Sasquatch in the Paint (5 page)

HIS
dad set the timer for the casserole. Forty-five minutes. “Go ahead and stick the salad back in the fridge so it stays fresh.”

Theo did. His dad helped him clean up the mess. Cucumber peels were stuffed into the garbage disposal. Mushy tomato guts were swept into the sink. When they were done, the kitchen was shining like new. His dad snapped on the oven light to check the casserole. He smiled like a fisherman who's just landed a record-breaking marlin.

Since Theo's mom's death, his dad had become a little obsessed with preparing Theo for the world. Cooking, cleaning, laundry—even ironing—their daily routine was like some sort of household boot camp. Whenever Theo complained, his dad gave the same speech: “You've got to be self-reliant, son. Be able to take care of yourself. What are you going to do when you're out living on your own?” He acted as if he were sending Theo off to war instead of the college he'd eventually be attending.

Here's why:

For almost six months after his mom's death, Theo and his dad had let everything in the house deteriorate. After they had eaten all the lasagna, sandwiches, and casseroles that friends and neighbors had provided following the funeral, they ate out. Fast food mostly. They would drive in, yell their order into a paint-chipped metal box, drive home in silence, and then eat in front of the TV in silence. Crumpled bags, cardboard french-fry trays, and ketchup-stained paper wrappers decorated the house like some new holiday dedicated to greasy food. Laundry was done only when they ran out of clothes and were hunting through the dirty piles for something that didn't smell too bad. The line for what smelled “too bad” kept getting moved.

It was great!

Then one day his dad came home with a couple of grocery bags of laundry detergent and household cleaners, sponges, and paper towels. Another couple of bags were filled with fresh fruit, vegetables, and steaks. His dad took out one of Mom's cookbooks, and together they learned how to prepare a meal. Later, they learned how to clean. And do laundry.

It sucked.

But after a couple months, Theo got used to it. He still grumbled about all the work, but there was something comforting about the routine. Sometimes he even laughed. Like when he watched his big muscular dad delicately pouring the inside of an egg back and forth between two halves of an eggshell so he could get just the egg white for a recipe. Mom had always done all that kind of stuff without Theo ever noticing. Now that he realized how hard she'd worked for them, he wished he could thank her. Instead, he helped his dad and hoped that counted for something.

His dad stirred the green beans in the frying pan, sprinkled some sliced almonds over them.

“More almonds,” Theo said. The almonds made the green beans easier to eat. Theo was not a fan of vegetables unless they were combined with something sweet: marshmallows with yams, Craisins with spinach salad.

His dad grabbed more almonds and added them to the beans.

After dinner, Theo went to his room to finish his homework. He'd done most of it at school, so it didn't take long. He thought about playing a quick game of Call of Duty, but it was late and he had to get up early for the drive to L.A. Plus, his body hurt from playing basketball twice in the same day. Not to mention getting punched in the face.

He went to the bathroom to brush his teeth and saw a small sunburst of red spotting his face. A gift from Jeremy's knuckles. The punch had only glanced off Theo's cheek. He tried to imagine the damage, and pain, if the fist had really connected. Mostly he hoped it would be gone by Monday so he wouldn't have to explain to his friends at school what had happened. Especially Brian, who would give him I-told-you-so looks for the rest of the week.

Theo's phone buzzed. He checked the screen. Brian. As if he'd known Theo was thinking deceptive thoughts about him.

“Hey,” Theo said.

“What's the plan for tomorrow? Movie? Comic-book store? Zombie apocalypse?”

Theo explained about having to go to his grandmother's.

“Ugh. Gavin,” Brian said. He'd met Gavin a couple years ago, at Thanksgiving. Gavin had called Brian “Butterball” the whole time, because “He's as plump as the turkey we're gonna eat.” When Theo had defended his friend in front of the family, Gavin laughed it off as a joke. Later, after they'd all left, Theo had found one of his school notebooks torn to shreds and stuffed in the trash.

“How'd things go at Ground Zero?” Brian asked.

“What?” Theo asked.

“The basketball courts at Palisades.”

“It was okay. No wedgies in sight.”

“Make any new friends?” Brian asked, a hint of a smirk in his voice.

“Yeah. We're all going to the movies next week in matching Justin Bieber T-shirts.”

They both laughed. But Theo felt guilty about not telling Brian the truth about the fight. Crazy Girl. Motorcycle Guy.

They talked awhile about a couple girls at school who seemed to be developing faster than the others. And about their favorite zombie television show,
The Walking Dead
, wondering which main character would be killed off next. Brian told Theo to call him when he got back from L.A., and Theo said he would.

Theo went to bed, but he couldn't fall asleep. Too much had happened, and images from the day just kept flying through his mind like a deck of cards tossed up in the air. He flipped on the light, wide-awake. He knew he should study science facts for the upcoming Aca-lympics competition. Since he'd started playing basketball, he'd fallen behind in his preparation. Instead, he propped open his laptop and started reading about basketball. Strategies, basic skills, plays. He watched game highlights on YouTube. Especially Dr. J (Crazy Girl was right about him, he was awesome). Maybe, if he studied basketball enough, he'd get better at it. Like math.

Suddenly Theo heard something strange. His dad was talking on the phone. He looked at the clock. Almost midnight. His dad was never on the phone this late. Theo's stomach clenched. Was there some sort of police emergency? Was his dad going to be called out to someplace dangerous?

Theo slid quietly out of bed, crept to the bedroom door, opened it a crack, and listened. His dad sounded frustrated and upset.

“…I tried. It's just not working out.… No, I'm not going to say that. I don't care.… This is stupid, a bad idea. I'm sorry I let you talk me into it.…”

Then his voice got lower and Theo couldn't make out what he was saying. But he could hear typing on a keyboard. His dad was talking on the phone while using a computer. Two things he hated to do separately, let alone at the same time.

Theo went back to bed, but he couldn't sleep. What was his dad so upset about?

A few minutes later, his dad shuffled down the hallway to his bedroom.

Theo waited half an hour. His dad usually fell asleep quickly. But he was a light sleeper, had been since Theo's mother died. It was as if he thought he had to be always ready to jump up in case of an emergency. Like he blamed himself for not protecting Mom, even though he hadn't been there when the car crash happened. Even if he had, how could he have stopped a drunk driver from running a red light?

Theo poked his head out into the hall. Listened. His dad snored.

He tiptoed past his father's door and down the stairs. He stepped over the two stairs that creaked and slipped into his dad's study. The computer was asleep, but not off, so it quickly popped open to the desktop photo of ten-year-old Theo running with his mother into the waves at Newport Beach. Theo lingered on the photo a moment before typing in his dad's password: Angelatheo3. Theo had figured that out a couple years ago after only ten minutes. His mom's name, Theo's name, and the three of them as a family.

Theo hesitated. Who was this kid suddenly breaking into his father's computer? What was happening to him? Growing a few inches couldn't explain all this. What kind of crazy thing might he do next? He was actually kind of scared to find out.

But that didn't stop him.

Theo checked his dad's history. He clicked on the most recent site: Why Wait Mate.

A dating site!

The screen filled with a profile page of his dad: Marcus Rollins. There was a photo of him, taken with the computer camera, looking stiff and nervous. Like a wanted poster. He was looking for a woman who liked to stay active, loved children, and appreciated conversation. Favorite music:
Anything Motown, especially Stevie
Wonder and
Marvin Gaye. Also, songs by Joni Mitchell.

Joni Mitchell? Who was that? How could it be that Theo didn't know that about his dad but strangers would?

About Family:
Just me and my son, Theo, 13 going on
25. He's smart, funny, loving. I couldn't have wished for a
more perfect son.

Theo's face burned with shame. A perfect criminal.

“Theo?” His dad's sleepy voice echoed from upstairs. “You up?”

“Yes, Dad. Just getting some water.”

“Okay.” Pause. “You all right?”

“Fine, Dad. Just thirsty.”

His dad's concern, even when only half awake, made Theo feel even guiltier. Not to mention he was adding lying to spying. Some “perfect son” he'd turned out to be.

On the other hand, his dad should have told him about this whole online dating thing. Was he shopping for a new wife? A mother for Theo? Theo had a right to know.

It looked like Theo wasn't the only one with a secret identity. Theo would have to keep an eye on him.

“CIGARETTE?”
Gavin asked, expertly shaking his pack so a single cigarette poked out about an inch. He offered it to Theo.

They were walking to the park to shoot baskets while Theo's dad and Grandma Esther made lunch and argued about politics.

“Pass,” Theo said, waving the pack away.

“Still playing the role of Good Negro.” Gavin said “Negro” sarcastically, which Theo guessed was the only way anyone said that word these days.

“I'm not playing any role, Gavin. I just don't want to suck on a burning stick stuffed with poison. Especially just because a bunch of wrinkly old white dudes in shiny suits who never were cool a single day in their lives tell me that it's the cool thing to do. Feel me?”

Gavin laughed. “Yeah, I feel you, little cousin.”

Gavin had been calling Theo “little cousin” since they were little kids, even though Theo was now half a foot taller. However, Gavin was about forty pounds heavier than Theo, and every single one of those pounds was chiseled muscle. The muscles were even bigger than the last time Theo had seen him. His biceps strained against the sleeves of his too-tight black T-shirt. When he walked, his pecs shifted around as if he had ferrets under his skin fighting to break out.

“What's with the muscle-head thing?” Theo asked. “You on steroids?”

“I don't need steroids, just hard work. Grandma bought me a set of used weights at a yard sale. Plus I do sit-ups and push-ups three times day.” He dropped to the ground and did ten perfect push-ups. He jumped up and grinned. “Your turn.”

“What's the point?” Theo said dismissively, though he was a little jealous.

“Showbiz, cuz, and simple mathematics. LL Cool, Kanye. All those guys perform with their shirts off. Girls go thermal. Sells downloads. I'm getting ready for my career as a world-famous recording artist. Kinda like you studying for your SATs.” He looked over Theo's skinny body and laughed. “I can show you how to bulk up some. Right now you look like a strong fart will send you into orbit.” He stuck a cigarette between his lips and lit it.

Theo didn't like the way Gavin had made him feel like a little kid so easily, so he started in again with what he knew best: facts. He pointed at Gavin's cigarette. “Did you know that there are over four thousand chemicals in tobacco smoke, sixty-nine of which cause cancer? Each cigarette contains chemicals found in batteries, industrial solvents, insecticide, toilet cleaner, sewer gas, and rocket fuel.”

“Rocket fuel?” Gavin nodded, pleased. “Guess that's why I like it so much. Gives me energy. Better than Red Bull.” He took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke out. “Or it could be the sewer gas. I'll get back to you on that.”

That was Gavin. Never took anything seriously.

Theo ignored him, bouncing the basketball as they walked. On every previous visit, Gavin had tried to get Theo to go to the neighborhood park to play basketball. Theo usually refused. For one thing, Gavin's friends thought it was great fun to pick on Theo. For another, Gavin was always suggesting things that could get them in trouble. The last time he'd tried to talk Theo into getting a tattoo with him. “Or better yet,” he'd said, “we should get branded. That's really badass.”

“Branded? As in shoving hot metal against your skin until it fries?”

Gavin had nodded enthusiastically. “I hear your skin smells like bacon.”

“Isn't that what they used to do to slaves?”

Gavin had retorted, “It's what slaves had done
to
them. This is a choice.”

“Yeah,” Theo had scoffed, “a really dumb choice. Plus, your mom and Grandma would kill you.”

“Once it's done, nothing they can do about it.”

That was Gavin, too. Acted like he didn't care what anyone thought. Yet Theo noticed he had no brand or tattoo, nor had he had his name shaved into his hair or lines shaved into his eyebrows like he'd also talked about doing. He was mostly bluster.

Theo dribbled the ball harder, faster. This time he felt ready to face Gavin's friends: he was taller and knew a few more moves. And he needed the practice. Since Coach Mandrake announced that Theo was going to be the core of the team's offense, Theo felt like he should be practicing every moment.

“So you're on the basketball team now, huh?” Gavin said.

“Yeah.”

“They teach you anything useful?”

“Guess we'll find out,” Theo said, hoping he sounded cool and confident.

Suddenly Gavin snatched the ball from Theo's hands and ran ten feet in front of him. His cigarette dangled from his lips while he dribbled. “Guess they didn't teach you how to hold on to the ball at your white school.”

“It's not a white school. In fact, whites are the minority. The principal is Asian.”

“Always with the facts and stats. It's not about the number of whites, it's about the attitude, son. Don't you get that? Even if it isn't mostly white, they're still teaching you to be white.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Fancy computers and SMART Boards and all that junk is just meant to make you a mindless consumer. Ya gotta stay true to who you are, son.”

“Like you? A gangsta wannabe who's failing at school and who's probably going to be stacking boxes at Costco the rest of his life?”

“See, that right there is white attitude. Nothing wrong with honest hard work.”

“I didn't say there was. I just said that you don't have to limit your opportunities just because you're lazy. All your race crap is an excuse for you to do nothing but lift weights. Try lifting a book once in a while.”

Gavin frowned and flicked his cigarette in Theo's direction but not really at him. “You could always talk, little cousin. I'll give you that.” He started dribbling the ball across the street to the park. “Let's see how much good talk does you here.”

Theo followed him across the street, through the park, and to the basketball courts. The park wasn't as nice as Palisades Park. There were a few brown patches of dirt where there used to be grass; some of the trees looked worn down, like they'd been climbed often and roughly. The basketball courts were also more worn: the pavement had long, jagged cracks, making the surface look like it was divided into continents. The line paint was faded and chipped. The nets sagging from the rims were torn, and one rim had no net.

A group of four guys, all black, waved at Gavin and called his name. That was another thing that was different: most of the people in the park were black, like the neighborhood. Theo's park and neighborhood were models of ethnic diversity, with whites, Hispanics, Asians, Indians, Muslims, and even a few Sikh guys in turbans. Sometimes Theo thought the place was like a movie set for some futuristic America where everyone got along. But here, nearly every face was some shade of black. Gavin had once asked Theo if being here “among his own” made him feel more at home. It didn't. He didn't feel intimidated either.

Gavin introduced Theo to the other players. Then, without any small talk, they jumped right into playing. The play was different than at Palisades Park. More fancy dribbling. More fouling. More shoving.

More trash talk:

“Take off your skirt and play like a man.”

“You call that guarding? I wouldn't let you guard my fries at lunch.”

“You need GPS to find the basket, son.”

A couple of others that were way more colorful.

And several that involved body parts in unusual situations.

More than a few of these comments were directed at Theo.

Gavin was on the other team, of course, and volunteered to guard Theo. He played rough, but no rougher than the other kids. A teammate would lob the ball to Theo for an inside layup and someone would jump up to block, slamming Theo just enough so he'd miss the shot. The first time, Theo let it go. The second time, he called a foul, but everyone just laughed, even his own teammates. “No blood, no foul,” they said.

They didn't really mean that, because a few plays later Theo got knocked down by one of the players and skinned his elbow. Blood seeped through the shredded skin. But still, no foul.

“You need an ambulance, little cousin?” Gavin smirked, helping him to his feet.

“I'm fine, dude.”

“In case you haven't noticed, no one around here says ‘dude.' That's surfer talk,
dude
.”

Theo continued to play, getting elbowed in the ribs, stomped on both feet, hip-checked in the crotch (
that
felt like he might need an ambulance). After about an hour, Gavin told them he had to leave. Theo said nothing, but he was relieved. He felt as battered as if he'd been whirled in a blender. The rest of the guys complained and tried to talk Gavin into staying, but he pointed at Theo and shrugged, as if to say, “I'm babysitting, nothing I can do.”

On the walk home, Theo said, “You didn't have to quit on my account. I was doing fine.”

Gavin snorted. “I don't want Uncle Marcus giving me a hard time about his baby boy getting hurt.”

“Did you hear me complain?”

“Nope. And you surprised me with some skills. Still, you're like a toddler wandering into traffic. Not one of the real players.”

“Real players? All they did was shove and foul. In a real game they'd all have fouled out.”

“That was a real game. What real game are you talking about?”

“In a gym, with referees.”

“That's just one kind of ‘real' game. Not the only kind.”

“Oh, I see. It's not a real game when you have to play by the rules. Right, gangsta?” Theo said “gangsta” as sarcastically as Gavin had said “dude.”

Theo expected Gavin to get angry. But he didn't. That was new.

Gavin laughed. “Look, I'm just saying, your problem is you don't play basketball to win. You play to not look stupid.”

Theo stopped walking. He could feel his skin heating up with anger. His cheeks actually burned. “What are you talking about?”

“The way I see it, little cousin, there are three types of jammers. First, you got your average player with no particular talent who enjoys hanging with his boys. That's me. I can play okay, but the game don't mean nothing to me. Win or lose, same deal to me. Next, you got your guys who are always watching the clock or the score or whatever, just praying for the game to be finished because they think everyone's judging them every second. They're panicking the whole time they're on the court, thinking they don't have what it takes. That's you, man. Finally, you got those who never want the game to be over, because each minute is like living on some planet where you got no problems. They feel like they're flying, or driving a hundred miles an hour with no chance of crashing. Winning for them isn't even a question. They know every time they grab a ball that they're going to win. Even when they don't win, they still feel like they did, because they were, for that brief time, in a place where everything they thought or did mattered. That's who you
wish
you were.”

Theo grabbed the ball out of Gavin's hands and started home alone. “You see me maybe once every six months and you think you know all about me. You don't know anything.”

Gavin didn't say anything. No dig, no joke, no insult. That, too, was new.