Boy21 (3 page)

Coach says, “You know how I’m always telling the team that basketball can teach you a lot about life and that those lessons are more important than wins and losses and personal stats, more important than the game itself—that we’re learning life lessons on the court and that’s the most important part of the experience?”

“Yeah.”

Coach is always saying that.

“Well, I think you’re going to learn a lot this year, Finley.”

Something about the way he says those words makes me feel sort of strange. Like he’s trying to be prophetic or something, and this dinner’s even more important than I originally thought.

I look at Coach’s face and try to read his eyes. I see desperation, frustration, exhaustion—what I see in the eyes of all the men who have lived in this neighborhood for too many years.

“We’ve got a bit of a situation here, Finley. Because I trust you, I’m gonna tell you a lot tonight and I want you to keep it all confidential. You can tell no one what I’m about to say. Not your dad
or grandfather or Erin. Not your teammates. And especially no one at school. Can I trust you to keep this information top secret?”

I can’t imagine what Coach is going to tell me.

My heart’s beating really hard, and I realize that I’m swallowing now too.

I nod to let Coach know that I’ll keep the secret.

“Okay then. Does the name Russell Allen mean anything to you?”

I shake my head.

“Here’s the secret: Russell Allen played his first three years of high-school ball out in L.A. He gained a national reputation last year as a junior. Quite simply, he’s one of the top recruits in the country. At seventeen he already has the body of a professional ball player. I’ve seen game tapes and I’m convinced he could play for any NBA team right now. He’s a six-five point guard who can play inside and out. Smart player. Can run an offense. Rebounds. Hustles. The best high-school defender I have ever seen. And to top it off, he scored near perfect on his SATs and was able to maintain a four-point-oh GPA through three years of all-season basketball. He’s played in all the best camps. He’s been outgoing and trouble-free all through high school. Great work ethic. Every collegiate program in the country wants the kid.”

It’s clear that Coach loves this player, but I can’t figure out why he’s telling me all this—especially if Allen plays on the other side of the country—let alone why I need to keep it a secret.

“You know the Allens over on Porter Street, by that dive bar called Drinkers?”

“No.” I never go to that part of town. There are no Irish there.

“Those folks are Russell Allen’s grandparents and good friends of mine. I used to play ball with Russell’s father, Russell senior. He ended up becoming a pretty well-known jazz musician, a saxophonist. He moved to L.A. and started writing music for movies. Made enough money to put Russell into a real good prep school out there, where he did pretty well until—”

Coach is gripping the steering wheel too hard and licking his lips repetitively.

I’ve never seen Coach get nervous like this before.

“My friend Russell and his wife were murdered last February.” The word
murdered
gets stuck in my ear and suddenly it feels like someone is jabbing a finger into my throat. I begin to cough a little, but Coach keeps talking. It takes a few minutes for my mind to process the rest of his words. “The details aren’t important right now. But the event has had a dramatic effect on Russell junior. He’s spent some time in a group home for kids who suffer from post-traumatic stress. The Allens here in town are his closest relatives and even though they don’t feel quite up to taking on a troubled teenage boy, because Russell requested it, they have agreed to care for him until he goes to college next year.”

I suddenly realize that Russell will be eligible to play for our basketball team. And even though Coach is talking about the aftereffects of a murder, I’m ashamed to admit that I immediately begin worrying about my starting position. It’s like being told I have cancer and might need a part of me removed—the part called starting point guard.

“So,” I say, “he’s going to play for us, Coach?”

“Well, I hope he
will
come out for the team, but at this point his mental health is what we need to be focusing on. He hasn’t touched a basketball in months. You see, after all that’s happened, Russell’s not really right in the head. We all think that a boy with his gifts should be using them and, with so many colleges ready to give him a full ride, it would be a shame to watch him sit the season out, but we need to take one thing at a time, which is why he’s going to enroll under his mother’s maiden name. The Allens don’t want college scouts and coaches bothering Russell until he moves past his issues. The basketball world doesn’t know he’s here. And he’s not exactly interested in basketball right now.
Understand?
”

I have no idea why I’m in the truck.

I’m lost.

“I’ve told them that our high school can be rough and Russell would be better off in a private school, especially since he’s inherited a lot of money. But, for some reason, the Allens want the boy to play basketball for me this year. Probably because they know me, and after all that’s happened, they don’t want to put Russell into the hands of a stranger. So under the name Russ Washington, Russell is going to transition to our school, which couldn’t be any more different from the prep school he attended in California. Administration, his guidance counselor, me, and now you—those are the only people who’ll know Russell’s true identity. Okay?”

I don’t know what to say. I really don’t.

Coach says, “I thought that maybe if Russell had a friend who knew what it was like to be
different
, the transition might be a little easier.”

Suddenly, I think I might understand my role.

“You have a question on your face, Finley. Now’s the time to ask it.”

Even though I know that the Allens live in an all-black section of town, I say, “So, Coach, are you saying Russell’s white?”

“Does the color of his skin matter?” Coach asks.

He’s always saying that he doesn’t see the color of a man’s skin, but I know that’s just politically correct talk. Coach absolutely changes his game plan depending on the opposing team’s skin color, because black and white teams usually play different styles of basketball, and that’s just a fact.

When I don’t say anything, Coach says, “Russell’s pretty much the same color as I am.”

“Then why
me
?” I ask.

“Well, let’s just say that I have a hunch you two will get along. That and you’re pretty much the only boy on the team I trust to help my dead friend’s son.”

Those words make me swallow hard.

Part of me just wants to be with Erin, and yet, another part of me’s intrigued, kind of flattered, and a little nervous, all at once.

Coach shifts into gear and drives us across town to the Allens’ house.

WHEN HE PARKS
, Coach says, “There’s one other thing.”

He gets this look on his face like he has to use the bathroom or something. He looks way uncomfortable. He’s strangling the steering wheel.

“Russell isn’t exactly going by the name Russell at this moment in his life.” Coach glances out the windshield with this vacant look on his face. “Russell now likes to be called Boy21.” He nods a few times, as if to say he isn’t joking.

“Why?” I say, noting that twenty-one is my basketball number. Could this night possibly get any weirder?

“The people at his group home and his local therapist have both recommended that we all call him Boy21 out of respect for his wishes. They say he now needs to exert control over his environment in some small way, or something like that. I don’t know anything about therapy, but I think after all that’s happened the boy could sure use a kindhearted friend. That’s what this is about.
We’ll call him Boy21 tonight and work on getting him back to Russ before school starts.”

I nod, but I imagine my expression says something different. Am I kindhearted? How can I be a friend to this kid when I don’t really even talk to people, and I don’t have any true friends besides Erin? Will he want my basketball number?

Coach’s eyebrows are pushing the skin on his forehead into folds and he’s swallowing every five seconds now.

He reaches across the truck, puts his hand on my shoulder, and says, “I’m doing this out of respect for my late friend. And, Finley, no matter how this goes, thank you for coming. You’re a good kid. I’m only asking you to give tonight a shot. Nothing more. If it doesn’t go well, we’ll just forget about it.
Okay?
”

“Okay.”

“Well. Here we go.”

We get out of Coach’s truck. The Allens’ street is much worse than mine. Broken bottles and fast-food wrappers litter the sidewalks, a few houses are boarded up, and just about every building is tagged with graffiti curse words, but the Allens’ place is actually pretty nice. The lawn’s cut, the bushes are shaped, and the house itself looks well kept and inviting. It’s even been freshly painted, which is a rare sight in Bellmont.

Coach rings the doorbell and soon a white-haired couple answers.

“Timothy!” The old woman is wearing a black dress. She wraps her arms around Coach’s neck so that he has to bend over. “Thank you so much for coming.”

“Pleasure, Ms. Allen.”

Mr. Allen—who’s wearing a gray suit—shakes Coach’s hand very formally and says, “Thank you again for what you said at the funeral. You’re a poet, a good friend, and a kind soul.”

“I only spoke the truth,” Coach says. Everyone’s eyes are suddenly glistening. “This here’s Finley McManus. One of the finest young men on my ball squad. Good people here. I promise you that.”

I’m a little embarrassed by Coach’s introduction, but I’m also a little proud.

Mr. Allen looks at me and says, “Thanks for coming.”

I know Mr. Allen is probably surprised that I’m white, but that doesn’t bother me. I’d probably be surprised if I were him too. Actually, I’m surprised that Coach picked me for this job. I’m not a therapist, nor do I have much in common with the Allen family at all. They’re probably thinking I won’t be able to relate to their grandson, that I might even be a liability for him in the new neighborhood, and I completely agree. Black kids with white best friends are not common in Bellmont. Maybe that’s blunt, but I’ve found that being blunt sometimes makes life easier for everyone.

“Come in,” Mrs. Allen says.

IT’S AIR-CONDITIONED INSIDE.

Pictures of Jesus hang all around the house. Jesus cuddling lambs. Jesus in a garden. Jesus wearing a purple robe. The furniture is very old, but the rooms are the cleanest I’ve ever been in. Everything wooden is polished, the rugs are fluffy and freshly vacuumed, and you couldn’t find a single speck of dust even if you moved around the picture frames. It’s like being in a museum, compared to our messy man-house.

I’m sitting next to Coach on the couch when Mrs. Allen hands me a glass of lemonade.

“So where’s Russ?” Coach says.

“Up in his room,” Mr. Allen says. “I’m afraid I couldn’t get him to come down. I told him you were coming, but, well, you see”—he lowers his voice here—“the social worker told us that we shouldn’t push the boy just yet, but let him acclimate to the new setting, so—”

“Would you go up and talk with him?” Mrs. Allen asks me.

She’s a tiny thin lady, but her eyes are forceful, piercing, so I simply nod because I always do what my elders ask of me. That’s how Pop and Dad raised me.

“Might as well let the boys meet,” Mr. Allen says a little too hopefully, as if he’s trying to hide his true expectations, but maybe I’m just being paranoid.

“You okay with that, Finley?” Coach says, resting his hand on my shoulder again.

I nod.

A good ball player always listens to his coach, especially when his coach is as smart as mine.

“Upstairs, second door on your left,” Mrs. Allen says.

I place my glass on a coaster and stand.

“Did you tell him about the outer-space fixation?” Mr. Allen says to Coach.

When I give Coach a questioning glance, he says, “Go on upstairs, Finley. Say hello. Okay?”

I wonder what any of this has to do with outer space, but Coach’s eyes beg me not to ask him anything in front of the Allens, so I don’t.

As I walk across the room and make my way to the stairs, I can feel my elders watching me, but once I’m out of sight I go slowly and study the pictures on the wall that leads up to the second floor, trying to figure out just what kind of a mess I’m in.

There are black-and-white pictures of Mr. and Mrs. Allen taken when they were young, and I recognize different corners of Bellmont even though the cars and clothing styles are outdated and the town looks much cleaner and safer.

There’s an old wedding picture and Coach is the best man; he’s rocking a huge Afro, wearing a powder-blue tuxedo, and looking more like my classmates than an adult, which makes me smile.

The photos of Boy21 begin when he was a baby and go all the way to the present day.

It’s obvious his family had money. His clothing looks expensive in all the school photos, and there are pictures of him and his parents taken in foreign places: in front of the Eiffel Tower and also that leaning tower in Italy—even one by those pyramids in Egypt.

I start to feel a little jealous of this kid, because I’ve never been anywhere but Bellmont and he’s been all over the world, which doesn’t really seem fair. Why is it that some people are born into fantastic situations and others wait their whole lives for a break?

Russell’s smiling nicely in all of the shots. He looks like a good kid, which makes it hard for me to hate him.

And then I see his high-school basketball team photo: He’s the only black kid. His squad’s wearing cool brand-new Nike uniforms, like a college team. They even have matching sneakers.

Maybe Coach knew that Boy21 was the only black kid on his team like I’m the only white kid on my team, and that’s why Coach picked me for this job.

But I also see Russ is wearing number 21—my number—and I can’t help but feel threatened.