Eggplant Alley (9781593731410) (36 page)

“Mud-dun, we can't play with that cruddy thing,” Icky scowled.

Manuel Rivers said, “Gimme that.”

He squeezed the ball like a lemon. The green outer membrane of filth fell away in chunks. He squeezed some more and flakes fell away and the Spaldeen turned freshly pink, good as new.

“Batter up,” Manuel Rivers said.

The gang walked onto the schoolyard, out of the long shadows, into the sunshine, onto the concrete diamond. Icky lagged behind, hands in his pockets, head down.

Manuel Rivers counted out loud. “Only six,” he said. “Roy went on and on about how you guys played with full teams. Where is everybody?”

“That was the good old days,” Fishbone said.

Manuel Rivers said, “There's gotta be more guys than this around.”

Icky shook his head. “I was just over on Summit. I didn't see nobody on the steps.”

“How about them?” Manuel Rivers said. He nodded toward four black boys reclining on a front stoop across the street. The boys were listening to music from the tinny radio.

“I don't think so,” Fishbone said, smirking.

“Why not? Let's ask them,” Manuel Rivers said.

Icky said to Nicky, “Tell this guy the way it is around here.”

Nicky turned his back on Icky and said to Manuel Rivers, “All right, let's ask them.”

Icky stepped back and said, “Flub this. I don't need the aggravation.” He thrust his hands into his pockets and strolled, muttering, off the PS 19 playground and into the shadows of Eggplant Alley.

Fishbone tucked his hands into his back pockets and shrugged. “I don't care in one case or the other. But you gotta do the asking, not me.”

Nicky and Manuel Rivers walked to the fence on Groton Avenue. They carried the gloves and the bat and the ball, clear signals of peaceful intentions. The groan of a window sliding made Nicky look up at Building B. Lester's kitchen window was open. Nicky was sure he saw nerd glasses behind the rippling lace curtain.

Nicky and Manuel Rivers hooked their elbows on the top of the fence. Manuel Rivers called to the four black boys on the stoop, “Yo. You guys wanna play?”

A short stocky boy, draped lazily on the steps, leaning way back on his elbows, snorted loudly and made a P-U face. He said, “Not interested, GI Joe.”

A boy with a magnificent Afro, his long legs stretched out on the stoop, turned his face toward his companions and then back at Manuel Rivers. The boy shrugged. He was thinking about it.

Nicky held his breath. He thought of dominoes. He thought of talking Mom and Dad into a puppy. He thought of the lacy kitchen curtains parting, two stories up. He thought of taking in a Yankee game with Dad and Lester and Mr. Allnuts. He thought
of pushing the doorbell at the Only House With Trees, stone lions smiling at him, good news written all over his face. He thought of a lanky figure in an olive uniform strolling through the courtyard in a cloud of Old Spice, duffel bag bouncing on his shoulder, face turned up to the sun, under a sky perfect for stickball, the face calling out, “Hey-lo, Eggplant Alley.”

“Come on, play,” Nicky whispered, exhaling softly.

The boy with the Afro stood. He stretched his arms over his head. The boy turned his face to the sun and said, “It's a great day for stickball, sports fans.”

The boy extended his hand. Nicky gently gave him Roy's old glove. Nicky had never seen a happy ending, but he still believed in them.