Miracle on 49th Street (10 page)

T
hey were waiting for Mattie to come pick them up and take them to the Celtics-Knicks game that night at the new Garden. A Friday night game. After the game, they'd all stop for pizza and then Josh would bring them home. When Molly had asked if Sam could come along, Josh had said, “Tell the partner in crime he's always welcome.”

Sam wanted to know if “partner in crime” was going to be permanent, and Molly said it was better than the other nickname Josh had for him, which was “Sam the bad actor.”

For some reason, Molly expected Mattie to be driving. Instead, she showed up in a shiny black Town Car. When she got out of the backseat, Molly saw she was wearing the same coat as before, the same black beret.

She gestured to the car and said, “Welcome to his world. If it wasn't for him having to play the games, I worry the boy's feet would never touch the floor.”

“Is Josh already at the Garden?” Molly said.

“Drove himself over there a little while ago,” she said. “Him and his agent. Least
he
calls him an agent.”

Sam said, “What do you call him, Mattie?”

“The squirrel getting four percent,” she said.

“I take it you don't like him very much,” Molly said.

“You'll probably meet him tonight,” Mattie said. “Check out his eyes while he's talking to you. They're always looking every which way, in case somebody drops a twenty-dollar bill and he has to pounce on it.”

“Are you insane?” Bobby Fishman was saying.

“You're shouting at me again,” Josh said.

“Not at you,” Bobby said. “I am just shouting in general. General managers I shout at. Owners I shout at. Sportswriters? I live to shout at them. But shout at a client? Never. On my mother's grave.”

“Your mother lives in Boca Raton and plays golf four days a week,” Josh said.

“It's an expression,” Bobby said.

“You called me insane.”

“Only because you are.”

Bobby Fishman was in the passenger seat of the Navigator, holding his BlackBerry in his hand as if it were a grenade he thought might go off at any second.

“I'm not insane,” Josh said.

“Crazy people never think they are.”

“I can't be nice to this kid?”

“Nice is sending her an autographed picture and tickets to the game,” Bobby said. “You want to be nice? Buy her a pony. But please don't start bringing a kid around, one who may or may not be your daughter. You think the press might find a story like that interesting? Because I sort of do.”

He looked out his window. “Where are we, by the way? Providence?”

“Don't worry about it,” Josh said.

“You're absolutely right,” Bobby said. “I have enough to worry about with Little Miss Marker.”

“Who?”

“Never mind, you're too young,” Bobby said.

“Her name is Molly.”

“Before you do another thing with her, you and Little Miss Molly are taking one of those tests.”

“We can't.”

“Hello?” Bobby said into his BlackBerry now, like it was a microphone. “Earth to Josh. Of course you can take one of those tests. You go to the hospital, they take a little blood or hair or saliva or whatever they do, and then we eliminate the guesswork.”

“We can't,” Josh said. “At least not yet.”

“And this is because?”

“Because Molly doesn't want us to.”

“Oh,” Bobby said, “of course, that explains everything. I mean, why wouldn't we want the twelve-year-old to call the shots here?”

“She wants me to believe her on my own,” Josh said.

“Just to be sporting, let me ask you a question,” Bobby said. “
Do
you believe her?”

Josh was surprised at how easily the word came out of him. Like he was on the court. Not thinking. Just reacting.

“No,” he said to Bobby Fishman.

“No?”

Josh said, “I don't believe Jen—that's her mom, the one who died—would have kept this from me all these years. And when she found out she was dying, I can't believe she thought I was that much of a loser that she couldn't even tell me then.”

“I could have told her,” Bobby said. “You don't even lose at cards.”

“I mean a loser as a guy,” Josh said. “As a person. The guy she was in love with once, even if she's the one who dumped me.”

“
She
dumped
you
?”

Josh Cameron turned the radio back on. Loud. “Long story,” he said. “And you know how you hate long stories.”

“So let me get this straight,” Bobby Fishman said. He was happy now. He could talk in his normal loud voice, above the music. “You don't believe her, but you're going to hang around with her anyway?”

“She's a nice kid,” he said, “for a kid.”

“Whether she's yours or not.”

“Whether she's mine or not,” Josh Cameron said. “I'd only say this to you. But even if she is mine, I've got no place for her in my life.”

“But you're going to keep her around until…?” Bobby Fishman let his voice disappear through his open window.

“Until,” Josh said, “I can find a nice way to get rid of her.”

Bobby Fishman smiled.

“I love it when you think like a big-time sports agent,” he said.

K
immy hardly ever took the same bus home that Molly and Sam did, because of ballet. But she was with them today because her ballet teacher, the one trying to make the Prescott School version of
The Nutcracker
look at least something like the real one, had called in sick.

Now she was trying to act excited that Molly and Sam were getting to go up to Waltham for the Celtics practice.

“There's something I'm not getting,” Kimmy said.

“Out of the many, many things you don't get?” Sam said from the seat behind her.

He couldn't help himself when Kimmy was around.

“Wasn't talking to you,” she said.

“Just making an observation,” Sam said.

“If you say mean things to me, I'll say them back to you,” Kimmy said.

“I'm pretty sure you've run out of things to say about the way I look,” Sam said. “I just look at it as somebody shooting spitballs at a battleship.”

“Well,” Kimmy said, “you
are
as wide as Old Ironsides—”

Sam grabbed his chest with both hands, as if he'd been shot. “Oh no,” he said, looking down in fake horror, “I'm hit.”

“I was trying to have a conversation with Molly,” Kimmy said.

“Okay,” Molly said. “What don't you get?”

“I don't get how, in a couple of weeks, you've gone from nowhere to being his best friend.”

She didn't even have to say who she was talking about. By now Kimmy was obsessed with Josh and his relationship with Molly.

“I guess he just feels sorry for me,” Molly said. “I'm sure he'll get tired of having me around. Look how fast
you
got tired of having me around.”

The bus pulled up at the bottom of Mount Vernon Street. They all got out.

“You know I'm not tired of having you around,” Kimmy said. “And, besides, we're not talking about me. We're talking about Josh Cameron.”

“All Josh,” Sam said, “all the time.”

Kimmy ignored him.

“This is like one of those music videos,” she said. “Like the one my mom made me watch one time on MTV. The one where Bruce Springsteen picked out the girl from
Friends
to dance with him on the stage.”

“Courteney Cox,” Sam said. “‘Dancing in the Dark.'”

Kimmy stared at him. Molly said, “Don't even ask why he knows. He just knows everything.”

Kimmy walked ahead of them up the hill.

“One of these days,” she said over her shoulder, “I will, too.”

Just loud enough for Molly to hear, Sam Bloom said, “There's something to live for.”

Mattie drove Molly and Sam up to the Sports Authority Training Center, walked them through the lobby and into the gym, and said that she had some shopping to do and Josh would drive them back to the city.

“He doesn't mind?” Molly said.

“Not after I told him he didn't mind,” Mattie said, and left.

As soon as L. J. Brown, who'd pretty much adopted Molly from the first day she showed up at practice, spotted her walking into the gym, he called out, “Well, if it isn't Miss Miss.”

The Celtics had just stopped scrimmaging and were taking a water break.

Molly, wearing the Celtics cap L.J. had given her turned backward on her head, came right back at him, because she knew that's what he expected her to do.

“Should a thirty-nine-percent shooter really be using the word
miss
twice in the same sentence?” she said as he reached down to give her a high-five.

L.J. laughed his high-pitched laugh, the one that made him sound like he was wheezing. Then he made a shooting motion with his right hand. “Miss Miss,” he said, “from downtown.”

The Celtics coach, Paul Gubbins, came over and gave a little pull on the bill of Molly's cap. “Stop distracting my players,” he said. “You know how easy that is.”

“Hey, Coach,” Molly said.

“Hey, kiddo.”

Molly knew already that no matter what was happening with the Celtics, in a game or at practice, Coach Gubbins was the calmest one of all of them, somehow in control of everything without ever raising his voice or blowing a whistle. Josh said one time over pizza that the only time Paul Gubbins ever stood up during a game was if a couple of players were blocking his view.

He was another one who had been nice to Molly from her first day at practice. Now he called her his assistant coach in charge of “quality control.” When he gave her the title, she said, “Wouldn't the head coach be in charge of quality control?”

“Only when they let me,” he'd said.

“When they let you?”

“Molly,” he said, “there's a reason why I've lasted as long as I have, and the reason is that I figured out a long time ago that these guys
allow
me to coach them.”

When the water break was over, the Celtics went back to allowing him to coach them, and Sam and Molly took their usual places, sitting on one of the basket supports. As usual, Josh was so focused on basketball that he didn't even seem to notice them.

That was all right with Molly. She was as thrilled watching them practice up close this way as she was watching games from Josh's seats behind the Celtics bench. And it wasn't just watching Josh. It was L.J. and Nick Tutts and Terry Thompson—the size of them and the way they could move, at least when the bigger guys weren't pounding on each other under the basket. It was their grace, the way they could make basketball look almost beautiful.

This
was ballet, she thought.

Coach Gubbins sat with his legs crossed and watched while Josh played the role of coach on the floor. The slaps and grunts and squeak of the new sneakers in the echoing gym were like music.

And for the first time since her mom had died, Molly felt like she was a part of something. Like some big, crazy family. She didn't feel like that with the Evanses and knew she probably never would. She didn't feel that way at school, or even when she was visiting the Blooms, as much as Mrs. Bloom tried to make Molly feel at home.

She certainly wasn't close to feeling that way at Josh's, even with Mattie around.

Yet somehow she felt that way at Celtics practice, even with the players who acted embarrassed because Molly had to keep reminding them what her name was.

She didn't know where all this was going, mostly because she didn't know where things with Josh and her were going.

What she knew was this: She sure liked being a Boston Celtic.

As soon as practice was over, L.J. grabbed her hand and pulled her off the basket support.

“Okay, Miss Miss,” he said, “let's see how much game you brought here with you today.”

“Can Sam play, too?” she said.

“No, no, no,” Sam said. “You guys go ahead. I wouldn't want to show you up.”

Molly could swear Sam was starting to sweat, even thinking about playing a little ball with her and L.J.

“You're sure?” she said.

“I'll just sit here and think deep thoughts,” he said.

“Can't you do both?” L.J. said, joking with him.

“Of course I
can,
” Sam said. “I just don't choose to.”

Sometimes Molly wasn't sure how much Sam really loved sports, even with all the sports information he had inside his amazing head. But he knew how much Molly loved coming to practice, how much she missed it when the Celtics went out of town for a couple of days. So he came with her when he could.

Sam being Sam.

Molly dribbled around a little bit, even put the ball behind her back because she knew that would get a rise out of L.J.

He whistled and said, “You know what they say?”

“What do they say?”

“You go, girl.”

Molly drove to the basket and laid the ball in. When she dribbled back up to the top of the key, L.J. came over to guard her, even if they both knew he was just out there as a kind of prop to make her look good. And feel good. So Molly gave him a little head fake. L.J. let her get a step on him. When she got inside, not even knowing what she was doing, she leaned her left shoulder into him, catching him in his hip, stepped back, and made what passed for her jump shot, even though she didn't jump, mostly just got the ball on her right shoulder and shoved it toward the basket.

“Well, now, look at Miss Miss and her moves,” he said, “creating space for herself and everything. Just like Josh Cameron, star of stars.”

Molly looked over to see if Josh had seen her shot. Or was even paying attention to her and L.J. But his back was to her. The Celtics had a policy that the writers and TV people and radio people couldn't come into the gym until practice was over. So they had filed in now, like kids on a fire drill. As usual, they had gone right to Josh, surrounding him to the point where Molly could only see the back of his head in the center of the television lights that seemed to follow him everywhere.

“Okay,” L.J. said, “we got time for a quick game of H-O-R-S-E.”

Molly looked at him with her serious face.

“Am I allowed to dunk?” she said.

L.J. gave her his
he-he-he
laugh and told her she could have first shot and the rules were the same as always. No dunking from him, no left-handed shots, no going so far outside she couldn't reach the basket.

And he had to try.

After about fifteen minutes, during which Molly felt like she couldn't miss any of the simple shots she was taking, the game was even at H-O-R-S to H-O-R-S. Some of the Celtics players, the ones who had been doing some extra shooting at the other end of the court, came down to watch.

Nick Tutts said, “Um, L.J.?”

“What up?”

“If you lose, it will only be a secret between all of us and everybody at Molly's school. Isn't that right, Molly?”

Molly nodded.

“That ain't right,” L.J. said. “You know the deal, right, Miss Miss?”

“No deals at game point,” Molly said, and the rest of the Celtics hooted.

L.J. pointed a finger at her and said, “What happens in Waltham stays in Waltham.”

Molly flipped him the ball. “Your shot, big fella.” L.J. missed a turnaround jumper in the lane. Molly went to the free-throw line, which was about as far away from the basket as she could get, and threw her longest shot at the basket.

Swish.

Now the Celtics sitting on the floor at half-court stomped their feet and clapped and whistled.

L.J. missed.

But because it was game point, he got to shoot again. Molly passed him the ball. He went through his whole foul-shooting routine, bounced the ball a couple of times.

Made it.

Game still on.

Now Molly decided to try a shot she'd been practicing, mostly because it was one of Josh's signature shots, one he said he'd copied from Bob Cousy, who he told sportswriters would always be the greatest Celtics point guard of them all. It was a shot he could only shoot when he was open. The motion for it always made Molly think of somebody pushing a friend over a fence. Josh would stop short of whoever was guarding him, and his left knee would go up in the air at the same time the ball did in his right hand.

His right foot would never leave the ground.

Molly tried to do it exactly that way now.

Made it.

More cheers from the Celtics.

“Aw, man, I hate that dinky old-school stuff,” L.J. said.

And missed.

Then he missed again.

Ball game.

L.J. laid down on his back, kicked his legs wildly in the air, then went completely still. “Take me now, Lord,” he said. “I done lost to a girl.”

“Hey, watch it there,” Molly said.

She looked over again to where Josh was with the reporters. He still had his back turned. Even the commotion L.J. was causing, making the end of practice sound more like recess, didn't get him to turn around.

Molly went back and sat with Sam until Josh was finished answering the reporters' questions.

When he finally came over, he said, “You guys have fun?”

Molly almost said, Like you care.

But didn't.

“It was great,” Molly said.

Josh said, “What was going on with L.J. when he was making so much noise? I could barely hear the questions those guys were asking, even if they were the same ones they ask me every day.”

Molly tried to tell him about the H-O-R-S-E game as fast as she could, but knew as soon as she started that it was like trying to tell somebody about some neat TV show they'd missed, or some movie.