“Why would I make—” Coach started, then stopped. Then he sighed. “Just tell me where you live.”
Where I live. Where I live. When anyone ever asks about where I live, I get weird because people always treat you funny when they find out you stay in a certain kind of neighborhood. But I was used to people treating me funny. When your clothes are two sizes too big, and you got on no-name sneakers, and your mother cuts your hair and it looks like your mother cuts your hair, you get used to people treating you funny. So what’s one more person?
“Glass Manor,” I said. “You know where that’s at?”
Coach didn’t blink. “Yeah, I know where that is.”
We didn’t really say too much in the car. Just zipped from one side of the neighborhood to the other—from the good side to the “other” side. It was my first time ever in a cab. I was used to walking everywhere, unless I was going somewhere with my mom. Then it was on the bus. Coach talked on the phone most of the trip. Judging by what he was saying, what time he’d be home, checking to see if somebody named Tyrone had eaten yet, asking what was for dinner, made me think he was talking to his wife. I wonder what she looked like. Probably not too hot, since she married a man who looked like a chipped-tooth turtle. Coach was saying something about gym shoes to the maybe-wife on the phone when I noticed a woman walking in white scrubs, white sneakers, carrying a black leather purse big enough to fit the whole world in it, and her hair was cut like a boy’s. I tapped Coach on the arm and told him to pull the cab over.
“Hold on,” he said to the person on the phone. Then to me, “What?”
“Pull over,” I repeated. “That’s my mother.”
Coach pulled to the side of the street, and I rolled down the window. “Ma!” I called out, waving to her.
She looked, then looked again, trying to make sure I was who she thought I was.
“Cas?” she said, approaching the cab. “What are you doing in a cab? Matter fact, what are you doing in the front seat of a cab? No, answer the first question. What are you doing in a cab?”
“Hop in,” I said.
“No, you hop out,” she replied.
“Ma.”
“Ma’am.” Coach leaned over so she could see him. “It’s fine. Hop in. I’m just giving him a ride home.” Then he added, “On the house.”
Coach swiped everything on the backseat to one side as I reached back and opened the door. My mother stood outside the car for what seemed like minutes before deciding to climb in. And even after she did, she kept the door open, one foot still on the sidewalk, so she could jump back out if she needed to. Her bag, which I knew was full of Styrofoam containers of chicken and gravy, or whatever gross but free meal we were going to be having for dinner, crunched on the seat beside her as she finally pulled her leg in and closed the door.
“How was work?” I asked as Coach pulled back into the street.
“Cas, don’t ‘how was work’ me. Why are you in a cab? And excuse me, sir, no offense, but who are you?” she asked. Told you. Moms don’t trust nobody around their kids.
Coach adjusted the rearview mirror so he could see my mother in the back.
“I’m Coach Brody, but everybody calls me Coach. I run the Defenders city track team.”
“Uh-huh. And?”
“And your son came and, uh, sat in on my practice today.” Coach threw a quick glance at me. “Did you know he could run?”
“Did I know he could run?” She was sitting directly behind me, but I could still feel the heat of her eyes burning through the headrest, scorching the back of my neck.
“Yeah, he can run. Like, really run.”
My mother just sort of grunted. I knew better than to say anything, or to even turn around and look back at her. I just said to Coach, “Make this left,” when we got close to my street.
Coach made the left and continued, “And I think he’s got potential. With the proper coaching, he could be a serious problem.” I felt like I had seen this in every single sports movie I had ever watched. All of them. Ma’am, your son has potential. If this went like the movies, I was either going to score the game-winning touchdown (which is impossible in track) or . . . die.
“Sir, I appreciate that, but let me tell you something. Cas already is a serious problem,” my mom explained. “And right now, he needs to focus on school, not sports.”
“Right here,” I murmured to let Coach know where to stop and let us out. I figured there was no reason to drag the conversation out. It went exactly like I thought it would. So I wasn’t really even mad about it. He cut his blinker on, pulled over, and put the car in park.
“Listen”—Coach turned around to look my mother in the face—“I totally get that. But what if I made you a deal,” he went on. “If he messes up in school, one time, he’s off the team.”
“One time?!” I squawked.
“One time.” Coach held his hand out to my mother. I kept my eyes forward until I heard her exhale the breath of a long day.
“You’re gonna get him home every day?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“What about his homework?”
“It’ll be done.” He sounded pretty confident for not even knowing me like that.
Coach gave us both one of his cards. I put mine in my backpack while Ma gazed at hers, making sure everything was legit. Then she let out another big sigh, this time probably the breath of a worried mom.
“Well, at least I’ll know where he’ll be after school,” she gave in.
And that was it. Just like that. For the first time in my whole life, I was on a team.
3
WORLD RECORD FOR THE MOST ALTERCATIONS