Boy21 (11 page)

When Coach doesn’t finish his sentence, I swallow once and wait.

Coach says, “You gave Russ your number?”

I nod.

“You’re a good kid, Finley.
A real good kid.
I’m making you and Terrell captains. I wasn’t going to tell you until later, but considering the circumstances, I—”

“Coach, he really believes his parents are coming for him in a spaceship.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“He needs help.”

“He’s getting it. Russ sees a psychologist twice a week. You want to know what Russ told his grandparents two weeks ago?”

I don’t think Coach should be telling me what Boy21 says to his grandparents in confidence, but he keeps talking.

“Russ said his parents were going to pick him up in October—in their spaceship—but he sent a message using his mind or something like that. He asked his parents if he could stay on Earth for a few more weeks because he’d made a friend named Finley and Finley has a ‘calming presence.’ He said he was enjoying your company.”

I swallow again.

“He’s on the edge, Finley. I don’t think I have to tell you what that means, because you’re a smart kid. When you see him play—really play ball—everything will make sense to you. Trust me on this one.”

When I leave the coaches’ office the rest of my squad is long gone. The second-string girls’ team is going over a zone defense, so
Erin’s back is against the wall; she’s hugging her legs and resting her chin on her knees. Her eyes are on me, which is when I realize I’m shirtless. I see concern on her face, but I can’t think about Erin now so I just turn my head and go change in the locker room.

I find Boy21 outside and he follows me to the town library.

In the young-adult section two copies of
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone
are available, so I check out both and hand a copy to Boy21.

“Wes was taking heat for reading this. He told Terrell it was required reading for AP English,” I explain.

Boy21 nods.

Wes is our teammate, so we get his back.

Boy21 follows me home, where I make sandwiches and we eat with Pop, who is sober enough to mind his manners and ask us questions about practice, all of which I answer vaguely, and then Boy21 and I hang in my room and read
Harry Potter
until it’s time to go back to the gym.

The book’s about a kid who has an awful life but gets a chance to escape it when he finds out his dead parents were wizards. Reading it makes me wonder if I’ll ever escape Bellmont, and, if so, what sort of life I might have somewhere else.

We arrive to the second session early so we continue to read in the bleachers while the girls finish practicing.

Wes sits down next to us, notices what we’re reading, and then whispers, “You guys don’t have to do this.”

I can tell he’s touched by the way he’s looking at me, so I give him a smile. I hold up my fist and he gives me a pound.

“It’s a really good book,” Wes says, and then pulls out his copy. “Surprisingly good.”

When Terrell, Hakim, and Sir see us reading
Harry Potter
they just shake their heads.

During the second session Boy21 picks up his game, but not too much. I actually think he plays just well enough to make the team, but not well enough to challenge me for my position.

My ego wonders if all his and Coach’s talk about how good he is might just be inflated hype, but there’s something deep down inside me that knows Boy21’s still holding back.

He’s not going one hundred percent and doesn’t get physical with anyone.

He’s simply coasting without making any mistakes.

He’s
in
the game, but he’s not
playing
the game.

After she changes in the locker room, Erin sits alone in the stands for a while watching us, but then halfway through practice I look up and she’s gone.

I don’t like her watching me practice because it makes me nervous, but I already miss her.

WE PRACTICE, WE GO TO SCHOOL
, we do our homework, we read
Harry Potter
… and that’s really all Boy21 and I do.

When he asks why we don’t see Erin anymore, I say, “Basketball is my girlfriend now,” which makes him laugh, and I guess it does sound pretty funny.

We finish reading the first Harry Potter book a few days after Wes does.

Before Friday-afternoon practice, while shooting around in the gym, Wes says, “So what did you think of
Sorcerer’s Stone
?”

“If one of your friends had magical powers,” Boy21 says, “would you want to know about it?”

“Like Harry does?” Wes says, moving his shoulders back six inches and scrunching up his face. “
Real
magical powers?”

“Powers that not everyone else has,” Boy21 says.

“Hell yes, I’d want to know,” Wes says.

“What if it meant you’d never see them again? Not everyone
gets to go to Hogwarts, right?” Boy21 starts rubbing his palms against his sides.

“Why you askin’ me this, Russ?”

Boy21 rolls the back of his head across his shoulders.

Wes cocks his head sideways at me, but I only shrug.

“You guys want to come over my house tonight and watch the movie version of the book?” Wes asks. “My mom got it for me on Netflix.”

So that night the three of us watch the movie version of the book, which is pretty good. Lots of magic, castlelike buildings, and friendship.

After the movie Wes takes us into his room and plays his favorite rap group, N.E.R.D. The music is very funky, not like the straight-up gangsta rap music I usually hear in the neighborhood, although there
is
a lot of cursing.

(I don’t really listen to music much, maybe because I have no iPod. Music is okay, but I don’t go crazy for any one type.)

“Do you guys know what N.E.R.D. stands for?” Wes asks.

“What?” I say.

Boy21 says, “No one. Ever. Really. Dies.”

“You a fan, Russ?” Wes says.

Boy21 nods and smiles.

“You seen the Seeing Sounds Game on their website?” Wes says. “Retro.
Badass futuristic funky.
”

Wes punches up the N.E.R.D. website on his computer and then hits the right link. The Seeing Sounds Game has an outer-space theme.

No wonder Boy21 likes this group.

A giant gorilla chases the group members across a moonlike landscape.

“It’s an old-school video game. You play as one of the group members,” Wes says, and then he and Boy21 take turns playing.

When they finish messing around on the N.E.R.D. website, Wes suggests we form a Harry Potter book club. He wants to read each book and watch each film in between readings. I always thought that book clubs were for rich women, but it feels good to be included in something other than basketball.

We both agree to join him and pick up copies of
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.

I like Wes. We’ve always been friendly, but I’m starting to feel like maybe he could be a real friend to both Boy21 and me—someone we hang out with regularly. Maybe because he’s the weird type of kid who forms a Harry Potter book club. Wes is strange like that. Odd like us.

Why didn’t I hang out with Wes before?

As we walk back to the Allens’ home, I ask Boy21 about N.E.R.D. and the outer-space theme of their website, and he says, “That’s just pretend outer space, not real outer space, but it’s true that no one ever really dies.”

I raise my eyebrows when he glances at me.

“Matter cannot be destroyed nor created,” he says. “That’s one of the basic principles of the universe, first of all. But then there is your life force, which is contained and trapped here on Earth by your body—your flesh—which is like a prison. When you Earthlings die, your life force is released and then you’re free to travel through the galaxies again. That’s not death, it’s liberation.”

“Umm…
what?
” I say.

“I only tell you, Finley, because you seem to be enlightened. The rest can’t handle such ideas.”

I feel a little proud knowing that Boy21 thinks I’m special, but I also feel a little sad too, because Boy21 is suffering. Deep inside his brain there is a war going on—a war that he’s losing.

There’s not much I can do to help him.

I SEE ERIN IN THE HALLS
of our school and in the gym. We pass and she always tries to catch my eye or rub elbows, pretending it’s an accident, but I keep walking with my eyes straight ahead, like I don’t notice her.

Coach names Terrell and me this year’s captains during a team meeting. The team celebrates by eating a dozen or so pizzas.

The day before our first game, Coach announces the starting lineup, and I get the nod at point guard.

All is going as planned, and I sort of forget about Boy21’s ability to take away my starting position.

I’m playing organized basketball again.

On the court it’s all adrenaline and sweat and movement and leather and cheering and squeaking sneakers and high fives and the feeling that I can and am accomplishing something.

Off the court it’s all anticipation, hunger, counting down the minutes until the next practice or game, drawing plays in my notebooks, visualizing myself on the court: seeing myself diving for loose balls and feeling the scabs on my knees burn; defending so closely my mark’s knees and elbows leave bruises on my legs, arms, and chest; passing creatively, finding the open hands of my teammates; even making a few layups; Coach telling me I did well; Dad and Pop smiling proudly.

It’s all sweaty practice and daydreaming until I’m suddenly playing our first real game against weak Rockport, and I’m actually
doing
all the things I visualized, which feels so amazing, I wonder if it’s real—like maybe I’m sitting in science class just daydreaming.

But I’m not daydreaming in science class; I’m playing basketball.

I rack up fifteen assists while Terrell scores thirty-two points.

We’re up by forty at the end of the third quarter, and so Coach puts in the second squad.

On the bench I notice my heartbeat slowing, my muscles cooling, and I begin to feel a wonderful sense of having completed a task.

I watch Boy21 play and again I can tell he isn’t really playing. He doesn’t make any mistakes, but he just looks to get the ball to the other backups so they can try to score. He’s running at three-quarter speed; he doesn’t shoot when he’s open; there’s no intensity.

He’s playing very unselfishly, which is nice to see, but it also
makes me feel as if he’s hiding in broad daylight—like he’s afraid to show the world what he can really do.

We win the game 101–69.

Dad is proud.

So is Pop.

THE SECOND GAME OF THE YEAR
is the annual boy-girl doubleheader against Pennsville, our archrivals in basketball and by far our best competition for the conference championship. The day before the game, in practice, Coach has us all lined up sitting against the wall when he says, “Based on our scouting reports, Pennsville’s going to run what we’ll call a triangle-and-two on Terrell, which means they’re going to double-team him anytime he gets the ball.”

“Damn,” Terrell says. “I hate being double-teamed.”

Coach ignores Terrell and says, “Wes, Hakim, and Sir will experience a matchup zone, which will leave Finley wide open.”

What Coach means is that Pennsville doesn’t think I can make my jump shots—they don’t think I’m a threat to score. I’m not offended, because my being the weakest scoring threat on the team is a fact. I’m a point guard, not a shooter. That’s my role, and other teams have doubled Terrell before, but for some reason
my jump shot seems a little more off this year than in years past. I went zero for two in the first game.

“Finley will have to shoot his way out of the triangle-and-two,” Coach says. “Which we all know he can and will do. He just has to hit a few early shots to make them switch to man-to-man coverage. And
then
we’ll be able to run our regular man offenses.”

Coach teaches the second squad the Pennsville triangle-and-two defense, and then we practice against it. Just about every shot I take bounces off the rim. It feels like I haven’t heard the sound of the ball spinning through net twine in years.

“Keep shooting,” Coach says. “Get all your misses out today. Save your baskets for tomorrow.”

I keep shooting, but I feel a little more anxious with every miss. When I glance at my teammates, I see doubt in their faces—or am I just being paranoid?

Coach subs in Boy21 for me at one point and Russ misses all of his shots too, which doesn’t make me feel any better. I’m really starting to think he’s missing on purpose. This depresses me and makes me feel guilty, even though I told him not to hold back.

In the locker room after practice, Wes, Sir, and Hakim all punch my arm and pat my back and say things like “You got all your misses out today” and “Tomorrow’s baskets are the ones that count, not today’s” and “Game day is the real day.”

But Terrell says, “You better get that extra man off me early, White Rabbit. You hear? I want to hit a thousand points before the season’s over.”

Coach is always saying we shouldn’t chase personal records, but we all know there will be a huge celebration when Terrell
scores his one-thousandth point. He needs me to do well if he’s going to reach a grand this year.

I’m worried about tomorrow enough already, so my stomach flips and pulses when Coach calls me into his office. He shuts the door and says, “I only expect you to shoot the ball when you’re open tomorrow. You’re a decent shooter, Finley. Hakim and Wes will rebound too. Trust me.”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

“Maybe talk to Russ about making more shots in practice too,” Coach says.

“So you think he’s missing on purpose?”

“We haven’t seen the real Russ play ball yet,” Coach says. “And you don’t know what a show you’re missing.”

He looks into my eyes for a long time—like he’s trying to control my mind or something—and I eventually look down at my sneakers.

“See you tomorrow, Finley.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, and then go change in the locker room.