Close to Home (Tracy Crosswhite #5)
Robert Dugoni
PART 1
CHAPTER 1
D’Andre Miller pushed open the glass doors of the Rainier Beach Community Center and stepped out into the frigid night. The temperature had dropped considerably, a sharp contrast to the humid, sweat-soaked air inside the basketball gym. His breath burned in his throat, and goose bumps tickled his arms beneath his hooded sweatshirt as he shuffled his rubber sandals down the concrete steps. His basketball shoes, laces tied together, dangled over his right shoulder, his leather basketball tucked securely into the crook of his arm. His prized possessions would never touch anything but the hard court.
“Hey, Baby D!”
D’Andre turned, though still shuffling backward on the concrete patio, no time to lose. Terry O’Neil had pushed open the glass doors of the community center. “Sweet J, Baby. Sweet J,” he yelled.
D’Andre smiled at the praise and thought again of his crossover and three-point jump shot to win the final pickup game.
“You were balling tonight, Baby D,” Terry said. Terry opened the rec center’s gym three nights a week and supervised the basketball games.
“Thanks, Terry,” D’Andre said. He had been balling. Threes and floaters like Steph, drives to the bucket like KD. He’d drained them all, and he’d been playing against guys at least three years older. Just twelve, D’Andre had been the youngest player that the older boys at the center let play, though tonight it had been because they were short players. In the future, they wouldn’t even question his age. Not if they wanted to win.
“You coming back tomorrow night?” Terry shouted, now standing on the top step, his breath like cigarette smoke in the tinted yellow light.
“Can’t,” D’Andre yelled, still shuffling backward. “I got a math test Thursday and I have to study.”
“All right then. You get right with school. But then you come back. Anytime, Baby D. You proved yourself tonight.”
D’Andre liked the sound of that. The best played at the center, and D’Andre had plans to be better than all of them. He’d hung around the gym since he was nine, mimicking their moves—crossovers, Euro-Steps, hesitations—the best each had to offer. And he had showed game tonight . . . though maybe for one game too many. He’d have to bust his butt to get home by his curfew. He should have begged out of the last game, but how could he? He’d finally gotten his chance; he didn’t want to tell them his mama would whip his butt if he was late getting home.
Though she would.
Mama had said to be home by nine. She’d also said D’Andre best have his homework done when he walked in the door. No homework . . . No basketball. A C on his report card . . . No basketball. Forget to do his chores, talk back, get home late . . . No basketball. Mama wasn’t playing either. That’s what she told him. “I ain’t playing and neither will you.” Mama didn’t have time for nonsense, not while trying to raise three sons on her own. D’Andre did things Mama’s way.
End of story.
The oldest child, he understood Mama had it tough. She worked all day and didn’t get home until after six. Grandma made dinner while Mama checked homework. By the time Mama got to bed, D’Andre knew she was beat. “I don’t want this for you,” she told him one night as they sat at the kitchen table going over his math. “You do right in school, get your degree. Become a doctor or a lawyer.”
School came first. She’d already grounded D’Andre once for getting home late, and she wouldn’t hesitate to do it again. “I’m not raising a fool. You got a one-in-a-million chance to play professional basketball, but you can do anything if you study and work hard in school.”
He wasn’t like some of the fools at his school, bringing home Cs and Ds. D’Andre had straight As, except for math. He needed to ace his test this Thursday. Not that he’d get anything for it. Mama didn’t promise anything for straight As. “Why would I reward you for doing what you’re supposed to be doing?” she’d said.
D’Andre cradled the basketball and checked his cell phone. He had ten minutes to get home. He could make it, but only if he moved his butt. He slid on his Beats headphones, listening to Lil Wayne—whose music Mama forbade in the house. She called Lil Wayne a “tatted up felon fool”—which D’Andre actually found funny. He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his headphones and started jogging, each breath marking the air in a white burst. It felt cold enough to snow, though he’d never seen snow in Seattle. People said it snowed a lot in 2008, but he’d been too young to remember. He glanced up at the sky, not really sure what he was expecting to see. The clouds looked like cotton balls against an ink-black sky, the edges tinted silver from the light of a full moon.
D’Andre hurried down Rainier Avenue with the lyrics of “Tha Block Is Hot” busting in his ears. In his mind, he juked a would-be defender and changed direction, heading west on Henderson. That was D’Andre’s best skill, changing direction without losing speed. He learned that from Terrell, and Terrell was going to the UW, at least for a year, before he turned pro. D’Andre wouldn’t be going pro after just one year in college. He’d get his degree. “Don’t give me that nonsense about going pro,” Mama would say. “You tear up your knee, then what are you going to do?”
D’Andre booked it on Henderson, picking up his pace to Lil Wayne’s lyrics. He’d cross Renton Avenue, cut over the Chief Sealth Trail, hop the back fence, and push through the kitchen door with minutes to spare. Mama would give him that look, just to let him know she had him on the clock. Then she’d heat up a plate of spaghetti and sit down, and they’d talk while he ate. He liked those moments, when his brothers were in bed, and it was just him and Mama at the table.
“Someday I’m going to buy you a big house,” he’d tell her. “Big enough that you’ll need one of those scooters to get around.”
“Why would I need a house like that? It’s hard enough to keep this one clean.”
“I’m going to get you a maid too.”
She’d smile. “You buy yourself a big house.”
“Then you and Grandma can come live with me.”
“Your wife might have something to say about that.”
“Who’s she?” he’d say, and break out in a smile.
Mama would pour him another glass of milk and kiss him atop his head. “Eat your spaghetti and get to bed. The best growing hours are before midnight.”