How Lamar's Bad Prank Won a Bubba-Sized Trophy (13 page)

Dad spaces on me. He's got that checked-out glaze in his eyes. I clear my throat and he checks back in.

“Anyway, when did you start liking girls, Lamar? We haven't even talked about girls yet.”

“Dad, I'm thirteen. This isn't fourth grade. You're, like, on the late show. Makeda was my woman and I lost her. She'll probably never speak to me again. I totally messed up her life.”

We sit on my bed, all talked out. I feel empty but better, but Dad looks out of it.

“Dad, did you hear what I said?”

“Yeah, I heard everything. I'm just upset that you believed I love Xavier more than you. You've gone through some serious grown-up things all by yourself. I'm sorry you didn't feel comfortable talking to me first. But I'll promise you one thing. Xavier will take his medicine every day from now on. I'll make sure of it. Go to bed, Lamar.”

He stands to leave.

I sit up. “That's it?”

“Oh no. We'll talk about this more after the meeting with the Coffin Accountability Board. I am putting you on lockdown until further notice. Don't ask me for any special privileges, mall trips, nothing. And give me that bowling pass.”

Tears come back. I open my wallet and give it to him. He clicks the light and shuts the door.

A
clap of thunder awakens me from a dream of bowling lights out at Striker's, one strike after another, in perfect rhythm, with everybody in Coffin rooting for me. I try to drift back into oblivion when a strike of lightning scares the bejeebies out of me. It's raining. Just what this town needs to remind them of my screwup.

I sit on the edge of my bed and notice the
Coffin Chronicle
at the foot of my door. I grab it and glare at the front page. I'm looking down at my handcuffs in the photo, but it's clearly me. Next to my picture, X has taken a marker and written “Superstar.” I toss it back on the floor
just as someone knocks.

“Yeah.”

It's Dad. “Lamar, get up. You're going to be late for your meeting.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dang. How could I forget about those accountability people? What are they going to do to me? Will they send me away?

I get out of bed, take a quick shower, dress in my church clothes, and groom my fro until it's round and perfect. I spray on a little cologne but not too much. My teeth are pearly white and I practice looking innocent and saying “I'm sorry” in the mirror.

As Dad drives down Eighth Avenue, he schools me on how to act and what to say and what not to say. Just as I settle in for what I'm thinking is going to be a long ride, he pulls into the library parking lot.

“What are we doing here?”

He turns off the ignition and opens his door. “This is where the Accountability Board meets. Get moving so we're not late.”

We walk to a room in the back of the library and sign in.

The place is packed with adults. Once we take a seat, everybody in the room does the same. A woman with short white hair calls my name.

“Yes, ma'am?”

She shakes my hand. “I'm Lenora Grimms, the moderator for this meeting and a member of the Coffin Community Accountability Board. These other people are business owners and leaders in our community who also volunteer as board members. Okay, Lamar, it is our understanding that your family has declined the services of an attorney. Whom have you brought with you for this meeting?”

“My dad, Isaac Washington.”

“Welcome, Mr. Washington. Let's begin.”

Ms. Grimms reads the charges against me and states why the Community Accountability Board is involved. The committee members ask me why I pulled the alarm and how I feel now. I'm totally embarrassed answering them, but I stand and tell them the truth.

“I pulled the alarm because I had too much drama going on and I couldn't handle it. The last straw came when my brother, Xavier, hit me. I had an opportunity to get even with him, so I did.”

“And what do you think about the alarm incident now?” asks Ms. Grimms.

“I wish I had done something different, like scrub the toilet with his toothbrush and then put it back in the holder.”

Two board members fake coughs. I know
they're trying to hold back big globs of laugh-out-loud. I'm finished, so I take my seat.

Ms. Grimms writes on her tablet and then turns to me.

“Lamar, what do you think would be a
fair
punishment?”

Dad lets out a big sigh and turns his face toward the door. He doesn't believe in allowing kids to pick their consequences. I shrug and try to sound responsible.

“I don't know. I guess I should have to help fix the damages, if there were any.”

“There were,” says Ms. Grimms.

A board member raises his hand, and Ms. Grimms points to him. “Yes, please stand, Mr. Simpson. You have the floor.”

“Hello, Lamar, I'm John Simpson. I own the dry cleaning service on Twelfth Street. I was at the game when you pulled the alarm. I think you should be ordered to help clean up the YMCA. Then you can understand the magnitude of your actions. That's all I have to say.”

Ms. Grimms stands. “Anyone else?”

I cut my eyes left to right. All hands stay down.

“Lamar, you and your father may leave the room while the board finalizes their decision. We'll come get you when we're finished.”

Dad and I stand outside the meeting room door, in silence, for what feels like a year but is only ten minutes. The door opens and Ms. Grimms invites us back in. We take our seats. My heart pounds in my chest. Ms. Grimms hands me a piece of paper.

“Lamar Washington, we hereby order you to assist in the restoration of Coffin's YMCA and pay a monetary fine in the amount of two hundred dollars. I have phoned the judge and conveyed our recommendation, and he has approved it.”

Dad freaks. They're speaking in his native tongue of Wallet, and he's not going to wait for Ms. Grimms to give him the floor. He stands and waves his hands like a madman.

“Excuse me! Did you say two hundred dollars? I don't have that kind of money.”

Ms. Grimms stays calm. “It's not your problem, Mr. Washington. It's Lamar's.”

Dad takes his seat and puts an arm around my chair.

Ms. Grimms continues. “Lamar, you'll have six months from today to pay your fine, and tomorrow you will report to the YMCA to begin your community service. On behalf of the Coffin Community Accountability Board, let me say that we hope this is the last time we meet under these circumstances. The people in this room care and
believe you can make a change for the better. If no one has anything further to add, this meeting is adjourned.”

In the car, Dad gives me the silent treatment again. As soon as he pulls up to the house, I go to my room and climb back into the bed. I just want everything and everybody to go away and leave me alone.

The phone rings. Dad tells X not to answer it. It keeps ringing and ringing. He must have unplugged the answering machine. Finally, I hear Dad answer the phone and tell the caller I've been punished and they need to get over it. That's followed by a slam-down of the receiver.

Someone knocks.

“Yeah.”

“Lamar, come eat. I need to talk to you and Xavier.”

If I walk any slower I'll be moving backward. But I make it to the table. Dad has an angry expression on his face. X looks nervous. Dad bangs the table with his fist and I chump-jump.

“I want this situation fixed. You are brothers, and I expect you to start acting like brothers. Because if you don't, I'm going to continue to strip away the things that are the most important to you until you figure it out. And if that means I have to strip you down until you have nothing left
but each other, then so be it.”

When he gets through forking out new chores, I want to scream. He hands me my equipment and sends Xavier to the garage to get his.

It's tough being the L-Train with a pink feather duster hanging from your caboose. I'm Molly Maid and Mr. Clean all wrapped into one dusty chump. I've got everybody's chores inside the house until next Tuesday. Bathrooms, bedrooms, every room is now my job.

Xavier's got everything outside. He has to rake, water Mom's garden, and mow the lawn. Plus I overheard Dad's private conversation with Xavier. Dad's voice rang off every wall in X's room. But when his voice cracked, and he told X that what he was about to do hurt him just as much as it was going to hurt X, I knew my brother was in prime-time trouble.

Dad confiscated his basketball and banned him from playing in the YMCA makeup game. X went ballistic but quickly got a clue. Since it's raining, Dad is making him stay in his room and study algebra.

I wrap a bandana around my fro to keep the dust out as I feather-beat Dad's bedroom furniture. With this bottle of Formula 409 clipped to my belt, I could model for
Janitors-R-Us
magazine.

While cleaning Dad's bathroom, I think about
my boy. I bet he had a terrible time at Holiday World. Maybe he didn't go at all. I'm going to sneak a call to him. I owe him a major apology. I've got to make that up to him.

After dinner Dad goes in his room. I hide the phone under my shirt and stroll to my bedroom to call Sergio. I dial the number and wait.

He answers. “Hello?”

“Sergio?”

“What do you want, Lamar?”

“I needed to talk to you about something, bro.”

After a short silence, he uses four words to break me.

“I ain't your bro.”

Click.

I still have the receiver in my hand. I'm listening to the dial tone buzzing in my ear. He dissed me. Sergio left me to talk to Mr. Buzz.

Maybe if I can just explain myself to Makeda, she'll forgive me. I dial her number. My left knee bobs up and down as her phone rings.

“Phillips residence.”

“May I speak to Makeda?”

“Who's calling?”

Uh-oh. “Hello, Mrs. Phillips. This is Lamar. I just wanted to apologize to her.”

I hear her call Makeda to the telephone. I also hear Makeda's response.

“Tell him I don't want to talk to him anymore.”

“Lamar…”

“It's okay, Mrs. Phillips. I heard her. Thanks anyway. Good-bye.”

Life-sized posters of Bubba, Usher, and Beyoncé cover my walls. They're staring at me as if they know I messed up and probably just lost my girl. Even when I turn away, I can feel them deadeyeing me.

“What are you looking at!”

Holy crackers and cream cheese, I'm talking to posters. I've got to get out of here.

I shuffle to the kitchen, start the dishwasher, then move to the living room. As I dust above the mantel, I consider knocking all of Xavier's trophies over. A twinge in my stomach freezes me. As I wait for the pain to pass, Xavier's trophies are all in my face. I'm eye level with the inscriptions and dates on the little gold plates on the bases.

I remember when he got this little trophy in fifth grade for making thirty straight free throws. And this one's for the best three-point percentage on his middle school team. These two are from his last year of middle school, when he crushed the school records in points scored and assists.

But this monster trophy is the one he got after his first season on junior varsity. He was the youngest guy to make the state all-star team. And
the team named him MVP. As I push to my tiptoes to dust this trophy, the absolute worst thought becomes clear and the feather duster falls from my hand. I remove the bandana from my head.

I didn't just pull a fire alarm. I didn't just pull a stupid prank. I pulled the plug on my brother's dream and completely ruined his life.

Thanks to me, there may not be any more basketball trophies for X. Xavier the Basketball Savior will just be some tall freak with shame in his game because he can't pass algebra. And if he's telling the truth about the scouts not coming back, my brother's stuck in Coffin, working at the local grocery store or something, with no chance of ever getting out.

All because I pulled the fire alarm.

My shoulders slump in disgrace as I get my head around what I've done to him. An apology is weak and won't fix a thing. No wonder he hates me.

Sergio's right. I messed up everything.

E
arly Thursday morning, I get my chores done and head to the Y. Ms. Ledbetter is out in her garden. She looks up at me, shakes her head, then goes back to gardening.

Ms. Gibson is about to sit in her rocker when I pass. She frowns when she sees me but doesn't speak. I've always wanted them to keep their mouths closed, but not this way.

Five minutes later, I'm standing in front of the YMCA. A car pulls into the parking lot. It's Mason and Greg. Two other guys get out of the backseat. They all walk toward me with lunch pails in their hands and rubber boots on their feet. I hear
my name and the words
fire alarm
before they reach me.

“Good morning, Lamar,” says Mason.

“Good morning.”

“Hi, Lamar,” says Greg.

“Hey.”

The other two guys don't speak. Mason unlocks the front doors. Water and heat spill out from inside the building. Mason leaves the doors propped open.

“Lamar, follow me to the back. I'll get you a mop and a bucket so you can get started.”

Mason leads me past the computer room and around the corner where I pulled the alarm. My chest tightens as I get closer. He unlocks a door and pulls out a mop, a bucket, and a hall barrier to block water from the other halls. He hands me the mop and bucket.

“You're familiar with this hall, so you can start here. Mop up the water, then squeeze the water out into the bucket. Once the bucket's full, dump the water in the sink in that room where I got the mop. Then start over again. Any questions?”

“No, sir.”

Mason puts his hand on my shoulder. “I'll be back to check on you later.”

I look him in the eye. “I'm sorry. I just wanted to tell you that.”

His eyebrows rise. “I bet you are, kid. And you're lucky, too. That Jenks boy got six months in boot camp for stealing those laptops. I showed the surveillance tape to the judge and Jenks's attorney did a plea bargain.”

I can barely breathe. “Six months? Dang.”

 

I've filled my bucket five times with water and emptied it, and I'm still in the same hallway. The more I try to avoid looking at the fire alarm, the more I see it.

I buy a Coke and some cheese crackers out of the machine. I didn't bring a lunch, since I'll only be here until noon, but I'm starving. I've got fifteen minutes until I can go home and start my other job as Holly Housecleaner.

I finally manage to mop the water to the end of the hall. It's noon, and my arms are cooked spaghetti. My Jordans are soaked again. I find Mason and the other guys in the gym.

“Uh, it's noon and I have to go,” I say.

Mason nods. “Sure. See you tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.”

I walk to the front entrance and hear them snickering. I won't turn around. I won't.

As I pass two men on the sidewalk, they do double takes. I walk faster. Colorful dots of confetti line the streets near the Y.
GO COFFIN YMCA
! signs
lie broken in half on top of trash cans throughout the neighborhood. A ripped good-luck banner dangles from a telephone pole. I walk with my head down. Maybe I didn't steal any laptops, but by the looks of this town, I might have snatched something even more valuable.

I'm at the corner between Makeda's house and Striker's. She wouldn't talk to me last night. Maybe she wants an apology in person. I pick up my pace at the thought of seeing her. I push past the soccer fields but cut my eyes to the hole in the chain-link fence. Soon I'm at the sidewalk that leads to her house.

Her grandma sits on the porch. She waves and I wave back.

“Come on up here,” she says, signaling me to join her on the porch.

I'm halfway there when Makeda appears at the screen door. I stop and wait as my heart thumps hard, like too much bass in car speakers. My girl steps outside, and I can't wait to tell her I'm sorry. Just as I restart my walk, Makeda takes her grandma's hand, leads her inside, and shuts the door.

I'm blinking a thousand times a second. I will not cry. Forget about her. She hates me.

I run to Striker's parking lot. It's times like this
when Striker's would help me. I'd roll a few games and get my head on straight.

But I can't go into Striker's.

On top of everything else, I'm wheezing again. I snatch my inhaler from my pocket. My first instinct is to throw it as far as I can. But that won't make my asthma go away. I take a puff and sit on the curb. Someone opens the door and walks out. For a quick moment, I can hear the sounds of people bowling and having fun inside.

Look at me. I slam my brainless brother for his below-sea-level grades. I slam Sergio for kickin' it with a girl who uses him for money. Well, ladies and gentlemen, I take great disappointment in introducing Lamar Washington, hands down, no questions asked, the dumbest sucker ever.

My wheezing stops, so I head home. On my way, I pass two big men. They say something about the Y. I don't respond. They call me names and I walk faster. Finally I put the key in the door and turn the knob.

“Is that you, Lamar?” Dad's on the couch.

“Yes, sir.”

I struggle to lift my feet. My arms hurt but not nearly as much as my feelings.

“Dad, can I talk to you a minute?”

“Yeah, sure.”

I sit next to him and stare at the floor.

“You were right. Everybody hates me. Everybody.”

He doesn't respond. I keep talking.

“I thought if I just apologized, things would be okay. But nobody wants to hear me. The hardest problem I have is dealing with how Billy played me like a punk. And I let him. But why me, Dad? I thought we were going to be…friends. Now I'm the butt of Coffin.”

“You need to talk to Billy,” says Dad. “If you don't, it could happen again.”

I turn to him. “No way. Besides, he's in some boot camp. I can't call, and I won't write him either.”

“Then go see him, Lamar. Talk to Billy face-to-face, man-to-man.”

I shrug. “I'm sure there's more than one boot camp in Indiana.”

Dad rubs his neck. “If you want to do this, I'll take you, but I'm not going to do your homework. Find Billy. He has your answers.”