All American Boys (16 page)

And besides, once I had my sad, soupy Sloppy Joe on the tray and looked out over the rest of the cafeteria, I realized it wasn't just the basketball team divided up this way today.
Paul had once told me about how the city's demographics had changed over the last thirty years, and why that mattered for his job. “It's harder to be a cop here now than it used to be,” he'd said, and his facts had been so particular I couldn't help but think of them now as I looked across the deserted tables in the half-empty room. Thirty years ago the city had been 84 percent white, Paul'd told me. Now, not counting Hispanics and Latinos who identified as white, Springfield was 37 percent white. Strange how some of that stuff just sticks to you, especially the shit that suddenly feels so real. Because right now, only about half the high school who had lunch fifth period sat in the cafeteria that day. The white half.

I would have stood there like an idiot, feeling those nerves in my stomach start to spin again, if I hadn't felt a push from behind.

“Hey,” Jill said.

“Hey.”

“Where you sitting?”

It was probably the first time since I'd been in high school that I'd ever been asked that question. I'm not a total fucknut. I know for some people, especially at the beginning of high school, where to sit and who you'll sit with is a big deal. Not everyone feels like they automatically belong. Not everyone feels like wherever they go they'll be welcome. But I did. I'd always just walked into the cafeteria and sat wherever the hell
I wanted. In fact, I did that pretty much anywhere I went unless the seats were already assigned.

“Um.” I paused. “Not sure.”

“Yeah, but you know what's weird? I want to go sit outside.”

“Me too,” I said, only realizing when she had said it that that's what I really
did
want to do. “But would that be weird?”

“I just
said
it was weird! But I don't think anyone out there would mind.”

Huh. I hadn't thought of it like that. I'd been thinking of the guys inside. “No,” I said, nodding to Guzzo's table. “Those dudes.”

Guzzo probably realized what we were talking about, because he got up and walked over to us. “You two going to stand there all day? Come sit down.” And once he had come over, it felt impossible not to follow him, so we did.

Dwyer, Hales, and Reegan got lost in a conversation about their fantasy basketball league teams while Guzzo pressed us. “Seriously,” he said. “You two are spending a lot of time together.”

Jill laughed. “You guys are all family to me.”

“Quinn's not,” Guzzo said, looking at me, but in an odd way. “Not really. Or is he?”

“I'm right here, man. No need to be all cold about it.”

“I'm not the one who ran away from the barbecue.”

“Jesus. Seriously? You're crying about that?”

He opened his mouth to say something more, but Jill interrupted him. “Guys, you've been at it since Friday. I've seen it.”

This shut us both up. I bit into my hash brown, but it was so greasy, I just ended up shoving the whole thing in my mouth. While I chewed, Guzzo gave me that look again. “Quinn's the one acting weird.”

“Come on,” Jill said. “It's not only him. You are too. But why not? I would be too if I had been there and seen Paul whaling on Rashad.”

“What the fuck?” Guzzo threw his plastic fork down on his tray. “Shut up about that.” Hales glanced over skeptically, and Guzzo leaned in close to us. “Did you tell anyone else?” he asked her.

“That you were there?” she said. “No. Is it a secret?”

“Of course!” Guzzo said. His hand clenched into a fist. “You told her?” he said to me. “Are you fucking demented? Nobody should know about this. Not even my brother.”

“What?” I said. “Man, we aren't in any trouble. We didn't do anything.”

“You really are stupid,” Guzzo said, picking his fork back up and pointing it at me. Red bits of Sloppy Joe dripped from the tines. “Don't tell anyone else we were there. The force, they're worried for my brother. They've given him some time so he can stay off the streets. There's probably going to be
a lawsuit because there's always a lawsuit these days. Look, whatever, how the hell is he supposed to do what he needs to do if he gets sued for just doing his job?”

“Listen to you!” Jill exclaimed, leaning in now too, agitated. “You sound like our mothers. But tell that to Rashad's family. Rashad's
absent
today. Again. I mean, I know that guy too.”

Guzzo looked disgusted. “You don't know him,” he said, waving her off. “You just like thinking you know him because now he's a celebrity. A celebrity-victim, or whatever. That's bullshit.” He gestured to the doors behind us. “You need to get outside before next period? Was that where you were headed before I called you over?”

I glanced at Jill. “Dude,” I said to Guzzo. “Come on. It doesn't have to be like that.”

“It already is like that, asshole,” Guzzo said. He pushed his chair back and stood up. “
You
know. Paul was just trying to help someone inside the store. That's what he says. And then there's the whole stopping people from stealing thing.” He was breathing heavy. Fighting to find words. “And, by the way,” he finally said, pointing at me, “Paul's staying with us, you know. If you're curious. Remember him? My brother? The dude who fucking
raised
you. Feel free to drop by. I mean, you are like
family
. Isn't he, Jill?”

For once in her life, Jill didn't shoot back the last word, and Guzzo stalked off without looking back at either of us. I
was about to get up too, because I was sick of it all—I hadn't started it, why the hell did I have to be in the middle of it? But as I pushed my own chair back, Dwyer grabbed my arm.

“Listen, man,” he said. “You've got to fix this. We got to get the team straight. We've got scouts coming, man. This is too big. This is our life, man. Our futures. Don't be a dick about it. Like Coach said. Leave it at the door. All of it, you know?”

What he said stuck with me for the rest of the day. Yeah, I was thinking about the damn scouts too—of course I was! The kind of doors a scout's praise might open. The kinds of scholarships a kid like me needed when Ma was working night shifts over at Uline. I knew it was my future, and Dwyer's, and everyone else's, too. How could I not? It'd been on my mind in one way or another since I'd started working out with Paul—back when he was taller than me, not just bigger, flicking his wrists and teaching me how to sneak a crossover right in front of my opponent. Those hands. There was so much history slapping hands and saying yes to Paul.

As what Dwyer had said to me replayed again and again in my head, it began to say something else, too. Like maybe I was hearing what Dwyer was saying under his breath, between his words. He almost sounded scared, or not scared, but nervous. It wasn't Dwyer. It was fear. It seemed to follow me like my shadow these days, but I recognized now how it was trailing everyone else, too.

At practice, Coach had us running like crazy. Hales got so winded he puked in the trash can by the door to the hallway. “Boot and rally,” Reegan yelled to him. He wanted to laugh but he was too out of breath. The rest of us crouched with our hands on our knees, or folded on our heads, trying to avoid cramps, and Coach paced in between us like he was a doctor walking through the asthma ward.

“Game ready,” he lectured. “The team that makes its free throws when everyone is tired and strung out is the team that wins its games.” Then he broke us into groups at the six baskets around the gym and told us to keep score. Ten free throws each, switching shooters every two shots. The score mattered. He didn't say it, but this was part of the evaluation to see who would be a starter. Who could get points on the board at the beginning of the game, and at the end of the game, when his legs were jelly and his lungs a fire collapsing. A scout might be the key to your future, but you had to be on the court, in a pressure situation, sticking it to the other team, in order for the scout to even see you. Then you had to make the shot. I missed my first shot, but it was the only one I missed. There were plenty of seven out of tens, some lower. Only English scored a perfect ten.

We spent another hour practicing some plays, putting them into action in little scrimmages, and then Coach sent us to the weight room in pairs. We didn't have to keep score
here. Not for his sake, at least. Of course we kept score among ourselves.

Nobody could press or lift or squat nearly as much as Guzzo and Tooms and Martinez, so they always had their own competition, and the rest of us had ours. I paired up with English, and we started on the leg machines while the big guys hit the bench. He and I didn't say much at first, but as we moved around the room to different machines, we got into what was really on both our minds.

“Hey, man,” I asked. “You know who wrote that graffiti?”

“Why are you asking me?” he said.

“He's your friend, man.”

“He has a lot of friends.”

“Come on, man. I'm just curious. I'm just asking.”

“Nah. It can't be ‘just asking.' It never is.”

“Fine.” I put another five pounds on either side of the bar for him, and then kept my voice low as I continued. “Guzzo's pissed. He thinks someone did it to make a statement.”

English cocked half a grin as he lay down beneath the bar and began his set. “Of course. That's the point.”

“No, but like, it's saying that Rashad is innocent, so that makes his brother guilty.”

English put the bar back up on the rack and sat up. He looked at me like I was nuts. “Man, Rashad didn't do shit.”

“Yeah, but what if Paul was just doing his job? Then no one's
guilty.” But even as I said it, I felt like I was Guzzo suddenly, or someone in the family, his family, and I wished I wasn't. “Ah, never mind. Let's just forget it.”

“Forget it? Forget my friend is in the hospital?” English stared at me, pissed. “Since when is beating the shit out of somebody who hasn't done a damn thing
just doing your job
? Man, there's no way I'm going to pretend it didn't happen.” He leaned back, looked at the ceiling, and pressed the weight back up. “I can't.” He brought the weight down, and then up again. “I won't.”

He lifted the bar again quickly, but on the eighth rep, he struggled.

“Look,” I said, reaching out, ready to help him with the next rep. “I just wish this wasn't happening. I mean, for everyone's sake.”

He fought to get the ninth rep more than halfway up.

“You need a hand?” I said, putting my fingers beneath the bar, helping him lift it slightly.

“Fuck no,” he spat. I pulled my fingers back but kept them close. He pushed the bar up slowly, then lowered it and began the last rep. He grunted and got the last one up and onto the rack.

“Maybe he got out of hand?” I just had to say. “Maybe he was on drugs.”

“On drugs? What are you? Seventy-five? Since when have
you ever gotten off your ass, let alone thrown a punch, when you were stoned, man?”

“Meth?”

“Only white people do that shit.”

“Fuck you, man.”

“No, fuck you, Quinn.” He stood and pointed at me. “Why does it automatically gotta be Rashad's fault? Why do people think he was on drugs? That dude doesn't do drugs. He's ROTC, man. His dad would kick his ass.
You
do drugs, asshole.”

“Just a puff here and there, man, come on. I don't
do
drugs.”

“I've seen you smoking a blunt. Metcalf sold you that shit. Metcalf—a white dude, by the way. Man, that shit could have been laced with crack, or fucking Drano. You don't know what you talkin' 'bout.”

“Look, man, I'm not trying to say anything bad about Rashad. I'm just saying that spray painting ‘Rashad is absent again today' on the concrete in front of school is like, I don't know, extreme. He's not dead.”

“But he
could
be. You have no idea. You have no idea, Quinn. The point is, he could be. Then what? Is that what it would take to look at this thing differently? You need him to be dead? Shame on you, man. I had no idea you were such a dick. You want to forget all this. Maybe you can. But I won't.” He stood and caught his breath. “What do you know, anyway?
White boy like you can just walk away whenever you want. Everyone just sees you as Mr. All-American boy, and you can just keep on walking, thinking about other things. Just keep on living, like this shit don't even exist.” He waved his hand in my face and blew a breath out the side of his mouth. “Man, I'm done with you.” Then he sauntered off slowly, making sure I knew he was dismissing me, leaving me looking like the idiot I was.

When Coach called us back out to the court, I was now not just physically wiped, but mentally wiped too. I was getting a drink of water at the fountain and Guzzo came up behind me. He jabbed me in the back and I coughed up the water. He laughed. “Thanks,” he said, grinning. “I mean it. I heard all that with English. Thanks for having Paul's back.”

An unexpected wave of anger surged through me. That hadn't been my intention at all. I'd seen what Paul had done. I didn't think it was right. But I hadn't thought the spray paint was right either.

“Maybe somebody should spray paint something else tomorrow,” Guzzo said. “Whaddya think it should say?”

“Don't,” I said.

“What?”

“Don't be an asshole.”

Guzzo slapped the wall with his open palm. “I don't fucking get you, man. One minute you're in there defending
my brother and the next you are basically telling me to fuck off. You're demented.” He stomped off to join the huddle at half-court.