Cruise Control (8 page)

If we win our next game, this coming Friday, we'll lock up a trip to the state 4A basketball tournament being played this year in Spokane, three hundred miles away from here. Coach definitely wants Tim and me on the court for this next game and the tourney. It's a pretty big incentive for Coach to make sure he doesn't catch us howling at the moon.

But last night's drunk was a major bad-ass event. I mean Tim and I got
massively
wasted. I'm not sure why we needed to hit it so hard, but we did it and somehow we survived. I remember driving with my eyes closed, not even steering. It reminded me of that day at shoot-around when I couldn't miss anything. Amazing. Of course, we were lucky, stupidly lucky! I risked our lives and got away with it—and I don't even know why I did it.

Sometimes, and I know this sounds idiotic, but sometimes it's like there's this spirit riding along watching out for me. I never see or hear anyone, like if I were telling some stupid ghost story, but some part of me sometimes just … I don't know,
feels
something or someone near me. I know I sound crazy. I'm not crazy, but sometimes I sure act like it.

Right now, Shawn sits in his wheelchair, where he always sits, unless he's in his high chair being fed, or his bed sleeping. I look at him and wonder, for about the billionth time, what he's even here for. Sometimes everything just seems like such bull. I'm sure about only a few things in life, and these are that my dad's a jerk, my brother's a veg, and there is no God up in the sky watching over us. We're all just here for a while, alive for a few years, and then we're gone. That's it. Period. Nothing else makes any sense to me. Shawn's life has no meaning, but then maybe nobody's does. You're born, you live, and you die. That's it. There's no heaven, no hell, no nothing. That's what I believe, so I guess you might as well make the most of the time you're here. Well, I'm trying to, and the state championship tournament is my way out of this mess.

The thing about the tournament is that there are always scouts there from the big colleges. These scouts don't go to regular season games very often, but they go to tournaments because of all the good players there. I've already got acceptance letters from half a dozen colleges, but I've got my heart set on Georgetown. Of course, it's three thousand miles away, so I know I can't leave my family and go, but it'd be great to get an offer just the same. I mean, even to be told I'm good enough to get a free ride would be pretty cool.

And if by some miracle I
am
able to go away to college, I'd do it only if I could pay my own way, like through a scholarship. I won't take a dime from my old man. He's not gonna buy his way out of the guilt he should feel for leaving us by paying for my college. He's not getting off that easy. One thing, though, keeps racing through my mind, over and over again. When I was yelling at Dad and I said the thing about going away to college, he said, “That's what you
should
do.” I can't believe he meant that, about my leaving. He has to know that with him gone, I'm left without any options. He has to know that I can't just leave like he did. I mean, how could I? He knows I'm not like him, so what he said was just crap, made him sound good, when he knows it's never going to happen.

Still, my only hope of escape, my only chance of ever getting away, comes down to one thing and one thing only: how good I can be on the basketball court.

W
e play Kennedy tonight. We're all sitting in the locker room waiting for Coach to give us his big pep talk, like we need help getting ready to play. If we win tonight, we've got an automatic bid to the state tournament. If you can't get up for this game, you have no pulse.

I should be tense, should have some kind of adrenaline edge by now, but I feel completely calm and relaxed. In last week's game I led all scorers and we killed Butler High School. They aren't that strong a team, but we beat them by more than thirty points and they're not
that
bad.

I've been playing really loose for several weeks now, playing like I'm in some kind of trance. Ever since that day at shoot-around, when I couldn't miss and almost lifted off the ground, I've been “on.” I've had great practices, and I haven't had a single bad game.

An hour or so from now, once we've won this game, I'll be the best player on the best team in our league. I'm not thinking about my dad, or my brother, or anybody or anything except winning. I'm calm and focused and ready.

I walk into the kitchen and Cindy and Mom are sitting there waiting for me. They're all smiles.

“Congratulations, honey,” Mom says, and gives me a hug.

The phone rings, and I'm bugged at anybody for calling right now, interrupting this moment. So I grab it.

It's one of Cindy's friends, Ally Williamson. She asks for Cindy. She doesn't even congratulate me on our game.

I tell her, “Cindy—oh, didn't you hear?”

Cindy tries to grab the phone and yells, “MOM!”

I say, “She was in an accident today—a road-rage thing with a heavyweight boxer. Sorry.” I hang up.

Mom, laughing, yells, “PAUL!”

I say, “It was a telemarketer.”

They both buy it, so we all sit quiet for a second until I break the silence. “Well, we're going to state.”

We beat Kennedy High School, our archrival, by six points. I led all scorers with twenty-four and missed a triple double by only two rebounds (fourteen assists and eight boards).

I repeat, “Did you hear me, we're going to state!”

Mom says, “I know, I know.” She smiles and pauses a second, then says, “And guess what? We ladies are going to be there, en masse, to support you guys.”

I'm confused. I ask, “Ladies?”

Mom says, “Your sister and I and some of Cindy's girl friends.”

“You're coming to the tournament?”

Cindy says, “We're comin'.”

I ask, “What about Shawn?”

Like I said before, the tournament is way over on the other side of the state this year.

Mom answers, “Respite care has already arranged for Shawn. Vonda will come and take care of him. We're coming to your game, Paul—get used to it.”

I can't stop from asking, “Vonda? You're kidding me, right?”

Vonda has taken care of Shawn before. She's this enormous, bizarre woman, thighs the size of utility poles and a hairdo that reminds you of the Bride of Frankenstein. I don't like the idea of anybody taking care of Shawn but Mom or Cindy or me. What if he gets really bad? What if—

Mom interrupts my thoughts. “Shawn will be fine. Vonda will stay all weekend if necessary—”

“Oh, you can count on that. It'll definitely be ‘necessary.' Once we make it to the final game—”

Cindy interrupts. “Overconfidence?”

I look at her and say, very matter-of-fact, “I get why you'd want to be there—you want to see the greatest butt-kicking high school dream team of all time—”

Cindy, laughing, interrupts. “Oh God, here he goes—”

The phone rings, and Cindy grabs it before I can.

“Hi, Ally,” she says.

I start moving toward the stairs. I hear Cindy in the background say, “An accident? NO! MOM!”

I laugh.

Mom, looking at me, says, “Keep it up and I'll send you over to your father's.”

I stare at Mom. I can't believe she'd say something like that tonight. I can't believe that on such a great night, she'd remind me of him. I say, “Now you're thinking, Mom.”

She looks guilty. Maybe she feels bad for saying such a dumb-ass thing. But I'm not into rescuing her. I say, “I'm outa here.”

I take off up the stairs.

Nothing is going to ruin this night for me. We're playing in the tournament. Nothing can take that away, not even worrying about leaving my brother or being reminded that the famous butt munch Sydney McDaniel is my old man.

I
n the bottom drawer of my chest of drawers, hidden under a bunch of old T-shirts and socks, are letters from six universities and colleges. Every place I've applied I've got at least the possibility of a scholarship, but no word from Georgetown. They've had more time than anyone else, but still no word. They haven't said no, but they haven't said yes either—they haven't said anything!

It's not exactly late, yet, to be hearing back from colleges. Most places don't think about high school recruits until the season finishes up. But I'm still nervous.

I glance at some of the letters I've gotten from other schools. I take out the one from Gonzaga, over in Spokane where the tourney is being played.

This one came just a couple days ago.

Dear Paul McDaniel,

As Assistant Athletic Director for the Gonzaga University Bulldogs Athletic Department, I'd like to thank you for your interest in our university's programs, specifically our basketball program....

Blah, blah, blah.

… an outstanding education … your transcripts from high school appear excellent … a unique learning environment …

Blah, blah, blah.

… we would like to meet with you about Gonzaga University as the right place to pursue both your academic and athletic goals …

Blah, blah, blah.

Actually, Gonzaga is my second pick, right after Georgetown.

I shove the letters back into my drawer, cover them with clothes, and grab my basketball to go out and shoot for a little while.

When I hit the bottom of the stairs, I turn the corner and notice Shawn sitting in his wheelchair by the window. He's quiet now, not “ahhhhing” or anything, just sitting there. I walk over to him. It's almost like he's watching the view. The sky is mostly blue with some puffy clouds. Puget Sound is dark blue in some places, where the clouds block the sun, and real sparkly in other spots, where the sun has broken through the clouds and shines on the water. It's like the dark places are depressing to look at, cold and black, but the sunny spots look like diamonds.

I look back down at Shawn. His eyes are open. His lips are a little apart and his chest rises and falls slowly with his breathing.

I wonder if he's getting any of this view action. I wonder if he sees the water and if he thinks about the different ways the water looks with the sun or without the sun. I wonder if he notices the difference in how his own skin feels when the sun shines on him or when it goes behind the clouds.

It's stupid of me to think he does. It's funny though—I've heard Mom say that Shawn's brain on fancy, high-tech machines like CAT scans and MRIs looks normal. I mean, there's no reason that you can see, on any of the medical tests, why Shawn should be so retarded. Of course, probably these tests don't show very much about the inside workings of the brain—Shawn's gray matter is probably all screwed up. It has to be, otherwise there's no way he'd be so out of it.

I look closely into his eyes. There's a kind of glassy expression there. You never get the feeling that he's looking back at you, even when you put your face in front of his, a couple inches away, like I'm doing right now.

“Hey, Shawn,” I say.

Nothing.

“How you doin', buddy?”

Nothing.

“Can you see me?”

Nothing.

I stand next to Shawn for a while, looking out at the clouds and the water. Before long I notice that his breathing has changed and I look down at him; he's sound asleep.

I gently run my hand over his hair the way Mom always does. It feels so soft.

“Paul,” I hear Mom whisper softly from behind me. I jerk my hand away from Shawn; it's almost like I'm embarrassed that she's caught me being nice to him.

I turn and face her.

She says gently, “It's okay to love your brother.”

I don't know what to say.

She hesitates a second. “It's also okay to hate the way he is; sometimes I hate it too.”

“I don't hate
him
,” I answer quickly, feeling my face turn red.

“Of course you don't, honey,” Mom says, her voice steady. “I know you don't hate Shawn, but it's okay to hate how he is sometimes.”

Mom's wearing her jogging gear, and she looks about ten years younger than she really is. How can she be so good to Shawn? How can she be so good to all of us? My mom's the most amazing person I know. It's like the only rule she's ever had for me is to pretend that everything's fine with Shawn. And now she's saying it's not a rule anymore.

“I …” I hesitate. “I hate that I don't have a brother who knows he's my brother. I hate that Shawn doesn't know I exist because he can't know anything. Most of all I hate how bad I feel not to love him more.”

For a second I'm worried that what I've said will hurt Mom's feelings.