Blue Star Rapture (8 page)

“He's an evangelist. He's real, real spiritual. He has a tabernacle in Peoria, but he also travels around on preaching missions. Right now he's in Missouri or Oklahoma or someplace.”

“So why did he bring you here? What's he to you?”

LuAnn (Ruth Ann) had her arms folded over the railing again. Her chin rested firmly on her right wrist. “Because I asked him to. I needed a place to get away; I needed a retreat.”

“A retreat for what?”

“A retreat so I could sort things out. With no distractions.”

“Sort what things?”

Then she told him, “I was pregnant.”

“
Was
pregnant?”

“
Am
pregnant. I'm pregnant right now.”

She didn't look it, though, T.J. thought. But why would she lie about it? “You know what?” he said. “My advice to you would be, keep private things private.”

Her face was expressionless, but there were tears rolling down her face. “And why is that?”

“It gives people power if they know too much about you. They can use the power to take advantage of you. Who's the father?”

“You just told me to keep private things private.”

“Yeah, that's true. Sorry I asked.”

“It doesn't matter who the father is,” she continued. “It's my sin, no matter who the man is.”

Her casual use of the word
sin
seemed ominous to T.J. This conversation had gone from irrelevant to a trip on the dark side. It was time to give it up. A glance at his watch told him it was 10:20, well past their curfew. “I'd better go,” he said.

“My advice to you,” said LuAnn, “would be to learn a little bit about trust.”

“Maybe, but I'm telling you the truth. That's the way people are.”

“Sometimes they are,” she agreed. “That's why I need to be here at Camp Shaddai, where our trust is in the Lord, not in men.”

“You want someone to tell you what to do?” He stood up and started brushing off the seat of his pants. The things that needed his attention were trying to guard Ronnie Streets the next time he had to, and resuscitating Tyron's motivation.

“I don't want
someone
to tell me what to do,” LuAnn replied, without looking in his direction. “I want to know the Lord's will. I want
Him
to tell me what to do.”

SEVEN

Right from the start, Friday was a bad day. After breakfast, when he went into the coaches' dining room to scrounge for the newspaper, all T.J. could find was the women's section and the comics. He waved at Coach Lindsey, but the coach avoided eye contact. To make anything out of that, though, would just be paranoid.

Tyron had a brand-new pair of sweats, with the Reebok logo. He showed the sweats to T.J. as they made their way to the courts. “Bee Edwards again?” asked T.J.

“No, it wasn't Bee this time. A guy named McLemore gave them to me.”

“And who's McLemore? Not that I really want to know.”

“I don't know who he is, he's just a guy.”

“Nobody's just a
guy
, Tyron. Even people who
don't
give you things aren't just a guy.”

Ishmael Greene said, “He's just another hustler. Like Bee Edwards and all the rest of 'em. It's nothin'.”

“He gives sweats away,” muttered T.J.

“Sweats, shoes, whatever. Ain't no rule against it. Why don't you just chill?”

T.J. said, “You see what bullshit this is? There's supposed to be a
Converse
school or a
Nike
school, like a college is a store or an outlet for a shoe company. You can't see how that's bullshit?”

Ishmael shrugged. “Ain't no rule against it,” he simply repeated.

With an air of vindication, Tyron tucked his new sweats carefully under his arm as he announced he was considering the University of Illinois.

“Is that so?” asked T.J. “Why is that?”

“Obie was tellin' me about the Hall.”

“What about the Hall?”

“It's like Madison Square Garden. It's like the United Center. Tell him, Obie, tell T.J.”

Obie Williams explained, “We were just talkin' about the Hall. Once you see the Assembly Hall, you know it's the primo place to play.”

“Shit,” said Ishmael.

“I've been there,” said T.J. “I've seen it. It's a great arena, but so what? There's lots of great arenas.”

“But not like the Hall.”

“Are you goin' there?” T.J. asked Obie.

“If they offer, but they haven't offered yet,” Obie answered.

Tyron repeated his new goal: “Anyway, I think I'm considerin' the U of I.”

T.J. was exasperated. “You have no idea what you're sayin', Big Guy. Have you ever heard of the Summer Bridge program?”

“No. What's that?”

“It's summer school, Tyron, before they'll even let you in. Before you even get to start your freshman year.”

“I went to summer school this year, though.”

“It's not the same thing; you took one course for six weeks. I'm talkin' English, math, and science, from sunup to sundown. In the summer.”

“You're bullshittin' me now,” said Tyron, “You're just makin' it up.”

“I'm
not
makin' it up. Ask Ishmael.”

“It's true, Tyron,” Ishmael confirmed. “He's tellin' you the truth.”

“But what if I pass my ACT? If Mrs. Osby helps me, I might pass it.”

“Don't matter,” Ishmael told him. “Even if you pass the test, they'll still make you go through the Bridge.”

“But that sucks.”

“Tell me. It's like jail, man. School all day and night, you don't even get time off for workin' out. T.J. is not lyin' to you.”

“But that sucks if you pass your ACT.” Tyron wore his disappointment plainly on his face. He looked in Obie's direction for some reassurance. “You never said nothin' about this.”

Obie shook his head before saying, “We were talkin' about the Hall, man. Don't worry, there's plenty of schools with no bridge program.”

“For sure,” said Ishmael with a laugh. He slapped Tyron on the back. “There's plenty for sure.”

It was a relief to T.J. when he saw that Tyron's U of I agenda would ebb even quicker than it flowed. He was nearly at the point of indifference regarding the sweats and shoes and street agents.

The problem now was winning and losing.

By this point in the week, the preoccupation with winning as a team was escalating. Earlier, simply playing well as an individual and impressing scouts seemed enough to satisfy any participant. But no longer. By winning so many games, the Blue Stars were in the championship fight, and the predatory competitiveness that prevailed in players at this level was off the leash. Winning was everything.

As far as T.J. was concerned, it was an unhappy development. He didn't have the skills—or the inclination—to compete with these people, but with such an emphasis on winning, he would be expected to be a more productive player.

After winning their first game of the morning, they were now in a unique position. Since they had only one loss, they could win the championship by beating their next opponent, a talented team comprised mostly of players from the Gary, Indiana, area. If they lost, they would still be in a position to win the championship the next day.

Not too many minutes into the game, one of the guards, Evans, suffered an asthma attack. It wasn't his first, but it was the worst. He was taken to the first aid building to recover. His absence meant more playing time for T.J.—much more.

The game was close for a while, until Tyron lost his intensity and T.J. was sucking wind. He was trying to guard a gazelle named Curtis Lore, who broke him down in every direction. T.J. was getting the shakes trying to chase him, and his ankle began to hurt again. It wasn't a disabling injury, not even an injury at all in the purest sense of the term, and certainly not the kind of thing to keep you out of the lineup. But the nagging pain was a distraction.

Once, during a time-out, he begged Buddy Ingalls to let them play a zone.

“No way,” said Ingalls. “We're not playin' that pussy shit.”

“But it's good strategy,” argued T.J.

“It's good strategy for pussies. No pain, no gain,
amigo.
”

T.J. groaned inwardly. Hadn't he used the same line on Tyron often enough?

In the second half, Ishmael Greene pushed his intensity up a notch or two higher, which you wouldn't have thought possible, but everybody could see it. He played like a man possessed. By trying to compensate for his team's own disadvantaged condition, though, he got himself into foul trouble.

T.J. was grabbing his shorts and fighting for breath at every opportunity. At least this was a game where they were shooting free throws, so there were occasional stops in the action. He kept looking in the direction of the first aid building, hoping to see Evans headed back in their direction and fully recovered from the asthma attack. But no such luck.

Finally, with about six minutes remaining, T.J. tried desperately to stay with Curtis Lore in a fast-break situation. It was hopeless. Lore went over him and dunked in his face. T.J. went to his knees. The sweat was pouring from his face; his heart was pounding so hard in his chest, he felt like he was on the verge of cardiac arrest. The blood was slamming in his temples.

When Buddy Ingalls asked him if it was the ankle again, T.J. answered breathlessly. “Yeah,” he lied. “It's the ankle.”

“D'you have to come out?”

“Yeah. I have to come out.”

He sat on the bench with a cold, wet towel draped over his head. Buddy asked him if he needed to go to the first aid building, but T.J. said he could wait until the game was over. He didn't move the towel when he answered the question. His early departure meant Obie had to go back in, but with four fouls.

Obie fouled out quickly, but it took Ishmael a little longer. He didn't get the fifth one until three and a half minutes were left. They were behind by five points. Then the other team stretched the lead to twelve so fast, it made your head spin. Ishmael was breathing hard in the seat next to T.J., but T.J. didn't want to talk to him; he kept his towel in place.

Ishmael's voice was low, but T.J. could hear him: “You quit on us, Nucci.”

T.J. lifted his head and pulled the towel back to drape it around his neck. His breathing was nearly normal. “You talkin' to me?”

“You see anybody else got your name? We could've won the game, but you quit on us.”

T.J. looked at the rivers of sweat crisscrossing Ishmael's ebony face before he answered. “Who gives a rat's ass about winning this game?”

“There ain't nothin'
to
do but win, know what I mean?”

“This is a summer game. It doesn't mean a thing.”

“Ain't no such thing as a game not to win.”

“Who gives a shit, Ishmael? You're a superstar, you can get a scholarship anywhere you want. Notre Dame or wherever.”

Ishmael was toweling the sweat from his face and neck. He said, “You know what you are, T.J.? You're a spook. A spook is somebody who don't come to play.”

“Fuck you, Ishmael.”

“Either a spook or another one of these hangin' around street agents. I can't figure out which.”

It was too much. “Fuck
you
, Ishmael!” Then T.J. hit him. He doubled his fist and punched him hard on his right ear. It was the wrong thing to do for any number of reasons, not the least of which was Ishmael's greater size and strength. Ishmael took him down on the tartan surface, which felt as hard as old-fashioned blacktop, and would have punched him in the face. Except there were so many people pulling the two of them apart.

“Fuck you, spook!” Ishmael screamed while being restrained by three guys, including Buddy Ingalls.

When the commotion subsided, Ingalls took T.J. to the first aid building. Not a word passed between them. T.J. sat with his head down while Bridget put on a pair of latex gloves to examine the back of his head. Evans was sound asleep on the other table. T.J. was sweating again, and getting the shakes, symptoms of the aftermath from the violent encounter with Ishmael.

In addition to these shocklike symptoms, his head hurt and so did his ankle, even if only on a subacute level. None of it was significant, however, not compared to his inner turmoil of guilt and shame.
He called me a street agent
.

Bridget, the girl who did the crosswords, was picking at the back of his scalp, searching through his hair for the two minor cuts she would find, along with the morsel of tartan court about the size of a BB. “Does this hurt?” she asked him.

“Does what hurt?”

“I'm probing around on these cuts. Does it hurt?”

T.J. nearly laughed, it seemed so absurd. The thing that hurt was the thing she could never see: Ishmael's accusations.

He didn't plan to see LuAnn again; he only went to the bridge to be alone in the dark. He certainly wasn't thinking about her, or anyone else not connected with the basketball camp.

When he did see her, though, he couldn't have known it would be for the last time. The squeaking floorboards startled him; he hadn't seen her coming. “I kinda thought you'd be here,” she told him as she sat down beside him.

“I didn't,” he answered. “I just needed to be by myself.”

“You want me to leave?”

“No; stay.”

“You haven't told anyone, have you?”

“About you? I haven't said a word to anyone.”

She asked him, “What does the T.J. stand for?”

“T is for Thomas, J is for John.”

LuAnn's head rested on her forearms, which were positioned on the lower railing. “Those are biblical names,” she observed.

“You mean I got the right answer?”

“You don't have to be sarcastic.” She was giggling, though. “It's just that biblical names are special; that's why I like Ruth Ann so much better than LuAnn.”