Stealing the Game (3 page)

I stared at him. He hadn’t been home in a year, probably longer. These days our relationship consisted of a Skype call about once a month. The last time he had carried his laptop around
his bedroom so I could see what the life of a law student looked like. It looked like every other dorm, but with thicker books.

“You’re not scared, are you?” he taunted now. “I’m like a hundred years older than you and haven’t played since the last time I was home. Oh yeah,
that’s when I slaughtered you fifteen to eight.”

I dropped my keys on the ground and walked onto the court.

“Man, Chris, you must have grown four inches since last time I was here. You’re nearly as tall as me.”

“What’s going on, Jax? What are you doing here? And who’s that guy you were fighting with?”

“We weren’t fighting. It was just a friendly disagreement.”

“I’ve met your friends, Jax. I don’t know him.”

“I’ve made some new friends. That’s allowed, isn’t it? Otherwise, I’d still be hanging with Marv Cooley. Remember him? Used to eat his boogers. He came to your
eighth birthday party sleepover. I thought Mom was going to throw up your cake when she saw him slurping up a slimy one at the table. Totally worth it to see that look on her face.”

I pointed to his suitcase. “What’s with the suitcase? You on semester break?”

Jax’s face turned serious. “Jeez, Chris, your brother comes home to see you, and instead of a hug, I get the third degree. You join the FBI while I was gone?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what to say. Yeah, I was glad to see him, but I could tell something was wrong with this picture.

Jax dropped the ball and grabbed me in a tight hug. I hugged back. I’d missed him more than I wanted him to know. I stepped back and said, “You put on some muscle since I last saw
you.”

“I started lifting weights. It helps relieve the tension of all that studying at my desk. Believe me, bro, law school is just as hard as they tell you it is. It’s no joke.”

He took a deep breath, as if cleansing himself of those thoughts. “We gonna play, or what?” he said. He smiled a big toothy smile full of bright sunshine and Sunday afternoon picnics
and inspirational rock ballads. When he flashed that smile, most people just nodded and did whatever he wanted. That’s one of the many reasons he was the Golden Boy.

I picked up the ball. I was no different—I did what he wanted. Not because he expected it. He didn’t. He always seemed genuinely surprised and grateful that people went along with
him. I did it because I loved and admired him and wanted to be just like him someday. Even though I knew it was impossible.

Mom and Dad wanted me to be just like him too. I’m not sure they realized that, no matter how hard I tried, it would never happen.

So, we played basketball and didn’t talk about why he was home or who his crazy friend was or why I kept seeing flashes of fear on his face when he didn’t think I was looking.

“
YOU
did
what
?!” Dad hollered. His face was red and swollen. I couldn’t remember the last time
I’d seen him this angry. Maybe when I was five and threw up into his open briefcase right before he was due in court. (Turns out orange juice and sardines aren’t a great combination for
breakfast.)

Mom was just as angry, but she expressed it by standing perfectly still and showing no emotion on her face. If a stranger saw her right then, he’d think someone was giving her a lasagna
recipe, not that her son was describing how his life had imploded.

Mom and Dad were both lawyers, and how they were acting now was pretty much how they practiced law. Dad was all passion and pacing and eye bulging and dramatic hand waving. Mom was all cool
logic and soothing tones. Dad was hot pizza burning the roof of your mouth; Mom was frozen yogurt cooling your throat.

“You’ve ruined your life!” Dad announced. “You realize that, don’t you? Everything we’ve all worked so hard for just flushed down the toilet. Why didn’t
you just throw a bomb through the window and blow us all up? That would have been kinder.”

Mom’s voice was so low I could barely hear her. “Perhaps you can explain your reasoning, Jax.”

“Yes! By all means, Jax!” Dad said, every word turbocharged with sarcasm. “Let’s hear your reasoning. I’m sure you have excellent reasons for dropping out of
Stanford, one of the most prestigious law schools in the world. A degree from which would have guaranteed you the kind of career most people would kill for.”

All eyes were on Jax.

Jax looked over at me. I was sitting on the staircase, out of the line of fire. Mom was standing in front of the leather La-Z-Boy that was referred to as “Dad’s chair.” Dad was
weaving around the family room like a hungry shark, dodging the coffee table, the floor lamp, and Mom as he tried to burn up his energy before he burst into flames.

Jax was sitting on the leather sofa, one arm stretched along the back, one ankle on top of the other knee, looking as relaxed as if he were watching
The Simpsons
. I knew that
expression. He would have grinned at me, but he knew that would send Dad rocketing through the roof and into outer space. Stuff didn’t affect Jax the way it did normal people. He had some
sort of internal off switch that allowed him to always look confident and in control. I envied that most of all. Which is why I had been so surprised to see those moments of fear at the park.

“Dad,” Jax finally said, “you’re overreacting. My life isn’t ruined.”

“Right. I forgot about all those career opportunities at Taco Bell. ‘Would you like sauce with that chalupa, sir?’”

“It’s just a small road bump. It’ll all work itself out.” Jax smiled as if he’d already seen the future, when he was sitting in the White House, running the
country. “And don’t knock the chalupa. They’re delicious with hot sauce.”

Dad’s face turned an even brighter red. “No time for studying, yet you seem to have plenty of time for working out,” he said, nodding at Jax’s muscular arms. Jax had
always been toned and athletic looking, but with his hoodie off I could see how much more muscle he’d put on. “Are you giving up your law career so you can try out for
American
Ninja
?”

Jax didn’t say anything.

Mom sat down on the edge of Dad’s chair. “Just tell us what happened, Jax. Why did you drop out of law school?”

Dad stopped moving and faced Jax, waiting for the answer.

The doorbell rang.

Really? Saved by the bell. Why doesn’t that ever happen to me?

Dad took a deep breath and smoothed back his hair, composing himself. “I’ll get it,” he said to Mom, who’d stood up. I think Dad was relieved to take a break from yelling
at Jax. His voice had started to go hoarse.

The three of us remaining didn’t say anything. We just stared at the entrance to the living room, waiting for our mystery guest to appear.

We were all surprised to see Dad return with Officer Marcus Rollins, my teammate Theo’s dad. He was dressed in his Tustin PD uniform, with his big black belt sagging under the weight of a
gun, handcuffs, pepper spray, and a few things I didn’t recognize.

He nodded at me. “Hey, Chris.”

I nodded back. “Hey, Mr. Rollins.”

“Marcus,” Mom said with a big smile, giving him a hug. “Is this about the mutilated bodies I’ve been burying in the backyard?” Mom had a weird sense of humor, which
she only used with her close friends. Over the years, she and Mr. Rollins had tried to get Theo and me to do stuff together, but his friends were all brainiacs and mine were jocks, so neither of us
was interested. Now that Theo was on the school basketball team, we’d gotten used to each other.

Officer Rollins chuckled. His manner and expression told me this wasn’t a serious visit.

“No. It’s the department’s policy to let the first six dead bodies slide. But if there’s a seventh, I might have to write you a ticket.”

“You guys are so morbid,” Dad said with a laugh, as if we’d all been sitting around playing a spirited game of Monopoly. “Marcus, you remember Jax?”

Jax walked over and shook Officer Rollins’s hand. It was weird to see my six-foot-one brother look up to an even taller guy.

“Good to see you again, Officer Rollins,” Jax said.

“I guess a fancy Stanford law student can call me Marcus,” Officer Rollins said.

I waited to see who would burst a blood vessel first, Mom or Dad. But both nodded happily as if Jax were still at Stanford and the world was a big, shiny golden apple.

“Hard to believe it’s the same Jax I used to carry on my shoulders.” Officer Rollins ran his hand over his bald scalp, his black skin glistening from the recessed lighting over
his head. “Back then I had the most glorious Afro. And a big ol’ mustache.” He traced above his lip, as if he expected to find the mustache there, like he’d misplaced it for
all these years. “I looked like Shaft.”

“Shaft was bald,” I said, remembering the movie I’d seen over at Roger’s house.

“Not the Samuel Jackson Shaft,” Officer Rollins said with a frown. “I’m talking about the original. Richard Roundtree.” He said the name with awe, like a priest
might say the pope’s name.

“Can you dig it?” Dad said in a weird hipster way, and the two of them laughed. Clearly this was some sort of old folks’ reference that I didn’t get.

“Wasn’t the one with Samuel Jackson R-rated?” Mom suddenly said, turning toward me like this was a cross-examination.

Really, Mom? Is now the time to have this discussion again? I’d been watching R-rated movies since I’d turned twelve. In fact, Dad took me to see a horror film that was rated R.
Oddly, Mom was okay with me seeing an R-rated movie if it had violence and language. But if it was R because of sexual content or nudity, she didn’t want me to go. Naked people, no. Hacked-up
people, okay.

“Anyway,” Officer Rollins said with a tired sigh, “the department’s been going door-to-door to warn people about the rash of burglaries we’ve had around here
lately.”

“Right,” Mom said. “We got an automated phone call.”

“Apparently, that wasn’t effective enough. We’ve had three more since the calls.”

I’d heard something about it at school. The crooks were breaking into garages and taking all they could carry.

“How are they getting into the garages?” Dad asked. “They’re all on coded remotes.”

“We don’t know yet,” Theo’s dad said. “They’ve hit a dozen homes in the area in the last three months.”

“By ‘area’ do you mean
this
neighborhood?” Mom asked.

“Not yet. But the last house was only a few blocks away, on Champion.”

Mom looked at Dad. “That’s pretty close.”

“Who do they think it is?” Dad asked. “Kids, or professionals?”

Officer Rollins shrugged. “It’s a pretty smooth operation for kids. They’ve made off with hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of property. Somebody’s going to
do some serious jail time, kid or not.”

Why was he looking at me?

He continued, “So, just be on the lookout for anything suspicious. People you don’t know driving around. You see anything, give us a call and we’ll check it out.”

Mom and Dad walked Officer Rollins to the front door.

When they were out of the room, Jax said, “Man, I go away and the place turns into a crime zone. Pretty soon we’ll have gangbangers spray-painting the mailboxes and Mafia hit men
patrolling in Best Buy.”

I smiled. I missed his sarcasm.

Then Mom and Dad reappeared and Dad said, “Let’s get back to why you dropped out of Stanford after everything your mom and I did to get you there.”

Jax took a deep breath, like he was about to dive to recover something from the bottom of the ocean. “I didn’t exactly drop out,” he said quietly. “I’m on academic
leave. It was either that or flunk out.”

“Flunk out?!”
Dad wailed. “Flunk out!” He was moving again, hands chopping the air like he was fighting off a gang of attacking ninjas.

I’ll save you from the rest of the argument. I tiptoed up the stairs while Dad continued to rant and Mom cross-examined. Then Jax got mad and
he
started to rant. Then even Mom was
ranting at both of them to stop ranting.

Rant. Rinse. Repeat.

I closed the door to my room and flopped onto my bed. My backpack was still where I’d tossed it earlier, before I had taken off to play some basketball. It held the homework I had to
finish. Algebra, Spanish, and social science.

But instead of hitting the books, I hopped off my bed, opened my bottom desk drawer, and removed the false bottom I’d made last summer, when my parents were busy moving their law office to
a bigger location. I pulled out the papers I kept hidden there and put them on my desk.

Like I said, home is where the secrets are kept. And this was my big secret.

One of them, anyway.

HERE
’
S
Dark Secret No. 1: I like to steal.

Yeah, I know it’s wrong, so don’t give me The Lecture about how stealing is a crime and morally wrong and would I want someone to steal my computer and blah, blah, blah.

When the guidance counselor at school asks me what I want to be when I grow up, I always say something like
lawyer
or
businessman
or something else she wants to hear. But in my
head I’m thinking
master criminal
.

Before you pull out your cell phone and 911 on me, here’s Dark Secret No. 2: I’ve never stolen anything. Not a pack of gum, a pencil, not even the dollar bill I found in Spanish
class last week. I gave it to the teacher, who asked the class if anyone had dropped it. Five hands shot up.

Anyway, I don’t want to be a petty thief. I see myself all dressed in black, dropping through some rich guy’s skylight, dodging infrared alarm beams, and finally grabbing some art
masterpiece worth millions that he’d bought with money made dishonestly. I’d be like Robin Hood—except I’d keep some of the money so I could have a cool beach house with
skylights. I’d give the rest to Greenpeace, because they’re trying to save whales.