How Lamar's Bad Prank Won a Bubba-Sized Trophy (5 page)

I
've got a big glob of
duh
stuck in my throat. This is the most important moment of my life, and Wally Wimp, the word-grabbing imp, is swinging on my tonsils.

“Lamar, are you okay?” asks Makeda.

“Uh-huh, yeah, I'm good.”

I scoot closer to the table. What's wrong with my palms? I wipe the sweat on my pants. Is it hot in here? My stomach gurgles. Maybe the pizza was bad. Makeda tilts her head at me.

“Are you sure?”

“Uh-huh.”

Just ask her, fool! Alls she can say is “No and
go away” or “Get out of my face.” I've been told that before. What's the big deal? I swallow hard and the chump glob disappears.

“Makeda, have you do a boyfriend?”

“What?”

Dang. What the heck did I just say?

“Uh, what I meant to ask is, you kickin' it with anybody?”

She tugs at the ends of her braids and grins at the table. “No.”

“I don't have a girlfriend either.”

She doesn't respond. I'm sure it's because she's thinking how lucky she is that the L-Train is still available. She checks her watch.

“I have to get home, Lamar. Dad and I are going to the basketball game tonight.”

My watch shows two thirty. We've been talking for two whole hours. She gets up and wipes the pizza crust crumbs from her skirt. I'm not ready to say good-bye.

“Can I walk you home? I mean, I'm going to the game and was planning to leave soon too.”

“Okay.”

I'm wheezing and don't care. “Did you say okay? I'll turn in my bowling shoes and be right back.”

I put my shoes on the counter, take a quick puff of my inhaler, and join her at the door. We walk
out together. I've never walked out of Striker's with a girl. Besides Mom.

On our way to her house, we see more posters announcing that Bubba is coming to Coffin. I tell her about how much I've learned from his book and she listens. She talks more about soccer and MVP camp. I can hear the excitement in her voice. Now she's got me curious.

“So when will you know if you got the job?”

“I don't know. I've never been nominated before.”

“Talk about pressure. I sure hope you get it, Makeda. I bet the girls will love playing soccer.”

“Have you ever played?”

I show her my inhaler. “I don't have the lungs for it.”

“Oh. Too bad, because it's a lot of fun, but it's almost constant running except for maybe the goalie. I practice every day. I'd rather play soccer than eat.”

“I feel the same way about bowling. So besides soccer and bowling, what other things do you like to do?”

She looks to the clouds. “Reading, baking—oh, and I love poetry.”

She turns toward a house on the corner. An elderly woman is rocking in a chair on the porch. She waves at us and I wave back.

“Who's that?”

“My grandma. Just keep waving. She's a little senile.”

My arm's getting tired, but Grandma's hand keeps flapping in the wind. Makeda blushes and shrugs.

“Maybe I'll see you at the game.”

“Yeah, that would be tight.”

She's smiling and my palms feel clammy again, my weight shifts from one leg to the other, and my brain is empty, like it's been wiped clean with idiot soap.

I press my lips together. “Makeda, I was wondering…”

Her front door opens and a man as big as Shaq steps out. I take two steps away from Makeda. She introduces us.

“Daddy, this is Lamar.”

I step closer and give him a firm handshake. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Phillips.”

“Likewise, Lamar. Aren't you Xavier Washington's brother?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He's one heck of a ball player. You shoot hoops?”

“No, sir.”

“Football?”

“No, sir.”

“Soccer?”

“No, sir, but I
am
the King of Striker's.”

“
Hmm.
Yeah, that brother of yours, he's going to put Coffin on the map one day. Tell him I said good luck tonight.”

He hugs Makeda and I shoot for the good impression.

“I'll give Xavier the message, Mr. Phillips. It was great meeting you.”

I get my strut working. People stare, but I don't care. That's right, move out of my way. I just walked a girl home and met her daddy. A terrible thought pushes through and steals my thunder.

Wait a minute.

I slow down to a complete stop and sit on the curb near the soccer fields with my elbows on my knees and my hands cupping my face. Mr. Phillips thinks I'm a chump. He didn't even comment on my bowling title. I bet he doesn't even think bowling is a real sport. He thinks I'm a loser and he might make Makeda stay away from me.

I have to do
something
. I've never gotten this close to having a girlfriend and I don't want to blow it. Maybe I could try out for soccer. That'd make Makeda and Shaq Daddy happy.

My hands slide from my face to my lap as I sit up and give this more thought. Makeda said goalies don't run that much. I could be a goalie. And
maybe Dad would come to my games.

I stand and step back onto the sidewalk. This plan is getting better by the minute.

A clear visual of Dad, Makeda, and Shaq Daddy sitting together on the soccer field bleachers excites me. I'd block a couple of scoring attempts by the other team and be the hero. Yeah, then Dad would hurdle the bleachers, storm the field, and lift me high in the air as I raise one finger in victory.

I better get with Dr. Avery. Maybe he's got some extra-strength medicine for guys like me. I've got twenty minutes before Dad leaves for Xavier's game. Avery's office is down the street and over a few blocks. I pick up my pace and go for it.

Minutes later I'm at the doctor's office. Hanging from his door is an old rusty sign that used to say
WELCOME
. But it lost the
c
and the
o
, and now it just says
WELCOME
.

I do an extra round of breathing exercises before going in, just for good luck. I turn the knob, and a cowbell
doodle-ling
s like in some old country store. The place is crammed with women knitting or reading, crying babies, and crawling toddlers.

Trina, Dr. Avery's receptionist, greets me with a toothy grin.

“Hey there, Lamar. Where's your dad?”

“Oh, he's at work.”

“How's your brother?”

“Fine.”

“There's a game tonight, isn't there?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Well, tell Xavier that I said good luck. You're not scheduled for an appointment today, are you?”

Time out. She's got an appointment book in front of her and can't remember if I have one, but she can remember Xavier has a game. I keep my cool.

“No, ma'am. I need to make an appointment, you know, just a follow-up.”

Trina takes a look at the appointment book. “You're in luck. This is Dr. Avery's Saturday in the office. I've got an afternoon opening tomorrow at one o'clock. You want it?”

“Yes, ma'am, I'll take it. Oh, my dad won't be with me this time. But he said it's okay, because I'm old enough to see Dr. Avery on my own.”

She writes my name in the scheduler. “Just be sure to have your dad call me, okay?”

“Oh, uh, sure. I'll have him call.”

“Good. See you later. I may see you at the basketball game tonight.”

I give her my best sophisticated expression. “I'll be there, but I'd really rather be at Striker's. Have you ever tried bowling? It's way better than
hoops. You should check it out.”

She smiles. “Dr. Avery says the same thing. I'll keep that in mind.”

“Bubba Sanders, the baddest bowler in the universe, is coming to Striker's on the Fourth of July. That would be a great day to come.”

Trina tilts her head. “I've seen the posters. Maybe I will.”

I wave and strut out of the office. I feel slicker than worm spit. If I can get Avery to say yes to soccer, then I'll try out for a team.

I better put a move on it. After jogging two blocks, I begin to wheeze, so I stop and take a puff from my inhaler. Dad's going to be mad if I'm late. For him, missing a tip-off is one degree worse than burning the house down. This game decides the championship bracket. If X's team wins, they're in.

I hope they lose by a hundred points and it's all Xavier's fault.

I
turn the corner and notice Dad is in the car with the motor running. I rush to the back door and open it.

“Sorry, Dad.”

“Lamar, you know I hate to be late to your brother's games.”

He punches the accelerator, speeding through back alleys and other shortcuts to save time. Once we arrive, Dad and I rush to the gymnasium door.

It's sauna hot inside the gym. The funky blend of sweat and armpits fills my nostrils. Fans stand shoulder to shoulder and root for their team seemingly unbothered—it's as if I'm the only person
who can smell that.

Athletic shoes screech as players race up and down the floor, pointing and shouting out instructions. I glance at the scoreboard. Xavier's team leads by six points. I climb to the very top of the bleachers, where the air might smell and feel different.

Standing up and sitting down, up and down, the crowd can't make up its mind what it wants to do. I stay seated because I really don't care. As the crowd stands again, Makeda pops into my thoughts. She looks good in there, walking around in my mind. Wow, she's blowing me kisses. What'd you say, Sweetness? Yeah, I love you, too, girl. What? Of course you can have another kiss from the L-Train. My eyebrows jump with each mental conversation until my pocket buzzes.

At first, I think it's some mutant insect that's crawled up my pants leg. I stand while everyone else is seated. Then I remember my cell phone. I take it from my pocket, flip it open, and press Talk.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Washington, I'm near the gym doors. Let's take a walk. I'm dying of boredom. You down?”

“Sure, why not. I'll meet you at the concession stand.”

I tromp down the bleachers and cut my eyes
toward Dad. He's too preoccupied with the game to notice I'm on the move. Billy bumps fists with me, and we stroll down the long halls of the Y.

He tries a few doorknobs, but they're all locked. He stops in front of a tinted door.

“Ah, the computer room. Dude, I love computers, especially laptops. The Y just got six new Dells.” He turns to me. “You can take classes here. Did you know that?”

I nod. Billy cups his hands to the window and keeps talking.

“You can see out, but people can't see in. I love that.”

I want to ask him why he's trying to see in if he knows he can't, but I don't. We move farther down the hall and make a right turn.

“Check it out, Washington.”

He stops in front of a fire alarm in the middle of the hall. He caresses it, and I'm starting to feel uneasy. Billy talks without taking his eyes off the alarm.

“Ever pulled one of these babies?”

I'm scared to move. “Nope.”

He runs one finger over the word
FIRE
on the alarm. “It's a megarush out of this world. My dad made me crazy mad one time and I pulled the alarm at his job. People scattered like roaches. It was the ultimate prank. They never figured out
who did it. If you ever want to get someone back, pull one of these. It totally rocks.”

I nod and step away. Billy joins me.

“Xavier the Basketball Savior is a sweet nickname.”

“It's a'ight I guess.”

“Scooter and my dad think X will get drafted, maybe straight out of high school.”

I stuff my hands into my pocket. “Your brother's pretty good, too, Billy. Xavier says Scooter's the best center on the team.”

“Scooter's okay, but not as good as X. Even if your brother doesn't get drafted, he'll get a full ride to some major college. How about you, Washington? You going to college?”

I shrug. “I don't know. Maybe, if I can get a bowling scholarship.”

Billy laughs. “You're joking, right?”

“Uh, no.”

Billy opens an exit door and I follow him outside, where he pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and extends them to me.

“Want one?”

I take a step back. “No. I have asthma.”

“Oh, then I won't light up. You know, having money in your pocket opens up a world of opportunity for you, Washington. I mean, what if that bowling scholarship thing doesn't happen? You
can make your own scholarship, know what I'm saying? Pay your own way through school. And how about new gear? Or you can buy Christmas gifts for your dad and something nice on Mother's Day for your mom.”

“My mom's dead.”

Billy stares at me. “No way. My mom's dead, too. That's crazy weird.”

He searches the grass and opens up about life with his mom. I talk about mine and he listens.

“If Mom were still here, tomorrow morning, actually every Saturday, I'd get banana pancakes for breakfast soaked with hot maple syrup. You ever had syrup on your bacon?”

Billy nods. “Heck yeah, that's good stuff.”

I stare at the grass and relive thousands of things I could tell him about her. Fun and food, hugs and help, smiles and tears revisit my memory to give me options. I tell Billy as much as I can without getting all emotional.

“She sounds pretty awesome,” he says.

I don't look up. “She was way cool.”

Billy snatches a handful of grass out of the ground. “I don't think anybody really understands guys like us. How can they? Take Sergio, for example. He gets everything handed to him on a silver platter.”

“Sergio's cool, Billy. He's my best friend.”

“Hey, nothing wrong with that. I'm just saying, with Mom gone, I became a man a lot faster than some of these rich kids. I know I'm making my mom proud, taking care of myself the way I do. I bet your mom is proud, too, Washington.”

I can barely hear Billy. I'm still enjoying the mental motion picture of times I spent with Mom curled up on the couch watching episodes of crime shows. Sometimes she even joined me to watch bowling tournaments that Bubba bowled in.

“Earth to Washington.”

I look up and smile. “My bad.”

Billy gives a half grin. “No apology necessary. I get lost in my thoughts all the time. I understand. I really do. Listen, I've got a match set up at Striker's tomorrow at noon. It's a small bet. We won't make enough money to buy a rally towel, but it's good practice. I want to get this smoke in before the game is over. See you later.”

Billy walks around the corner to the back of the building. I smell cigarette smoke and move farther away. Maybe I've been wrong about this guy. I've only heard rumors about his drama. I've never seen him in juvie, boot camp, or under arrest. It could all be a pack of lies.

People get labeled for stuff. Maybe that's
what's happened to Billy. Or maybe he's changed; Makeda's a perfect example. She's changed. I think I have too.

Since my girl likes poetry, I'm going to write her an unforgettable poem. I've got all kinds of talent, and I want her to understand I'm not just a bowling stud with a handsome face.

Cheers erupt from inside the Y and I sprint back to the gym. Ten seconds left and the game is tied. Xavier calls time-out. It's standing room only on Coffin's side. I rush to the visiting team's bleachers and sit with the Bedford fans.

The buzzer sounds, the bleachers rattle, and the noise levels are out of control. X dribbles over the half-court line. Fans stomp to raise the noise level. This is it. Winner plays in next Wednesday's championship game; loser buys a ticket and watches with the rest of us.

Coffin fans chant X's nickname as if they're casting an evil spell.

“Xavier, Xavier, the Basketball Savior! Xavier, Xavier, the Basketball Savior!”

Dad chants, too. Mr. Jenks screams and points at Scooter. Hundreds of Bedford fans lead a charge of their own.

“Dee-fense!”
Clap-clap!
“Dee-fense!”
Clap-clap!

Between my teeth I chant with the Bedford fans and tap my foot when they clap.

Xavier passes the ball to Scooter, then dashes to the left corner. A Bedford player tries to keep up with X. Rubber soles screech on the court as picks are set, cuts are made, and players scramble to beat the buzzer. Five seconds, four…

Scooter screams something to Xavier and throws the ball to a spot near the three-point line. Xavier spins away from his defender and catches the ball before it bounces. The Bedford player rushes to catch up, but it's too late. Three, two…

Xavier leaps high in the air, higher than his defender, and releases the ball off his fingertips toward the basket. Mouths close, eyes bulge, fans freeze. It's eerily quiet as the ball arcs and spins in the air. One…

Swish!

BEEEEEEEEEP!

Dad jumps off the bleachers and beats the coach to Xavier. He lifts X in the air, making my brother resemble one of those gold dudes on his trophies at home. My heart hurts as I rewind my thoughts to earlier in the day when I daydreamed about Dad lifting me up in the exact same way.

Coffin fans rush the court. Bedford fans clog the exit.

A man with a microphone stands at midcourt to announce Coffin as the team that will play Scottsburg for the Indiana YMCA championship
next Wednesday. Then it gets worse.

“Attention, please! The committee has posted the All-Y team, and we're proud to announce Coffin's own Scooter Jenks and Xavier Washington as First Team All-Y members. And, no surprise to most of us, Xavier has been named MVP of the game.”

It's time to go. It doesn't matter how long they celebrate on the court. I'm not celebrating. If I have to, I'll stand at the car and wait all night.