Boy21

19


THANKSGIVING DAY has us wearing gloves, scarves, and hats.

Erin, Boy21, and I sip hot chocolate as we watch our football team lose their final game of the season on their home field.

People around here like football, but the atmosphere is underwhelming compared to the basketball games. It’s Thanksgiving, so it’s a little more lively than usual, but not much. Bellmont just isn’t a football town.

Our marching band’s halftime show’s pretty awesome, though. They do a Michael Jackson tribute that ends with an amazing rendition of “Thriller,” complete with zombie dance moves.

Boy21 sits with us in the smaller, mostly white section of the stadium, which makes him stick out a little, but no one says anything.

It’s not like our stadium is segregated intentionally, but Bellmont citizens generally sit with the people they look most like, and that’s the way it’s always been.

The three of us cheer when our team does something good, but we don’t say much else. The whole time I want to ask Boy21 if he’ll be trying out for the basketball team tomorrow, but I also don’t want to ask.

When Terrell throws a fourth-quarter interception, the Bellmont football team ends up finishing 2–6 for the season, so they don’t make the playoffs. None of my basketball teammates were injured, so I consider football season to be a complete success and I know that Coach agrees.

As we exit the stands, we run into Mrs. Patterson, Bellmont’s number one basketball fan and Terrell’s mother, who is wearing a leopard-print hat and a leather jacket that sort of looks like a bathrobe. She’s very stylish. When she sees me, she yells, “White Rabbit! Come on over here, boy.”

I walk over to Mrs. Patterson and she gives me a big hug and then kisses both my cheeks. To her friends—who are all wearing Bellmont football jerseys over their coats and are the moms of non–basketball players—Mrs. Patterson says, “Did you know this here Pat McManus’s boy? Time for the real season now. Basketball! This young man’s gon’ feed my son the rock all winter long and I’m gon’ cheer White Rabbit and my Terrell on to the state championship. Ain’t that right, White Rabbit?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Look how he quiet and respectful, just like his father was in high school,” a large woman with dark purple hair extensions says. All of the other women laugh and smile and say, “Mmm-hmm!”

“Okay, White Rabbit,” Terrell’s mom says, nodding a respectful but curt hello at Erin, who is standing with Boy21 ten feet away. “You run off with your girlfriend and your tall silent shadow. Go on now.”

We find Coach hanging out with the other Bellmont faculty members in the parking lot drinking beer from paper cups and pretending that we students don’t know what’s in the cups. He tells me that he’ll see me in the morning—which is when basketball season officially begins—wishes Erin luck, and then says he’ll drive Boy21 home, because that’s where he’s having his Thanksgiving dinner, with the Allens.

Finally alone, Erin and I walk back to our neighborhood holding hands.

The few trees left around here have shed their leaves, but because no one in our neighborhood bothers to rake, we crunch our way down the sidewalks.

“You know,” Erin says, “maybe we could stay together this basketball season. Maybe we don’t have to break up?”

I don’t say anything.

Erin and I have this conversation every year.

She argues that our schedules will keep us so busy that it won’t even matter if we are together or not, but I believe that during basketball season, a romantic relationship is a distraction, and there’s no way I can simply be friends with Erin. If I see her at lunch or before school or at my locker every day, I’ll get horny, and I won’t be able to focus one hundred percent on the season. I love Erin as much as I love basketball, which is a conflict of interest. And if we kiss on my roof or hold hands—these things will most definitely take my mind off my goals. With schoolwork and Pop to take care of already, I can’t mentally afford to have a girlfriend during basketball season.

I love making out with Erin, and holding her hand, and the peachy smell of her hair after she showers—almost as much as I love the sweaty leather smell of a gym in winter, being part of a team, and working out with the guys. And while having a girlfriend and being on a team aren’t mutually exclusive, both fill a need—maybe the same need. Basketball and Erin make the rest of the world go away—focus me, make me forget, and get the endorphins flowing. It’s best to be addicted to one or the other. This will be the fourth season Erin and I have taken a break, and we’ve always gotten back together in the past, so why do I have this strange dreadful feeling tonight?

When it’s clear that I’m not going to argue with her, Erin says, “Don’t you worry that I’ll start dating someone else?”

I laugh because I know she’s kidding.

Basketball will be her boyfriend for the winter, just like it’ll be my girlfriend.

“So?” she says.

“You need to focus on your season too.”

She knows this is true because, deep down, Erin also wants to concentrate solely on basketball. She just gets a little needy the night before the season begins.

“Can’t we at least walk to school together and talk? Sit together at lunch? Aren’t you being a little extreme?” Erin’s smile is playful. She’s messing with me. I know she gets why we break for basketball.

“I have to stay focused,” I say. I think about the possibility of Boy21 actually playing, and then add, “Especially this year.”

“Why?”

I shrug, because I’m not allowed to tell her the truth.

She gently elbows me in the ribs. “Tell me why you said this year!”

I don’t know what else to say.

“Why do you have to be so weird?” Erin says, but she squeezes my hand when she says it, so I know she isn’t mad at me.

I decide to kiss her on the lips, and, because it’s not officially basketball season yet, I do just that.





20


ERIN AND I EAT OUR THANKSGIVING MEAL at the Quinns’. The dining room is very narrow and it’s hard to pull the folding chairs out so that you can sit down. None of the chairs match and the table is an old wood job with lots of scratches on it. The silverware is mismatched and crappy. Erin’s parents are wearing depressing old sweat suits. Her mom’s in a pink Minnie Mouse number and her dad’s is plain navy blue.

Rod is there and I have to admit that he intimidates me, especially knowing what he allegedly did to Don Little.

During the meal, Rod says, “Anyone in the neighborhood bothering you?”

“Nah,” I say. Rod’s now got a tattoo on his neck. Something written in Irish, I think. I don’t know Irish.

“What about you, Erin?” he asks.

“No,” she says. “Do you ever play ball anymore, Rod?”

“Nope,” he says, which makes me sad because he played ball with us all the time when we were younger, and he was a great point guard. Dad used to take me to see him play back when Rod was at Bellmont High, playing for Coach. Rod was pretty awesome. I once saw him get a triple double against Pennsville—sixteen assists, eighteen points, ten rebounds.

“Your team going to be any good this year?” he asks me.

“I think so,” I say. “Erin’s team will be too.”

“Coach is pretty much the only good black man I’ve ever met,” Rod says, ignoring my comment about his sister. “And that’s really sayin’ something.”

Erin opens her mouth, no doubt to call Rod on his racist statement, but then she thinks better of it. She doesn’t want the family to fight on Thanksgiving, especially since Rod hardly visits anymore, which bothers Erin. She misses Rod—the old Rod who used to play ball with us when we were kids. He never used to say racist stuff.

I think about saying something too, like I know a lot of good black men, but I also know my place in the neighborhood. Truth is, I’m afraid of the new tattooed Irish mob Rod, just like everyone else.

We eat in silence for a few minutes.

Erin’s parents are older than my father and a little strange too. Her dad’s quiet like me and avoids eye contact during the meal. Her mother’s a nervous woman who makes so many trips to and from the kitchen that she never really sits down long enough to eat, let alone have a conversation.

Erin’s parents look a little like wrinkly deflated zombies. Sounds funny to say, but it’s true. There’s not a lot of life in either of them.

In some ways, their row home is a little nicer than mine. They even have a flat-screen TV, a computer, and Internet access, but I wonder how much of that Rod covers, especially since Mr. Quinn has been out of work for a long time and Mrs. Quinn works down at the town hall as a secretary, so she can’t make all that much cash. There are some questions you simply don’t ask in Bellmont, because no one wants to know the answers.

“I’ll get you some more meat” is the most Mrs. Quinn says to me during the meal.

Erin tries to get everyone talking by asking what each of us is thankful for.

“Turkey,” her father says.

“Family,” her mom says.

“Guinness and Jameson,” Rod says.

“Basketball,” I say.

“Finley,” Erin says.

“And Erin,” I say.

“And basketball,” Erin says.

Erin and I look each other in the eyes.

Rod snorts and shakes his head.

We finish eating in silence.

Just as soon as he swallows his last bite of pumpkin pie, Rod leaves.

Mr. and Mrs. Quinn both fall asleep on the couch.

After Erin and I wash and dry the dishes, we go to my house, where we find Pop passed-out drunk in his wheelchair again, clutching Grandmom’s green rosary beads, just like every other holiday, because special occasions make him miss his wife even more.

We present my dad with the plate of food that Erin wrapped up and sit with him while he eats.

“What are you thankful for?” Erin asks Dad.

“That my son has such a good friend,” Dad says. “And for this plate of delicious food too.”

Erin smiles.

“You two ready for basketball season?” Dad asks.

“You know it,” Erin says.

“Man, I wish I was still playing high-school basketball,” he says. Dad gets this sad faraway look in his eyes, probably because he was dating Mom back then.

No one says anything and Dad finishes eating.

Once his slice of pie is gone, Erin and I go up to my bedroom and climb out onto the roof. We bring my comforter with us, wrap ourselves up into a giant cocoon, and breathe in the crisp fall air, which makes me think of opened refrigerators again.

I had planned to make out with Erin for a half hour straight, because this is the last time we’ll kiss for at least three months. If either of our teams goes deep into the playoffs, it could be four months before I taste Erin’s lips again, so as I run my hands between her shirt and her smooth, strong back, I try to focus on being with my girlfriend tonight and put basketball out of my mind, but I can’t.

“What’s wrong?” Erin finally says. “You’re not into this at all.”

“I’m nervous about tomorrow,” I say.

The wind blows hard and I shiver, even though Erin is on top of me now and her body is very warm.

“Why?” she asks. “You’ve been the starting point guard for two seasons now. Coach loves you. You’re in the best shape of your life, and you’ve worked so hard in this off-season. You’ve done everything you possibly could to prepare. It’s going to be a great year for you. Hard work yields big-time rewards, right? Remember our summer motto.”

When I don’t say anything, Erin says, “What’s going on with you? You’ve been weird for a couple of weeks now. You better tell me now before we break up at midnight or this is going to eat you up for months.”

“Can you keep a secret?” I ask her, because she’s right: I need to talk about this. I know I’m betraying Coach by telling Erin, and I feel guilty about that, but I just can’t keep it in any longer.

“You know I can.”

I stare into her shamrock-green eyes and then, before I can stop myself, I say, “Russ’s parents were murdered.”

“What?”

“He’s here because his parents were murdered and then he went crazy and had to live in a home for kids with post-traumatic stress. Whenever we’re alone, Russ calls himself Boy21. He says he’s from outer space and that his parents are going to come and pick him up in a spaceship.”

Erin’s mouth opens, but she doesn’t say anything.

“I’m serious. When he came to live with his grandparents, Coach told me everything and asked me to help Russ. Coach was good friends with Russ’s dad. Russ is using a fake last name, because he’s a nationally recruited point guard who used to play in California. Coach wanted me to help Russ assimilate to Bellmont so that he could play ball for us. He’s going to take my position, Erin. I haven’t said anything before about this because Coach asked me not to tell anyone.”

“Wow,” Erin says. “I mean, wow! That explains a lot. He really believes he’s from outer space?”

“I think it might just be an act, but he talks about it all the time.”

“He has an athlete’s body. Anyone could see that,” Erin says. “Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

“Coach asked me not to,” I say.

“You should’ve told me. I tell you everything. We both know secrets keep people stuck here in Bellmont forever. Do you want to get stuck in Bellmont forever? Or do you want to leave with me?”

“You know I want to be with you. I definitely want to leave this neighborhood.”

“Well then?”

Erin seems really pissed, so I say, “I’m sorry. Okay?”

I look up at the sky. There’re too many clouds to see anything.

She’s right about secrets, but Erin knows I do everything Coach tells me to do.

When I feel like the tension’s gone, I say, “I don’t want Russ to take my position.”

“Maybe Coach was just exaggerating? Maybe Russ isn’t that good?”

“I don’t know. That’s the problem. I wish I knew so I could wrap my mind around it.”

Erin kisses the end of my nose. “You don’t even know if Russ is going to show up tomorrow. Right?”

“It doesn’t seem like he really wants to play ball.”

“If he does show, he hasn’t practiced in a long time. He’s not in game shape, so you have the advantage there. Coach would never forget about you—about all the hard work you’ve done for the team, and what you’ve done for Russ too. Coach asked you to be Russ’s friend, and you did exactly that—for Coach. And let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that your worst fear comes true. Even if you lose your starting position—worst-case scenario—Coach will use you as the sixth man, right?”

“I don’t want to be the sixth man,” I say. “I want to be the starting point guard and team captain.”

“Like I said before—play hard tomorrow. Your game’s the only thing you can control.”

I kiss her cheek and she wiggles her body down so that she can rest her head on my chest.

“Russ’s parents were really murdered?” Erin asks me.

“Yes.”

“That unfortunately explains why he’s so quiet. I mean, my God. Murdered.” Erin pauses, and then says, “Is that why Coach picked you to help Russ?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I just thought that—well—”

“What?” I ask.

“Forget it,” Erin says.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, but Coach—”

“How did it happen?”

“How did what happen?”

“How were Russell’s parents murdered?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “He doesn’t like to talk about it. I can tell.”

“He doesn’t like to talk about anything,” Erin says.

“I can understand why,” I say, and that seems to end the conversation.

We lie there breathing together for a bit, and I can see my breath in the moonlight.

I feel my heart beating so close to hers.

Erin says, “You do realize that Russ really enjoys being around you? He follows you around all day like a lost puppy. And the way he looks at you. You don’t see it, do you? He likes you. He needs you. You’ve been a good friend to him this year. You’ve been helping him. If he comes out for the team, it’ll probably just be so that he can continue to shadow you this winter. So that you two can continue to hang out.”

“He only follows me because Coach told him to,” I say. “That’s the only reason.”

“No, it’s not, Finley. It’s because you’re a good person. It’s because you’re easy to be around. It’s because you are you. You don’t put demands on people and you never say anything negative—ever. So many people suck the life out of everyone they’re around, but you don’t do that. You give people strength just by being you.”

I don’t think Erin is right, but I don’t say anything about that.

We lie on the roof holding each other until midnight.

We kiss once more on her front steps, after I walk her home.

“Good luck this season,” I say.

“You’ll be great this year,” she says.

“Okay.” I take a step back.

“Do we really have to break up?”

“Just for a few months.”

“Will you be my boyfriend again once basketball season is over?” she asks.

I nod, even though it breaks the rules. In past years I’ve argued that we have to break up for real and that taking a leave of absence from our relationship is not the same as breaking up, because we’d just be thinking about the day when we’ll be reunited, which would distract us from basketball. But the truth is we both know this will really only be a temporary separation. We’re definitely going to spend the rest of our lives together.

“I better go. We need to sleep, rest up for day one,” I say.

She nods once and then goes inside.

I’m a single man.

I’m simply a basketball player—a point guard.

And it’s going to be an interesting season, for sure.