The Lemonade Crime (9 page)

Jessie stood up. This was supposed to have been her big moment.

"I wrote a really great closing argument," she said, pulling some index cards from her back pocket, "but I guess we don't have time for it. So I'll just say this."

She walked over to the jury box. Twelve pairs of eyes stared right back at her. Some of the jurors, like Adam and Salley, she knew well enough, but most of them she hardly knew at all. Now they were all looking at her. Everyone in the jury box was waiting to hear what she had to say.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," she began. "The facts are the facts. The money was in Evan's shorts, safely folded up in Jack's room. Scott went into Jack's room and then went running home, like a guilty crook. When Evan went upstairs, his shorts were unfolded and the money was gone. It doesn't take a genius to solve this crime. In the end, it comes down to who's telling the truth. So think of all the years you've known Evan Treski and all the years you've known Scott Spencer, and ask yourself this: Who do
you
believe?"

Jessie stuffed her index cards back in her pants pocket. She hadn't even gotten to use them. And she'd spent all that time writing a really great closing argument. This trial was nothing like what she'd thought it would be.

"Okay, done," said David. "Now, the closing argument for the defense.
Fast,
Megan."

Megan stood up and walked to the jury box. "Here's the thing," she said. "You can't convict Scott, because there's absolutely no proof. It's all just us imagining what happened. We don't know for sure, because nobody
saw
anything, and the money never turned up, so ... we just don't know. And I guess we'll never really know what happened that afternoon." Megan looked at David. "That's it," she said.

"Done!" shouted David, banging his gavel again. "Jury, make your decision!"

"My mom's here!" said Salley Knight, noticing a car parked in the parking lot.

"So's mine," said Carly Brownell.

"Jury! Huddle up!" shouted Adam. All twelve members of the jury formed a tight circle, their heads bowed together, their backs to the courtroom.

Jessie stood up, then sat down, then stood up again. She felt that dangerously bubbly feeling she sometimes got in her stomach. She started to think: If she had to throw up, where would be the best place to do it? Behind the podium? By the trees? Could she make it to a bathroom in time? She wished she could talk to Evan, but one look at him told her she'd better stay clear. His mouth was clenched so tight, it looked like he would bite through his own teeth.

"Break!" shouted Adam, clapping his hands together loudly. The jury huddle broke up, and Jessie saw Adam quickly scribble something on a slip of paper, then hand the paper to David.

"All rise to hear the verdict of the jury," said David. Everyone stood.

Jessie felt her breath catch in her throat. She tried to swallow, but it was as if the muscles in her neck were paralyzed. A picture swam into her head: standing up in front of the whole class and apologizing to Scott Spencer.

"My mom's coming over," said Carly, pointing to the parking lot. Jessie turned to see a tall woman wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap heading toward them.

"Hurry up!" said Adam.

"Okay," said David, his voice rising to a squeak. "I'm supposed to say all this official stuff, but I'll just read the verdict out loud! The verdict is—not guilty!"

"Yes!" shouted Scott Spencer, jumping in the air and double-pumping both fists over his head. "I win! Man, I cannot wait for Monday morning!"

But nobody else moved. And nobody else said a word.

Something had gone terribly wrong out here on the playground. In the shade of the elm trees, away from the scolding eyes of duty teachers and parents, the kids in 4–0 had created a court all their own and followed all the rules—but somehow come out with the wrong answer. Jessie felt it, and so did everyone else. Jessie was sure of it.

"Are we done?" asked David, holding his gavel aloft. "Jessie?"

Jessie nodded.

"This court is adjourned," David said, and hit the gavel once on the wooden block, just as Carly Brownell's mother came up alongside her daughter.

"What are you kids playing?" she asked.

"Nothing," said Carly. She picked up her book bag and headed for the parking lot with her mother. David stuffed the black robe and gavel into his brown paper bag and headed for the path. About half of the other kids followed, but the rest of the fourth-graders stayed where they were.

All of a sudden, a voice sliced through the air.

"This is
not
over!"

Evan was standing with the basketball in his hands. "You and me!" he said, poking Scott Spencer in the chest so hard, Scott took a step back. "On the court. The basketball court."

fighting words
(
),
n.
Words that are so venomous and full of malice that they cause another person to fight back physically. Fighting words are not protected as free speech under the First Amendment.

"You're on," said Scott.

Nobody bothered to pick up any of the equipment. The jump ropes, the Frisbees, the milk crate, the extra balls were all left right where they were. Instead, all the kids of 4–0 who hadn't gone home lined up on either side of the basketball court.

Evan dribbled the ball, trying to get that feeling of looseness that helped him play his best. "We'll play to seven by ones. Straight up. King's court. And you have to take it past the big crack to clear." Evan pointed to the wide crack in the blacktop that ran twenty feet from the basket. That was the line they always used to clear the ball for half-court games.

"Who's the ref?" asked Scott.

"No ref, no fouls," said Evan. "Just play. If the ball falls through the hoop, it's a point. If it doesn't, go home and cry to your mother. Okay?" Evan was practicing his crossover dribbling while he talked. He was starting to feel his rhythm. He looked at Scott standing at the top of the key. There it was, that look on Scott's face—the one that seemed to say,
Why bother? I always win.
More than anything else, Evan wanted to wipe that look off Scott Spencer's face, once and for all.

"Yeah, okay," said Scott. "But who goes first?"

"You," said Evan, shooting him a chest pass so fast that Scott didn't even have time to put his arms up. The ball hit him in the chest and fell at his feet.

Evan heard some of the kids laugh and noticed Megan crossing her arms and frowning. "Good start!" shouted Paul from the sidelines, as Scott picked up the ball and cleared it behind the line.

"Nice, Treski," said Scott. "Real nice."

Evan ran up to the clear line and got low, ready to defend.

Scott dribbled the ball, hanging behind the line. Then he faked left and drove right, blowing past Evan.

Scott was quick, but Evan was quicker. He came up from behind, and just as Scott was shooting the ball, Evan clawed it out of the air, whacking it so hard it smacked down on the blacktop. On the way, his hand smashed into Scott's face. Scott crumpled to the ground. Undefended, Evan took the easy shot and scored his first point.

"You can't do that!" said Scott. "You
mauled
me!" He sat on the blacktop, his legs sprawled, looking like he couldn't even get up.

Evan rebounded and dribbled toward the clear line. He put a hand up to his ear and pretended to concentrate hard. "Do you hear a whistle, Scott? I guess not, 'cause there isn't one.
Man up.
"

Scott jumped to his feet, and Ryan yelled out, "Faker!"

"One-nothing," called out Adam. "Evan's ball."

Evan didn't even bother to juke. He just plowed right into Scott, driving him to the blacktop before charging the basket for the easy lay-up.

"Oh, man!" shouted Ryan.

Megan shook her head. "Why even call it basketball if you're going to play like that?"

Evan watched as Scott started to get up slowly. But he had already cleared the ball at the line and was charging to the basket before Scott got on his feet. He made another easy lay-up, as pretty as a bird.

"Three-zip," shouted Adam.

"Scott," said Ryan. "C'mon, show a little backbone."

This time, when Evan started his move to the basket, Scott lunged at the ball. He stripped it from Evan's hands, but the ball went shooting out of bounds.

"Out," shouted Adam. "Evan's ball!" So Evan took it out again, and this time he faked left, right, left, so that Scott was leaning the wrong way when Evan finally made his move.

"It's basketball, Scott. Not freeze tag!" called out Kevin.

Evan slowly dribbled the ball back. Scott faced him across the line, scowling, with his hands on his hips. "None of this counts," said Scott. "This is dirt ball. This is trash. None of this counts."

"Why not?" said Evan, dribbling steadily. "You agreed. No fouls. You said okay. Right?"

He took a step past the clear line, still dribbling the ball slowly right in front of his body. Then Evan spread his hands out wide, the ball bouncing between the two of them, unprotected. "Go on, take it!"

When Scott made his move, trying to grab the ball out of the air, Evan was ready. Faster than an eagle diving, he snatched the ball back, made a spin move around Scott, and drove for the basket. He jumped as high as he could, and just barely managed to stuff the ball with both hands through the hoop.

"Slammed!" screamed Paul, doing a dance on the sidelines.

"This is gross," said Megan. "I'm going home." She picked up her mailbag and slung it over her shoulder. "Jessie, are you coming?"

"No," said Jessie in a small voice. She was sitting on the grass, her knees pulled up to her chest. "I'll stay." Megan nodded, then walked toward the parking lot. Evan noticed her leaving, but told himself,
Who cares?

"Four-nothing," said Adam. "Hey, Evan. Wrap it up, would you? I have to get home."

Evan quickly ran the score up to six-nothing with a jump shot from mid-key and a little floater right in front of the basket.

All the guys on the sideline were screaming
Shutout, shutout!,
and Evan dribbled the ball in time to their chant. He glanced at Scott. Scott was breathing so hard, he looked like he might throw up. Both his knees and one of his elbows were bloody.
He's right,
thought Evan.
This isn't basketball. It's revenge ball.

"You want the ball?" asked Evan. "Here. You can have it." He let the ball roll off the tips of his fingers so that it dribbled over to Scott. "Don't say I didn't show you mercy," said Evan as Scott picked up the ball and they swapped places, Evan switching to defense. "Go on, I'll even back off. I'll give you all the room in the world. You still can't make a basket against me."

Scott dribbled the ball slowly, and Evan could see that he was trying to come up with a strategy. There was no way he could push past Evan, because Evan had the weight, and there was no way he could speed past him, because Evan was faster. The only way Scott Spencer was going to get the drop on Evan was by tricking him. That's all Scott had, thought Evan. That's all Scott ever had.

Scott started dribbling slowly toward the basket. Evan moved into position, blocking the lane, but still giving Scott plenty of room. He kept his eyes locked on Scott's.

Suddenly, Scott's mouth dropped open. He stopped dribbling the ball and shouted, "Oh, my god! Jessie, are you okay?"

Evan spun around. Where was she? Was she on the Green Machine? Had she fallen? She was such a klutz. She could hardly walk across a room without tripping.

Evan's eyes had just caught sight of her—Jessie, sitting on the sidelines, the way she always did, her knees tucked up to her chin, watching the game intently—when he figured it out. But by then Scott was past him, driving to the basket. Evan almost got there in time to block the shot, but almost doesn't count. Scott's shot was rushed and weak. It circled the rim—and then fell through.

"I can't believe you fell for that, dog!" shouted Kevin.

"The oldest trick in the book," said Paul, shaking his head.

"Six-one," shouted Adam. "Scott's ball."

Scott took the ball and shrugged as he dribbled past Evan. "King's court, right?"

Evan had never in his life had a feeling like this. Not when he broke his leg. Not when his father left. Not even when Jessie put bugs in his lemonade. This was worse. This was stronger. This felt like everything to him.

So when Scott made for the basket, Evan came at him with both hands up, and it must have been the look on his face that made Scott freeze and lose half a step. That's all it took. Evan stripped the ball and headed for the top of the key.

He could have just dribbled to the basket and made the shot, and that would have been that. The game would have been over. And he would have won.

But no.

He wanted to make Scott pay. He wanted to make sure that when they told the story—for days, for weeks, for years—of how Scott Spencer got
crushed
on the basketball court, they would talk about the final shot that Evan Treski made.