All American Boys (11 page)

“Shut up,” Guzzo said.

Paul ignored him. He had a bottle of beer in his left hand, and he held out that fist to bump knuckles with me, and I did. “What's up, Quinn?” he said. “You don't say hello anymore?” He took a swig of beer and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his T-shirt. That's when I noticed his right fist was stuffed into a bucket of ice water on the grill shelf beside him, all casual—
frigging hell, he had scabs all over his knuckles
—like nursing his wounds from Friday night right there in front of everybody at the BBQ was NBD!

“What's up?” I asked.

He tossed the empty beer bottle into a cardboard box near his feet. “Hold this,” he said, handing me a faded plastic tray. He squeezed the juice from a couple of burgers with the spatula, sending flames up and around them. “I know the O'Rileys like 'em dried out,” he said. He pressed again, charring them more. “Make sure they know which ones are theirs.” He pulled his swollen fist from the ice bucket, flexed the fingers, then stuck it back in. “Seriously, man,” he said to me. “Were you ever going to get your ass over here?”

“It's a party,” I said. “People mingle. I just got here. Jesus. What's the matter with you?”

“Nothing's the matter,” Guzzo snapped. “Why are you getting defensive?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Look,” Paul interrupted. He cut the air between us with the spatula, a drop of grease landed on my T-shirt. He pulled his wet hand from the bucket and pinched at the spot, pulling off as much of the grease as he could. “What the hell's the matter with you two?”

“Nothing,” I said, but I wasn't sure. I kept trying to read his face or Guzzo's for some sign. Still not knowing if Guzzo had said anything to Paul was starting to eat away at me. Guzzo wouldn't meet my eyes.

But Paul did. “Listen,” he said. “I'm not kidding. You guys
need to have a mind meld or something. If you keep bitching at each other like this into the season, you aren't going to play well. You're going to suck. So strap on a pair and get your shit together.”

I nodded and Guzzo did too. It was always like that—Paul'd give us marching orders and we'd march—especially with basketball.

“Way I see it,” Paul continued, “if the whole team moves off the ball more, and if you can get English to give it up more, you all have a real shot. Everyone else relies on two, maybe three players at most. You've got eight or nine solid players, right?”

“English's been working on his range,” I said. “He's going to shoot all he can. He's going to break his record from last year.”

“You
all
should,” Paul said. “That's my point.”

He started scraping burgers up off the grill and dropping them on the platter.

“They better have the fixings ready in the kitchen,” Guzzo said.

“Why don't you go find out?” Paul said. Guzzo was about to protest, but Paul spoke over him. “Seriously,” Paul said before shouting out, “Burgers up!”

Guzzo jogged ahead while I waited for Paul to slide the last burgers onto the pile. As soon as he did, I started to follow Guzzo, but Paul grabbed my arm. His blue eyes were red-rimmed and tired. “I'm going to have a few days free,” he told
me. “We should work on your footwork. We'll get a little in today. You come by after practice tomorrow too. I'll be here.”

“Yeah,” I said. But he kept holding my arm longer than he needed to until it was obviously awkward.

“You all right?” he asked. “You seem a little uptight. What's up?”

“Burgers,” I said, way too chipper. “Nobody wants them cold.”

I could feel his eyes on me as I carried them up to the kitchen, and I could still feel the pressure of his fingertips like a ring around my elbow. I made a point of eating in the living room with the guys watching the game. The game was a good distraction, a way to pay attention to something else, to try to take my mind off Paul squinting at me, his gauging me as he'd been talking to me at the grill. He'd been all smiles, all business-as-usual, and despite the swollen hand in the bucket and the shredded knuckles, he'd been waving to people across the yard like there wasn't a damn thing on his mind other than serving them their burgers.

And while I kept seeing Paul's Popeye arms at the back of Rashad's neck, nobody else seemed to be wondering about why the Galluzzos felt the sudden need for a party. No one else was talking about the fact that Paul was in the news. Instead they all yelled at the TV when the Pats blew a twenty-five-yard pass with another flag for holding. They yelled
again after the Pats recovered from a sack and, on third and eighteen, scored a touchdown. I yelled along with them. It was just easier. Guzzo came in and out of the room a few times, but it felt like he was keeping his distance from me, hovering around his brother, when Paul would come in to check on the score.

But the game wasn't distracting enough—when I tried to swallow the burger down, it felt like I had an animal trying to crawl up and out of my throat, so after a while, I wandered into the kitchen, wondering where Jill was, and I found her there fighting with her mom in the corner. They were going at it about Friday night's party, right there in front of everyone.

“I'm not kidding, young lady!” Jill's mom said, cramping a cigarette between two fingers and waving it in front of Jill. “This is serious. The Rowells are still screaming at us because of the last party. This is it; you've really blown it this time.”

“All right. All right. I got it,” Jill said, standing like she was ready to fight or run, whichever she needed. “Can we not do this here?”

Her mother leaned back and drew a big breath, as if to collect herself. “And one more thing,” she finally said. “You can't expect Paulie to just be there to save you all the time.”

“Oh my God. I
don't
.”

Mrs. Galluzzo had been halfheartedly rinsing off a few of
the now empty platters with my mother, but when she heard Paul's name, she swung around.

“You
do
,” Jill's mom continued. “And he's got bigger and better things to worry about than his little cousins screwing around.”

“You're right—he does,” Jill said under her breath, but everyone heard her.

“Hey,” Mrs. Galluzzo interrupted, her face going all tight and pissed. “You watch what you say next.” She stepped away from the sink. Everyone else in the room went quiet, and Jill had gone deep red. “You might have a little respect. Today. In my house.
To-day
!” The platter in her hand shook, and my mother put a hand on Mrs. Galluzzo's back to calm her.

“That's what I was trying to say,” Jill's mom said, stepping closer to Mrs. Galluzzo. “I mean, you know. He has an important job.” She fumbled for more words, then turned back to Jill. “See what you've done? You apologize to your aunt Rita right now.”

“I'm sorry,” Jill said automatically.

“You're always sorry,” her mom added bitterly, before sucking on her cigarette.

“Honey,” Mrs. Galluzzo said to Jill, her face softening. “Paul has a hard job, and sometimes he has to make tough decisions. All I'm saying is, please respect that, and who he is.”

“Yes,” Jill said, but she wasn't looking at Mrs. Galluzzo. She
was looking at Paul, Paul who was looking in through the screen door.

“Thanks, Ma,” he said.

“Oh, Paulie,” Mrs. Galluzzo said, whirling around. She looked like she wanted to say more, but didn't have the words for it.

And as we were all waiting to hear what she would say next, we heard something else. The TV. It was turned up so loud for the game that when there was a break, and the news anchor's voice set up the teaser for the evening news, we all heard it in the kitchen:
“Tune in tonight for the latest updates to this developing story as our experts analyze the shocking video released today of Officer Paul Galluzzo's arrest of Rashad Butler.”

Suddenly the TV went mute. Someone in the living room must have found the remote, but it didn't matter. It was too late.

The kitchen was so silent I could hear my pulse in my ears, pumping red-hot burning blood into my face. I couldn't say anything. I couldn't move. But I wasn't alone—no one did.

We might have stayed like that, frozen in time, but Mr. Galluzzo busted into the kitchen from the living room in a kind of frantic waddle, holding a spread of dirty paper plates in his hands. “Hey, m-maybe we need to get some m-more burgers going,” he sort of stuttered, more nervous than I'd
ever heard him, but he stopped short as he looked around the shocked crowd in the kitchen.

“Well, I'm not making any more right now,” Paul said from the doorway, staring back at his dad.

“Yeah. No. Yes. Of course. I just mean—”

“Look,” Paul told his dad, interrupting him. “Take it easy.” He sighed, but then he lifted his head and glanced around the kitchen through the screen door. “Let's just say it. There's going to be more of this press. It's going to look ugly. But everything's going to be just fine. This just comes with the job. I'll be all right.” He remained on the porch, but he leaned forward, his thick arms going up on either side of the door frame. “But yeah,” he added. “I do need everyone to stick by me. Especially family.”

Everyone immediately started saying how they supported him, and he nodded and smiled, but was looking past all the women to me. “You too, Quinn,” he added. “Right now, I need your ass out here on the court for a little two-on-two.”

I was so freaked out it was a frigging relief just to be given an order.

“Okay,” I said dumbly, and I swear there were a few faces in the room, including my own ma's and Mrs. Galluzzo's, who looked at me with a swelling pride, as if he'd just asked me to saddle up and join the posse on the hunt for some ruthless criminal, and I was putting down my farming tools to go
join the greater cause. I passed Jill on my way to the porch, and I tapped her elbow as I walked by. She could hold her own better than anyone I knew, but I wanted to let her know she wasn't alone, because at least Jill was strong enough to actually say what I was only thinking. Maybe everyone else at the party was nervous for Paul, but I was nervous
about
him—especially as I followed him down to the driveway.

“Two-on-two,” Paul said. “All rebounds are offensive. After a basket, you gotta make three passes before you take another shot. Got it?” He waved his thumb between Guzzo and himself. “Galluzzos against you two dumbasses.” The dumbasses were me and Dwyer, of course.

They gave us the ball first, and from the first drive, I knew it was going to be a physical game. I didn't shoot. I just dribbled and kept Paul slapping at my forearm and side. He'd taught me to dribble, a little too well. Guzzo's too big to try to take him to the hoop, but he took my bait, so I got the lane plugged with both Galluzzos and Dwyer popped out back by the top of the key. I got him the ball with a no-look pass and he made the shot.

“Get your ass in action,” Paul told his brother.

This went on for a while and the game got rougher. The score stayed close, but none of us could hope to out-rebound Guzzo, so they made more points off our missed shots than they could make on their own. Their driveway is narrow,
and the rest of the time, Paul and Guzzo bumped us until we were backed up against one of the houses on either side. But while Paul's arms were as thick as my neck, I beat him off the dribble, and twice in a row I got a foot around him and nailed fadeaway jumpers Guzzo couldn't block.

“What? You think you're English now?” Paul said to me.

“No.”

Paul put his hand in the air for us to stop. “Wait. Was that even three passes?”

“Yeah,” Dwyer said.

“You losing count,” I laughed, trying to keep it light.

But Paul didn't. We checked, and he came up all over me. If we'd had the full space of a real court, this would have made it easier to get around him, but in the driveway, he just kept bumping me back and back, until I was almost out to the sidewalk. The driveway sloped down, and I was in the street when Paul finally eased up.

“Where the hell are you going?”

I didn't answer. I just chucked the ball from the street. It wasn't a real shot, and I didn't think I could actually make it. I just wanted to watch it hit the rim and see what would happen. It hit the top of the backboard and bounced into the yard near the grill.

“What's up with that?” Guzzo yelled.

“You got to be tougher than that,” Paul said to me. “You
can't give up. I'm just trying to help you, Quinn. You got to keep your head in the game and nowhere else. You got that?”

“Man,” I said. “This isn't a game.” I brushed past him and walked up the driveway. “I'm done,” I said.

Dwyer and Guzzo started to complain, but Paul's voice rose up over theirs. “I'm just trying to help you, Quinn. Like I always have. You remember that.”

How could I forget? I collected the ball from the yard and tossed it to Dwyer, then went inside. I said a quick good-bye to Mrs. Galluzzo and told Ma I'd meet her at home, then left through the front door, taking the steps two at a time, half expecting Paul to be there, blocking my path, reminding me how many times he'd been the one working with me in that same driveway, the one cheering me on from the stands of my middle school, JV, and now varsity basketball games. The one who taught me how to angle the blade beneath my chin when I shaved. But he wasn't there. He was back under the basket with Guzzo and Dwyer, showing Dwyer how to get a leg around a man bigger than him—the same move I'd used on him moments before.