Full Court Press (7 page)

Cody mustered his best brave laugh. “Dude, you have been to too many of those men's retreats. I'm okay, really. But thanks. Maybe you can hug Pork Chop when we get to Louie's. He'd
love
that.”

“I'm not risking getting between Porter and his pizza. Speaking of which—”

“Okay, I hear ya. Let's go eat. But hey, B—guess what? Macy stuck his pumpkin-sized head in the doorway before he got on the bus tonight. He yelled, ‘Hey, Martin, you were lucky on those free throws—I'll see you later in the season, then again at Districts! In
my
gym.'”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. I just turned around and hit a jumper from the baseline. But he
will
see me at Districts—'cuz I'm gonna be right in his face. I hope Mom can see that one, because I am going to put on a show! And I'm going to shut Macy down. He got only ten on me tonight. Next time I'm going to do all I can to hold him to single digits. I doubt that anybody's ever done that.”

Cody held the door for Blake as they left the gym. Then, before he let the door swing closed, he turned to survey the quiet court. “I don't know if you could see it or not, Mom,” he whispered. “But that one was for you.”

Chapter 6
Gut
Bucket
Greta

O
n Monday morning Cody walked down the science hall and noticed the masses parting in front of him, like the Red Sea during the Exodus. For a moment he hoped this was in response to the previous Saturday's game-winning heroics, but then reality grabbed him by the collar and shook him to his senses. He knew that Greta must be walking behind him.

It had started in the beginning of seventh grade, when Greta enrolled at Grant. On her first day, Alston and a few of his stooges noted her pimple-littered face, Salvation Army-reject clothes, limp, greasy hair, and distinctive aroma—a pungent combination of cheap cigar smoke and body odor. They quickly dubbed her “Gut-Bucket Greta,” after the containers that fishermen discarded the entrails in after cleaning fish.

At first this moniker was used behind Greta's back, but then it became more public. “Gut-Bucket Greta at three o'clock!” or “Greta alert!” someone would shout, whenever she came down a school hallway or entered the lunchroom. Then some of the students would hold their noses until she passed by.

Andy Neale, Alston's best friend, had taken the ridicule to an even lower level during Greta's second month at Grant. While trying to avoid brushing shoulders with her in the English hall, he had lunged against the wall, holding his nose and faking the dry heaves. Alston had doubled over with laughter, and soon he and several other students did their own variations of the Neale wall hug whenever Greta approached. They gagged, they pressed their bodies against lockers, and they shouted personal hygiene tips such as “Why don't you take a bath, you pig?”

By mid-seventh grade, the students' tormenting of Greta was less vocal but no less regular. As if it were their sacred duty, ninety-nine percent of the student body consistently treated Greta as if she were a leper.

Cody never participated. He caught flack for it for a while. During layup drills, Alston would yell “Greta- a-a-a-a-a!” whenever Cody short-armed a shot.

Neale razzed Cody, too, but only when Alston was around. At times, Cody felt proud of himself for refusing to join in the taunting. He wondered how he could tell Blake about the stand he was taking, because he was sure Blake would be proud of him. He hoped he could work it smoothly into a conversation, so it wouldn't seem like boasting.

On the other hand, Cody made sure he was never caught walking directly beside Greta. He would quicken his pace to pass her in the hallway, or curl off toward a drinking fountain if he saw her coming toward him.

Robyn Hart was a different story. She did much more than shoot eye-daggers at Alston and his entourage. Any time she and Greta traveled the Grant hallways at the same time, she drew right next to her, sometimes linking her hand through the crook in Greta's elbow, like a rock star's security guard. And she rotated her head, like a tank turret, daring anyone to hurl an insult or launch into a fit of sound effects.

A few times, Cody noticed her whispering into Greta's ear as they walked the gauntlet together. Greta never showed much emotion. She tucked her chin to her chest and took quick, light steps toward wherever she was going. She didn't even seem to acknowledge Robyn's presence.

During the week leading up to Grant's regular-season basketball opener, Robyn took her Greta support to a new level. Outside the gym's north doors, she stood in the middle of the lobby and delivered what came to be known as the Sermon in the Foyer, brandishing her vocabulary like a sword.

“You bunch of gutless me-too monkeys!” Robyn began, addressing the approximately thirty students plastered against either side of the walls. “
You
are the ones who make
me
wanna puke! What has Greta Hopkins ever done to any of you? How do you think she feels about coming to this school every day? Think for one minute how you would feel. You are making every day hell for her. You are hurting her. You have hurt her over and over and over again. She endured this all of last year—all year! Think about that! And now you're doing it again this year! It's time for you to stop!”

Cody approached the scene midway through Robyn's sermon. He heard the word “stop” echoing in the hall and saw Robyn with her arm around Greta's shoulder.

For a moment, Robyn was silent, but Cody knew she wasn't done. She was only reloading. While Robyn prepared her next volley, the futuristic “wop” of the tardy bell filled the air, and the congregation began to stir.

“Nobody leaves!” Robyn ordered. To Cody's surprise, almost everyone stayed, perhaps more out of shock than obedience. “You have damaged this girl enough. It stops today. It's time to start acting like human beings. You can start by telling Greta that you're sorry.”

That brought a snort from Neale. Robyn whipped her head around to face him. “You have a problem with being a human being, Andrew Neale?”

Neale looked to Cody. “Hey, Martin—control your woman, would ya?”

Cody tried to will a witty yet heroic response from his mouth. He needn't have bothered.

Robyn marched toward Neale, stopping when her nose nearly touched his chin. “Why don't you control me, Andrew? You think I'm afraid of you, just because you're one of Alston's tools? That doesn't impress me.”

Neale took a step backward. “Who cares what impresses you, wench?” he said.

Cody felt Robyn's eyes on him. This was his cue to beat Neale like a kettledrum. But he felt the strength seeping from him, like the air from an inner tube with a slow leak. He sized Neale up. They were about the same size and build. Neale was pale as a mime; the only sports he played were the computer variety. His jaw was definitely his strongest muscle. But still—

Cody took a tentative step toward his potential opponent. Who was he supposed to be in a case like this, long-suffering brother Joseph, or jawbone-wielding Philistine slayer Samson? “Hey—” he began.

Neale spun around to face him, their eyes locking on each other like tractor beams.

This wouldn't be such a bad time for the second coming
, Cody thought. He waited a moment to hear a trumpet blast or some rolling thunder.

Instead, he heard a booming voice, but it wasn't the voice of the Lord. It was that of Principal Prentiss, and it was impressive in its own right.

“Did we not hear the bell, people?” he asked.

At that, the students scattered like ants. In the frenzy, Cody lost sight of Neale. He followed Robyn into the life science classroom and took his customary seat behind her. After she sat down, she twisted around in her chair. “So, Cody—were you going to defend my honor out there?”

Cody shrugged.

Robyn frowned.

Cody balled his right hand into a fist and smacked it into his left palm as hard as he could. Robyn smiled at him and then turned around as Mrs. Emmons began her scintillating lecture on the frog's digestive system.

The open Greta abuse didn't vanish completely in the days following, but roughly half of the former antagonists decided to become neutral. Alston and his gang still went through the motions, probably as much to test Robyn as to insult Greta. Robyn didn't deliver any more speeches, but she made sure to cling to the wall, plug her nose, and hold her breath—puffing out her cheeks as if she were storing plums in them—each time Alston, Neale, or any of the Alston posse passed her in the hall.

Cody's heart hammered whenever this happened.
One of these days
, he thought,
one of those guys is gonna say something really vile to Robyn, maybe even slap her or something. And then I'm gonna have to “defend her honor,” even though I don't truly know what that means.

Cody hoped that if someone retaliated against Robyn, it would be Neale or one of the weak members of Alston's mangy pack. He prayed that it wouldn't be Alston himself. Alston would turn his face into hamburger.

Meanwhile, the Raiders opened regular-season play—and made hamburger of their opponents.

In the season opener at Holy Family, Cody didn't start, but Coach Clayton put him into the game two minutes into the first quarter, after Keenan Jones schooled Brett Evans on three straight possessions.

“Martin!” Coach Clayton barked. “Next to me—now!”

Cody left his position at the end of the bench and stood eagerly in front of his coach.

“Sit!” Coach Clayton said.

Cody obeyed.

The coach coiled his arm around Cody's shoulder. “You're still my dawg, right, Martin?”

Cody smiled and nodded.

“Okay then. Get out there and take a bite outta Keenan Jones. He's killin' us.”

Cody approached the scorer's table and pointed to the number 15 on his jersey. When the ref waved him into the game, he pointed at Brett, who shook his head and trotted toward the bench.

“Good luck, Cody,” Brett said as he passed by. “KJ's even faster than last year. Watch that jab-step of his.”

Cody nodded and picked up Jones on the right wing. Not surprisingly, Mack—Holy Family's point guard—fed the ball to the team's star immediately. Jones shot Cody a quick smile, jab-stepped with his left foot, then drove right, toward the baseline.

Cody moved with him like a shadow. He got to the baseline a half second before Jones and planted his foot on it.

You're gonna have to go out of bounds or plow right over me if you want to get to the bucket this way
, Cody thought.

Frustrated, Jones picked up his dribble. He tried to head fake Cody into the air, but Cody stayed on his feet. He had seen that head fake work on Brett. Jones pivoted away from Cody, looking for help.

Unfortunately, his teammates had cleared the entire right side of the floor, expecting their captain to dominate any one-on-one matchup the Raiders threw at him. Jones had no one to pass to. Cody could see the panic in his eyes.

The referee blew a rippling blast on his whistle. “Five-second violation,” he called. “Red ball!”

On Holy Family's next possession, Young—a pear-shaped five-foot-ten center—came out to the right wing to set a pick on Cody.

“Pick left!” he heard Pork Chop shout.

Cody nodded. As he felt Young close in, he deftly stepped around the pick and cut off Jones as he drove to the basket. Again, Jones stopped his dribble, held the ball above his head, and scanned the court for help.

As Jones's eyes darted left and then right, Cody saw him relax his grip on the ball.

Like a boxer throwing a jab, Cody shot out his left hand and poked the ball free. Alston picked up the loose ball and dashed upcourt. Cody followed, about three strides behind.

“You got help behind you, T!” he shouted.

Alston angled for the middle of the lane. Mack, who had hustled back on defense, appeared to be in position to thwart Alston's drive. Alston rose toward the basket, holding the ball high over his head with his left hand, like a waiter delivering a pizza. Mack leaped to defend the shot—and appeared to be high enough to block it.

But Alston didn't shoot the ball. With a flick of his wrist, he passed it over his left shoulder, into Cody's waiting hands. With Alston screening Mack, Cody had a candy five-footer, which he banked off the backboard for the score.

As Cody headed back to play defense, Alston drew alongside him. He said only one word—“Sweet!”

Cody did his best to keep his smile from spreading all the way across his face.

For the duration of the game, Jones never released a shot without struggling to get it over, around, or under Cody's active hands.

Jones finished the game with eight points, four on free throws. Grant won, 43–29. Cody looked at the scoreboard as the final buzzer sounded and recalled that last year, Jones had scored twenty-nine on the Raiders—all by himself.