Pull (19 page)

I stand then, gingerly hitch my pants up. Now that the process of leaving has started, I hurry. I throw on my sweater and snatch up my keys. There's probably still some time before her dad gets home, but I don't want to risk it. It's not like the guy trusts me that much to begin with. But before I hit the road I turn to her one last time. “Lia, I'd stay all night if I could,” I say. And to my own surprise, I realize I truly mean it.

24.

Saturday's a new day. I wake up early. The first thing on my mind is Lia. All those images from last night rushing back. I pound out a quick text, but then delete it. She's into me, but any girl gets a 7:00 a.m. text from a guy and they'll think he's creeping pretty hard.

I slip on an old hand-me-down sweatshirt from Uncle Kid, some vintage Pacers gear from those Reggie Miller teams in the 90s. It's frayed at the wrists and has a hole in the belly—it's about the most comfortable Saturday morning gear that's ever existed.

Dad's already up. As soon as he sees me, he offers to sling together some breakfast. I tell him I got it and fix myself some cereal and toast. We talk softly to each other—Jayson and Mom are still asleep. It's nothing—the team, the weather, school. I don't dare bring up Uncle Kid.

Then there's shouting from the street. I can't make out the exact words, but it pierces the Saturday morning calm. If it was a weekend
night, maybe shouting would be expected. But this time of day? Dad and I are drawn to the window.

Standing next to an idling SUV, their breath making puffs in the air as they shout, stand JaQuentin Peggs and his tatted up partner. Despite the cold, they're only in sweatshirts and jeans.

Now that I'm next to the window, I can make out they're yelling.

“I know you can hear me, you little bitch!” JaQuentin shouts. “You best come out here and face me like a man!”

Then it's his boy shouting. “You gonna get fucked up either way. Might as well deal with it.”

I turn my head just a sliver toward Dad. His eyebrows are pinched down in concern. Like I said, noise like this isn't news, but if it's happening this early in the morning then they must be seriously worked up. When I look again though, I see JaQuentin stagger as he hollers, like the very force of his anger has him off balance. Then his boy whispers something to him and they both nearly double over laughing. They're lit up. And it's clear now that they're not up early—they're still out from last night.

Now it's Dad who turns to me. “They're shouting at Wes' house, aren't they?” he asks.

I just nod.

“Don't take this the wrong way, Derrick, but that”—he jabs his index finger at the window pane—“is precisely why we stopped you from hanging with Wes.”

“I understand,” I say. That scene out the window isn't exactly encouraging. Then again, maybe it means Wes needs someone in his corner more than ever. Maybe JaQuentin is just messing around, or
maybe he's so wasted he thinks he's somewhere else. But I doubt it. And the truth is I doubt I could do much to help Wes if it came to it. My bare hands against what Peggs and his boy are probably packing in his ride? That's not exactly a fair fight.

A police car rolls up to the corner, and that's that. The officer isn't going to make a thing about it, but he pauses at the intersection just to let JaQuentin and his friend know they have eyes on them. JaQuentin whistles and then shouts one last unintelligible thing, and the two retreat to the S.U.V. The officer idles until they pull out all nice and easy.

Before I even ask, Dad answers. “You can go check on him if you want,” he says. “But that's it. Don't get involved in that mess.”

I sling on my puffy coat and head down the street. Maybe it's that ache in my leg and the way it seems to just be hanging there from the knee down, but the whole street seems charged with danger. It's not even half a block to Wes' house, but I keep checking over my shoulder like maybe Peggs will come screeching back, all business. When I finally knock on Wes' door, the sound seems to echo like a gunshot.

There's motion behind the door, but it doesn't open. “Wes, it's me!” I shout. “Open up!”

The front curtain moves. I see Wes peeking out. Then the bolt flips and he opens the door. He waves me in like I should hurry, then slams the door behind me and turns the bolt again.

As soon as my eyes adjust to the darkness inside, I realize things have gone all kinds of haywire. There's no sign of his mom, though the door to her room is closed. It looks like Wes has been fending for himself for a while. The living room is all fast food wrappers and pizza boxes, the mess knee deep in some spots. The television is busted, a
crack jagging like a lightning bolt down the screen. The kitchen table has become a depository for dirty laundry. That's a real bad sign for someone like Wes, who—no matter what else is going down—has always taken pride in looking fresh. The air's thick with the stink of alcohol. When I take a few steps toward the kitchen, I can see why. The counters are lined with brown bottles, with more piled in the sink.

I hang my head. It's been clear since we were little that Wes' mom was just hanging on, especially after his dad split. And now, obviously, she's let go. No way Wes drained those bottles on his own. Even for a grown woman, it's evidence of a months-long binge.

It settles on me like all that winter snow gathering on the branches of a tree. I clear a spot between pizza boxes on the couch and sit. All this time, Wes needed me.

“'Sup, D?” Wes asks. Now that we're safely inside he's resumed his tough posturing. He stands while I sit, hands on his hips like he's impatient to be getting somewhere.

“Wes,” I say, but then just trail off. I gesture toward the chaos around us.

“What?” he says. Then he laughs. “Yeah, I should clean a little. But what's got you knocking on a brother's door so early?”

I push myself from the couch and stand. Even that makes him take a step back. For all his bad-ass act, any sudden move throws him. But I'm not trying to intimidate him. I just want him to know it's time to stop fooling. “Come on, Wes. Don't act like that. You don't think I could hear JaQuentin and what's-his-name from all the way down the street?”

Wes shrugs it off. “Q and Flake? They just messin'.”

Q and Flake?
He talks about them like they're just any old guys from Marion East. And
Flake
? I know a crew name when I hear one.

“Don't,” I say. “Just don't. If they're just fooling around, then how come you're hiding in here like there's a S.W.A.T. team outside?”

“Who's hiding?” Wes says, his voice rising. “It's early and I didn't want to get up. It's not like it's any of your business anyway.”

“Wes, you need some help, man.”

“Oh, and you're here to save me?” he snaps. “You gonna play hero? Shit. You don't know what you're talking about.” He almost shouts this, but he's looking away now.

“Where's your mom?” I ask. It's a cruel shot, but I've got to push the issue.

“Sleeping.” He speaks in a raspy whisper now instead of a shout.

“Things aren't right, Wes.”

“It's no big thing,” he says. He tries to laugh it off again. “At least I don't have her all up in my business like your folks are with you. Being able to do what you want isn't so bad, y'know?”

“Wes,” I say, “it's okay to tell me what's going on.”

I try to keep my voice as even as possible. I want to push, but I don't want to set him off. He stares at his living room, toward that mountain of laundry on the table, then at all those bottles.
Come on, Wes
, I think, trying to will him to bend,
just admit you need some help
.

But it's no good. He wrinkles up his face like he smells something bad. His eyes are wild with anger and fear. Then he points to the door. “Get the fuck out, D,” he says.

“Wes, man—”

“Get out!” he screams. “Get the fuck back to your house. You
think you're so much better than me. You and your parents always got your noses in the air. Nobody needs your help, D.”

His fists are clenched like he might punch me. But behind that menacing expression all I see is fear. And sadness. And those quivering eyes he had when we were ten, and he was worried we'd get caught rifling through an abandoned apartment.

So I just limp on home. You can't go back to how things were. You have to move forward.

It's like that tension in Wes' house is a virus, and I've carried it with me down the street. As soon as I walk in the door, I hear it—Dad and Jayson going full tilt.

“You do not take that tone with me or your mother,” Dad shouts.

“What?! It's just okay for you to yell, but not me?”

Rage fills Dad's face. I don't know what set this off. But when I look at Jayson, it's clear he's in no mood to back down. His face is flushed from screaming. Mom is standing behind them. She's not usually one to stand on the sidelines in a dispute, but she looks more worried than angry.

Dad takes a deep breath and tries to calm things. “Jayson, I understand why you feel that way, but that's no excuse. We've been walking on egg-shells around you for months now, but this I-don't-care attitude has got to go.”

Jayson huffs. “It's not an attitude,” he spits. “I really don't care what you two think about me.”

For the first time ever, Dad rears back his hand. He doesn't do it—he doesn't even come close to following through. But it's still
enough. Mom shouts, “Thomas, no!” And Jayson spins and huffs to his room, as indignant as if he actually got a smack—which, to be honest, he would have deserved.

Once Jayson storms past, their eyes settle on me. Both Mom and Dad look suddenly ashamed to have had me see this display. They start to mutter out apologies, but I shrug it off. I tell them I've got a lot more to worry about than this latest drama with Jayson. Which is true. Then again, as I head back to my room I remember how the noise with Wes began when he started to sneer at the world the way Jayson does these days. I take a long look at a stack of homework I should tackle before tonight's game. But I know what's more important. I walk gingerly to Jayson's door and knock.

No answer. I knock again.

“Go. A. Way.”

I test the handle. Unlocked. I'm not going to just barge in and be disrespectful, but I crack the door enough to whisper into his room. “Just me, Jayson.”

He grunts. But he doesn't tell me to back off. Finally, I hear him sigh and he says, “Come on, then.”

He's lying on his bed, turned to face the wall. It's the pose of someone who's been crying over a fresh heartbreak, but that's not Jayson's style. He's just trying to be difficult. I close the door behind me and stand in the middle of his room. It hasn't been cleaned in forever. It's like a miniature version of Wes' place, minus the empty bottles.

“What's up?” I ask, trying to be casual.

Jayson rolls over, stares at me, then shakes his head in disbelief that I asked that question. “Forget it,” he says.

Fine. I'm sick of trying to help people that don't want help. So I change the subject. I gesture toward his X-Box. “Want to hit up the sticks?”

He sneers and rolls his eyes. “No offense, but it's not really fun playing with someone who can't hang.”

It's another snide answer, but I let it go. After all, it's true—I'm about as close to Jayson's talent level on the Box as he is to mine on the deck. It's pretty clear Jayson's not going to let me break through this wall, so I turn to go. I knock a Coke can out of my way and head for the door.

“Don't be knocking stuff around in my room,” Jayson snaps.

I turn back around. Truth is, I know right where my dad was coming from when he raised his hand a few minutes ago. I don't do it though. Jayson might not want to talk, but he needs it. So I calm myself down. Take a deep breath. Tell myself that no matter what Jayson says, I'm going to meet this one head on without flinching. “Jayson,” I say, “you gotta talk to me, man.”

“I don't gotta do a damn thing,” he says.

“It's me,” I say. I spread my arms out like someone about to get a pat-down. He huffs and looks away. He mutters something under his breath, but I can't make it out. “I know Mom and Dad can get uptight,” I say. “I mean, I
know
it. So I feel what's going on with you. But, man, you've got to admit that you've been going at them pretty good for a while.”

“Yeah,” he admits. He still won't look at me.

“So?”

“So, I'm just—” He stops himself. He picks at a thread on his
blanket for a second. Then he looks at me at last. “Why you even care, D? Don't you have bigger things to worry about?”

That's not cool, but I don't let it show. “Jayson, there's no bigger thing than this.”

“Coulda fooled me,” he says. Then, maybe knowing he's laying it on too thick, he looks down again. He swings his feet out from his bed and then leaps off. He picks a few sweatshirts off the floor and wads them together. He carries them to his closet and dumps them in his hamper. Then he starts picking up more off the floor, stacking the trash in the can and piling books and magazines on his already cluttered dresser. This goes on for a full minute before he looks at me again. “You still here? Can't you see I'm busy?”

“I'm not going anywhere,” I say.

He throws a pair of jeans right back on the floor. They land with a thump, like maybe his phone was in there. He shakes his head and looks at the ceiling, like a man who just can't believe his luck. “Fine,” he says. “You really want to know?”

“Damn straight,” I say.

Jayson clears some school papers off an old beanbag that's held together with masking tape, then he flops down on it. I clear some floor space and sit, my bad leg stretched out in front of me. He looks me square in the eye and starts. “You know how hard it is to get the time of day when your older brother's an all-state baller?” It's not a question he wants me to answer, so he just plunges ahead. “I mean, it was cool for a while. Still is, I guess. Like, there's times I still get into it. The games. The hype. And, D, don't get me wrong. I want to see it happen for you. But, man, sometimes I just want it to be about me, you know? Just once.”