship.”

T.J. could have told Tyron he was surprised by this turn of events, but he'd be lying if he did. “They promised you, but not in writing. A scholarship offer isn't official till they give you a letter of intent to sign.”

“So what does that mean?”

“It means they broke their word, but there's nothing to be done about it. They're within their rights.”

“Shit,” said Tyron. “What does this mean here,
recent developments over the summer?
”

“I can't say for sure. It probably means they found somebody else.”
Somebody who doesn't represent so much work
, T.J. thought to himself,
somebody who isn't a
project.

“Jesus.”

“I'm sure it happens all the time, Tyron, don't feel too bad. There's other colleges, there's even lots of junior colleges.”

“Yeah, but I want to play for the Vultures.” He slumped dejectedly against the post that supported him on T.J.'s front porch.

“I know, Big Guy. I'm sorry.” And indeed he was. There wasn't time to indulge it now, however. “I have to go to work, Tyron. I'll see you later.”

The next morning, T.J. sucked it up and went to see Mrs. Osby. He made an appointment during his study hall. He told her about the letter in which North State had withdrawn the scholarship offer to Tyron.

“That's too bad,” said the counselor. “But isn't it true that he's had letters of interest from many other schools?”

“That's true, but lots of the time the letters are just letters. They get sent to hundreds of players on a mailing list. It doesn't prove that a college has any real interest. I've even gotten a few myself since Full Court camp.”