Boy21 (12 page)

I thought everyone had left, so I’m startled when I hear, “Finley?”

Boy21 is standing next to me in a towel. He’s the only player who uses those nasty showers, which haven’t been cleaned for decades. He wears flip-flops to protect his feet.

“What’s up?”

“I told my grandfather to pick me up at your house later tonight.”

“Why?”

“I was hoping we could sit on your roof.”

I sigh. I’m tired, and the thought of talking in code with Boy21—all the cosmos and outer-space jazz—exhausts me. “I have to do my homework.”

“We could do it together maybe.”

Russ is rubbing his chin over and over again, looking at me with these crazy intense eyes. Again, I wonder if he really has been missing his shots intentionally, and for some reason I decide he probably has. Something about the way he’s standing—it’s almost submissive, like a dog with its tail between its legs. Why would anyone yield to me?

DAD HEATS UP FROZEN PIZZA FOR US
and Pop peppers us with questions about the Pennsville game plan.

“They’re gonna double Terrell, right?” Dad says.

“Yep,” I say.

“Finley should get a lot of shots,” Boy21 says.

“Score some points for the Irish!” Pop says.

“For Bellmont,” Dad says. “You think you’ll get into the game, Russ?”

“Don’t know.”

“You okay, Finley?” Pop says. “You haven’t touched your slice.”

Dad gives me a look.

I just shrug.

Boy21 and I do all our homework up in my room, but we don’t really work together. He does his at my desk and I do mine on my bed for about an hour before we put our jackets on and go out onto the roof.

It’s not really that cold out for winter. In the distance a police siren is whining, but it’s a pretty peaceful night otherwise, and I always enjoy being on the roof, getting a different perspective. I start to zone out a little—in a good way.

After ten minutes or so of silence, Russ says, “If I get into the game tomorrow, would you mind if I used my extraterrestrial powers?”

I’m not really in the mood for outer-space talk. “The only way you’re getting in the game is if I can’t hit any shots.”

“You’ll hit your shots.”

“Well, then it’s a nonissue, right?”

“Guess so.”

I look up and see part of the moon sticking out from behind a cloud.

“I just want to know what I should do
if
I get in the game,” Russ says. “Coach says he’s going to give me some quality minutes whether I want them or not. You want to win the championship, so I figure it’s best for me to use my extraterrestrial powers to help you beat Pennsville if I get the chance. I used telepathy to check with my dad up in outer space and he says it’s okay if I expose myself a little bit, because he’s coming soon to get me anyway.”

I’m tired of Boy21’s outer-space fantasies. I’m tired of Coach pressuring me. I’m worried about my inability to hit a jump shot. And so I don’t say anything in response. Silence has always been my default mode—my best defense against the rest of the world.

When Boy21’s grandfather pulls up, I’m grateful.

“See you tomorrow,” Russ says as he climbs back into my bedroom.

I nod, but I don’t leave the roof.

I hear Boy21 say good-bye to Pop and Dad, and then I watch him get into Mr. Allen’s Cadillac below.

As the taillights get smaller and smaller, I try to visualize myself hitting shot after shot, but I keep missing open jumpers, even in my mind.

THE GIRLS’ GAME IS BEFORE OURS
and the stands are packed. Because the girls are usually away when we are home and vice versa, this is one of the few times I’ll get to watch Erin play this year.

I sit with my teammates in the designated spot in the bleachers and when Erin comes out I see that she’s changed her jersey number to 18—my new number.

I get a little emotional as the girls warm up. I start to feel exactly what I try to avoid feeling during basketball season—in love—and I’m equal parts happy and annoyed.

Wes and Boy21 are reading the next Harry Potter book. Wes fiddles with the zipper of his hoodie. Boy21 wrinkles his brow and nods every so often like he agrees with whatever he’s reading. The rest of my teammates are listening to iPods or joking around. Coach Watts chaperones us.

There’s a small section of Irish who’ve come to root for Erin.
They’re sitting with Pop and our parents and they’re all wearing green. One man has painted his face green, white, and orange like Ireland’s flag.

But most of the people in the gym tonight are black because Pennsville is pretty much an all-black high school.

Erin opens the game by hitting a deep three pointer, which makes the crowd erupt. She looks gorgeous out there on the court and every time she does something good my teammates punch my arm or rub my head.

Erin hits shot after shot, pulls rebounds, get steals, and carries her team to a twenty-point lead by halftime. Just before she walks into the locker room, she looks up into the stands, finds me, and smiles.

She’s so happy being out there on the basketball court doing what she was born to do—and I start to envy her, because I feel as though I might throw up.

I’m thinking about the triangle-and-two.

In the second half Erin blocks three shots, intercepts two passes, drives the lane several times for layups, comes off endless screens, sinks shot after shot, and secures the win easily. I’m happy for her, and I even smile back when she looks for me at the end of the game, but I still feel as though I might puke. Big-game jitters. This one could be for the conference.

As we stretch in the locker room, Boy21 seems calm. I think about how he’d be the perfect secret weapon tonight, and I want to tell him that it’s okay to play to the best of his ability if he gets in the game—not to worry about me—but for some reason, I don’t. Maybe I think he’s not ready, or maybe I think he is and I just don’t want to lose my starting position.

“Shoot your way out of the triangle-and-two early,” Terrell says to me. “We both know the team’s better when I’m the number one option on offense. Right, White Rabbit?”

“Right.”

I completely agree.

When they announce our squad, Terrell gets the biggest cheer by far, although I get a hearty roar from the Irish section. I see Pop parked in the handicap zone. He’s wearing a green, white, and orange scarf. Dad’s sitting next to him and a sweaty Erin is next to Dad even though she should be sitting with her teammates. I know that this is her way of being my girlfriend when I don’t allow her to be my girlfriend, which makes me feel good, but I remind myself not to think about Erin tonight.

We’re not dating during basketball season, remember?

Basketball is your girlfriend now.

The gym’s rocking.

The students are chanting,
“Bell-mont! Bell-mont!”

In the pregame huddle, Coach says, “I don’t think I have to remind you that this is a play-off game. We only play this team twice, and we need to win both times if we want to take the division and set ourselves up nicely for the postseason. Good man defense. Call out switches. Quick transitions, and shoot the ball, Finley. We need you to shoot your way out of the triangle-and-two.”

I swallow hard.

“On three, team. One, two, three—”

“TEAM!”

And then I’m on the court.

Wes wins the jump easily, and—just like Coach had
predicted—Pennsville leaves me unmarked, double-teams Terrell, and sets up a triangle zone.

I know I’m supposed to shoot the ball, but I try to force it into Wes, which results in a turnover.

“Shoot the ball, Finley!” Coach yells.

The next time down on offense, when they leave me wide open, Coach yells, “Shoot!”

I take a three pointer; it hits the front of the rim, and Pennsville gets the rebound.

I miss the next three shots.

We’re down eight to nothing.

This isn’t working.

I can’t hit a shot to save my life.

“Keep shooting,” Coach says. “Keep shooting, Finley!”

I try to get the ball to Hakim next, but I make another bad pass and suddenly I have two turnovers and four missed shots in a row.

I glance over at Pop and Dad and their eyes look small, their faces sheepish, like they’re embarrassed for me.

“Keep shooting!” Erin yells. “Keep shooting!”

The next time down Pennsville leaves me wide open, and I call time-out.

As I jog off the court, Coach says, “Who told you to call time-out, Finley?
Who?
”

I swallow.

Coach looks me in the eyes.

He sees I’m rattled.

He sees I’m scared.

He says, “Russ, report in for Finley.”

Russ doesn’t make a move. Coach Watts grabs his elbow and sort of gives him a push in the right direction. Boy21 looks at me, but I look away.

As Russ reports in at the scorer’s table, I become invisible—everyone is avoiding eye contact because they’re embarrassed for me.

Boy21 takes my place on the bench with the starters.

“Same exact game plan,” Coach says. “Russ—you’re the shooter now.”

“Coach,” Terrell says, “he can’t shoot. We’re already down eight.”

“You might be surprised,” Coach says. “Now execute the game plan.”

“Finley,” Boy21 says. Everyone looks at me.
Everyone.
“Do you want me to use my extraterrestrial powers to win this game?”

“What did he just say?” Terrell asks.

“Extra-
what
?” Sir says.

“Huh?” Hakim says.

“Russ!” Coach says. “Not now!”

“Finley,” Boy21 says a little more slowly. “Do you want me to use my extraterrestrial powers to win this ball game? Your call.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Terrell says. “We got a game to play!”

Boy21’s staring at me—communicating with his eyes—and I can tell that he doesn’t really want to do what he is about to do.

Part of me wants to see if he’s the real deal.

Part of me just wants to beat Pennsville.

Part of me knows that I should’ve been encouraging my friend to use his talents all along and that I’ve been selfish.

The buzzer sounds.

The time-out is over.

“Finley,” Boy21 says, “I need you to say it’s okay.”

Finally I say, “It’s okay.”

Somehow I know this means I won’t play again tonight.

“Okay, same game plan,” Coach says once more as I sit down on the other end of the bench and the rest of the team takes the court.

I feel ashamed being on the bench. Like I’m naked or something.

Everyone in the gym is watching the game, I know, but it feels like all eyes are on me. I begin to feel hot, anxious. I’ve never visualized being benched. This is not how things are supposed to be.

Sir inbounds the ball to Boy21 at half-court.

“Coach!” Boy21 shouts as he dribbles all alone, well behind NBA three-point range. “You won’t be mad at me if I use my extraterrestrial powers?”

My teammates on the bench are all whispering.

People in the stands are repeating Boy21’s words to one another.

Somehow I know—everything is about to change.

Coach yells, “Russell, just play ball like you can.
Please!
”

The Pennsville coach shoots a strange expression over to our bench.

And then it happens.

With no one on him, Boy21 pulls up for what amounts to a half-court jump shot.

As the ball arcs through the air, time slows down in my mind, like in a movie—I can see everything at once: the collective shock of my teammates, the expressions on the fans’ faces, the mocking smiles of the opposing team.

Russ pulled up for a half-court shot with no one on him!

People are outraged.

How could a no-name kid coming in off the bench take a half-court jumper?

The audacity!

Who does he think he is?

But then the ball goes in—
swish—
and the crowd goes wild.

Boy21’s face changes.

His eyes narrow.

His lips tighten.

His body loosens up.

He slaps the floor with his palms, gets into a low defensive stance, and waits for his man to reach him. When Pennsville’s point guard crosses half-court, Boy21 guards him tightly and then steals the ball with ease.

He dribbles four times and then takes off at the foul line, spreads his legs, and soars.

Hanging there in the air, he looks like the famous Michael Jordan silhouette.

The entire gym rises up in anticipation and Boy21 dunks the ball with resounding authority.

If we didn’t have breakaway rims, the backboard would have shattered into a million pieces.

My teammates on the bench are out of their seats, hooting, pumping fists in the air, hugging one another, going nuts.

JV Coach Watts has to pull a few of them off the court so we won’t get a technical foul, and Coach gives me a glance that says,
Now do you understand what I was talking about?

Pennsville calls time-out and their coach yells over, “What the hell is this, Tim? Don’t think I’m not going to check his records. This is shady.
Shady!
”

“Damn, Russ!” Hakim says.

“You really do have magic powers,” Wes says. “I feel like I’m at Hogwarts.”

“We’re gon’ win this game,” Sir says.

Terrell gives me a look that says,
You knew, didn’t you?

“All right,” Coach says. “Let’s concentrate on the game plan.”

No one says a word to me in the huddle and I sort of fade into the background.

When the game resumes, Boy21 dominates.

He hits three pointers.

He pulls rebounds.

Runs fast breaks.

Dunks the ball.

Blocks shots.

Accrues steals.

It’s like an NBA player decided to show up and play for our high-school team—that’s how good Boy21 is. He’s Andre Iguodala, playing against children. A man among boys. Players fall
down like they have broken ankles when they try to guard Russ, because he’s too quick. Boy21 outruns, outshoots, outjumps, and outdribbles everyone on the court.

Soon we’re winning easily—but the second quarter ends with me still on the bench.