How Lamar's Bad Prank Won a Bubba-Sized Trophy

by Crystal Allen

  How Lamar’s Bad Prank Won a Bubba-Sized Trophy

  Crystal Allen

  For Reggie, Phillip, and Joshua,

  the maddest, baddest, most

  spectacular guys ever

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Since Saturday, I’ve fried Sergio like catfish, mashed him like…

  Chapter Two

  Since Mom died, every woman in Coffin’s been trying to…

  Chapter Three

  We’re about to start our second game when Sergio clears…

  Chapter Four

  My feet switch to autowalk. I’m halfway there when I…

  Chapter Five

  It’s five thirty when I finish rolling my last game…

  Chapter Six

  Friday morning the garbage truck roars down the street. I…

  Chapter Seven

  I’ve got a big glob of duh stuck in my…

  Chapter Eight

  I turn the corner and notice Dad is in the…

  Chapter Nine

  I sit on the front bumper of Dad’s car, content…

  Chapter Ten

  Early Saturday morning I crank through my chores like a…

  Chapter Eleven

  Mom must have been desperate when she hired Dr. Avery.

  Chapter Twelve

  It’s four o’clock and I’m in front of our house.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Inside Striker’s, I look for Billy. The crowd is thin…

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sunday afternoon, right after church, Dad takes X and me…

  Chapter Fifteen

  I slump in my seat to hide. Our driver is…

  Chapter Sixteen

  Early Monday morning I sit on my bed and make…

  Chapter Seventeen

  My mouth hurts and my left eye stings. I can’t…

  Chapter Eighteen

  When I get home, Dad and X are gone.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The crowd closes in. It’s harder to breathe. They mumble…

  Chapter Twenty

  Officer Perkins mumbles and paces. “You didn’t mention anything about…

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A clap of thunder awakens me from a dream of…

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Early Thursday morning, I get my chores done and head…

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Monday, Mason and his two helpers lay the new wood…

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  At noon on Wednesday, Mason gives me the great news.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Saturday morning, after Dad and I have a monster breakfast,…

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Monday is the deadline for essays to be postmarked and…

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I’m up before X. After chores and breathing exercises, I…

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  By seven o’clock Thursday morning, I’m dressed, finished with my…

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Friday morning I take the last few bucks out of…

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  Since Saturday, I’ve fried Sergio like catfish, mashed him like potatoes, and creamed his corn in ten straight games of bowling. And it’s just the middle of the week. People call Wednesday “hump day,” but for Sergio it’s “kicked-in-the-rump day.” I’m his daddy now, the maddest, baddest, most spectacular bowler ever.

  Sergio hates to lose. He’s always got some lame excuse for biting the dust. Now I’m on the phone, listening to him bump his gums about how he’s going to beat me tomorrow. I’ve heard enough, so I break him off a dose of reality.

  “You couldn’t outbowl me if there were two of you and I had the flu.”

  Sergio whines worse than a busted violin. “What do you expect? Look how long you’ve been bowling!”

  I pretend to cry. “Hold on, let me get a tissue so I can wipe the Sergio sap leaking from my eyes. If you’d bowled with me for three years instead of playing Little League football, you’d be as good as I am at rolling the rock. Maybe I need better competition.”

  “I can beat you, Lamar. Better competition? You’re just scared to face me again.”

  I pull the phone away and stare at it in disbelief before pressing it back to my ear. “Scared to face you? First, if I had your face, I’d sue my parents.”

  Sergio chuckles but immediately comes back. “Really? Well, sue this. You’re going down. Eleven is my lucky number.”

  “You’re going to need lucky numbers, tarot cards, rabbits’ feet, four-leaf clovers—every good-luck charm you can find to beat me.”

  Sergio’s my boy. We’ve been tighter than the lid on a new jar of pickles since second grade. He’s good at a bunch of stuff, especially math, and he’s really good at attracting girls. But when Sergio says bowl, he might as well grab one out of the kitchen cabinet and fill it with cereal.

  “I’m serious, Lamar. Your streak dies at ten.”

  I take a deep breath and let it out so Sergio can hear it. “Let’s just turn the page on this conversation and talk about something you might be good at. What’s going on with you and Tasha? Have you mixed spit yet?”

  “Timing is everything with Tasha. She’s classy and I need to take it slow.”

  A big glob of laugh-out-loud threatens to explode in my throat. “Why don’t you just say, ‘No, I haven’t handled my business yet’?”

  Sergio’s frustration speaks up. “I just can’t find the right time to kiss her.”

  I fall across my bed laughing. “Are you serious? You and Tasha haven’t done the Latin lip lock, the Tijuana tongue tango? I thought you Spanish dudes had it going on. What are you, scared? Just do it.”

  I knew that would get him. Sergio guards his reputation as if one day it’s going to get inducted into the Smithsonian Institution.

  “At least I’ve got a girlfriend,” he says. “Anyway it’s not about Tasha; it’s about my birthday in six days. That’s what’s up. I wonder what my parents bought me.”

  There’s no way I’m letting him off that easy. I dog him again. “If Tasha were my girl, I’d put these luscious lips of love on her every day.”

  Sergio fakes a sneeze. “Oh excuse me, I’m allergic to bull. See you tomorrow.”

  “All right,” I say. “Be there at noon and don’t forget to grab us a lane. Get some sleep. Maybe Tasha will visit you in your dreams wearing a sexy Mexican dress. Oh, and maybe she’ll do that tap dance and snap her fingers with a long-stemmed red rose in her mouth and—”

  “Shut up, Lamar. And get my girl out of your head.”

  “Yeah, I guess I did get carried away there. My bad. Later, Sergio.”

  I’m spacing out at the ceiling, wishing I had Sergio’s problem. I’ve asked eight girls to be mine, but they all thought I was joking or had some prank waiting on ’em. Maybe I did take things a bit too far a few weeks ago when I asked four different girls to be mine on the same day. I figured one would say yes. Nobody told me girls talk to each other about stuff like that. When the final bell rang, I found out they do talk, and boy, it got ugly.

  All four of ’em corralled me at my locker, put my business on blast, told God and everybody about how my rap is sap and my game is lame. That’s when I parted my lips and said the worst thing ever.

  “You took me seriously? I was just kidding around.”

  I waited a whole week to let things blow over before trying again. And for my own safety, I asked one girl at a time. B
ut it didn’t matter. The word was out. He’s not serious.

  They’re wrong. I’m ready to hook up with somebody, and that’s no joke. And when I find her, I’ll handle my business, put these luscious lips of love on her—and she’ll know she just got hooked up to the L-Train.

  I’m up early Thursday morning. My older brother and I take turns cleaning the bathrooms, vacuuming, bustin’ suds, and taking out the trash. Dad won’t let us leave the house until we’re done, and I’m not about to let some chump chores stop me from bowling.

  All I want to do is hang out at Striker’s Bowling Paradise. On the first day of summer I took my report card to Striker’s and showed the manager I’d gotten the job done. In return, he gave me the only thing I wanted from him: a bowling pass.

  I get two free games every day, plus rental shoes, thanks to my grades. It’s a sweet deal and worth the extra effort in school. At Striker’s, I dance to hip-hop, girl watch, get my bowl on, and eat all in one place. My bowling skills are ridiculous, and I prove it to anyone who wants to challenge me. On the street, I’m just Lamar, but on the lanes, they call me the King of Striker’s.

  Even though I’m an awesome bowler, Sergio tries to chump me about being thirteen years old and still girlfriendless. Every day I stare in the mirror, groom my fro, and proclaim today as the end of my dry spell. I point my comb at the mirror.

  “You’re a superfine, hot-blooded power line, and today, one lucky girl will win the Lamar lottery. Now go find your winner!”

  A hard finger snap, a quick wink, and a finger point at my reflection put the finishing touches on a closed deal. I shove my comb into my back pocket, close my eyes, and clear my head.

  I hate this part of my morning, but I have to do it, so I take a deep breath in through my nose. I hold that air for ten seconds before releasing it out through my mouth. I fill my lungs with big air again, hold it, and release it slowly. After ten inhales and exhales, I reach to hit the light switch and notice my fake black spider chillin’ behind the soap dish. I snatch it up and shove it in my pocket. Maybe I’ll find a sucker at Striker’s.

  In the living room, Dad’s reorganizing my brother’s basketball trophies on the fireplace mantel. He’s usually asleep by now, because he’s the night-shift security guard at the hospital.

  “Hey, Dad, have you been asleep yet?”

  Dad yawns. “No, not yet. Xavier got another trophy last night: Basketball Star of the Future. I’m glad he chose to play in the YMCA league this summer. It’s sure sharpened his skills.”

  My brother has six trophies on the mantel. Each one has a miniature gold guy at the top, posing like a real basketball stud.

  I just want to snap off their tiny, shiny heads.

  Right now, all I have on the mantel is promised space, but it’s untouchable. Mom taped a yellow Post-it above the fireplace for all the world to read:

  * * *

  This spot reserved for Lamar’s first trophy. You’ll always be my little superstar.

  Love,

  Mom

  * * *

  I’ll never forget how Xavier blew a fuse when he read it. He stood on the other side of Mom, cut his eyes to me, and squeezed his basketball between his huge hands.

  “Superstar? Everybody knows who the real superstar is in this family.”

  I shot back, “Then how’s it feel being the family chump?”

  Xavier went dead-red angry, and by the twisted frown on his face, he was ready to fight. When he shoved his basketball between his elbow and his armpit, I moved closer to Mom. She extended her arms to keep us apart.

  With outstretched hands, she gently pulled us toward her by our shirtsleeves. With one arm around Xavier and the other around me, she held us close. Xavier’s basketball fell to the floor. I exhaled. Something about her touch always calmed us. And then, in a loving voice, she killed us with kindness.

  “How lucky am I? I’ve got two superstar sons. And best of all, they show love to their mother by showing love to each other. It just doesn’t get any better than that.”

  Xavier broke away first, picked up his basketball, then nodded at me.

  “Let’s just man up and move on.”

  I nodded back. “Fine.”

  Mom was magic in motion. Just straight-up cool like that. Whether it was hugs or a quick, off-the-chain delicious meal, she knew how to shut us up and make us love each other whether we wanted to or not.

  She didn’t tell us she was sick until it became obvious. Her hair fell out, she wouldn’t eat, and sometimes she was so weak, Dad had to carry her from the couch to the bed.

  Mom died of cancer last year, but that Post-it still hangs on. It’s my piece of her, and that space is totally, hands-down, no-questions-asked, off-limits to Xavier, and he knows it.

  I grab the doorknob and face Dad. “I finished my chores. I’m going to Striker’s.”

  “Have fun.”

  “Do you need me to do anything before I go?”

  “Nope.” He blows something off the wood at the bottom of X’s newest trophy.

  The door whines when I open it, and Dad spins around. He rubs his eyes again.

  “Did you do your breathing exercises?”

  “Yes, sir. And before you ask, I have my inhaler with me.”

  “Good. Do you think the trophies look better this way, or…this way?”

  “Dad, I mean, they’re just stupid trophies.”

  His back stiffens. “Do you know what they represent?”

  Yeah, a guy so stupid his brain would fit in a teaspoon. But I say what Dad expects.

  “No, sir, I don’t know.”

  “They represent achievements and possibilities. Your brother could get a full scholarship to Indiana University or Purdue, or some other really good college.”

  I want to warn Dad not to hold his breath, because Xavier’s grades are below sea level. He’ll be lucky to get a scholarship anywhere besides Punk ’n’ Chump University. But Dad seems wide-awake now that we’re talking about scholarships. I decide to get in the game.

  “Do colleges give out bowling scholarships?”

  Dad stares at the ceiling like the answer’s written up there.

  “I don’t know. They didn’t have them when I was in school. We need to check that out. As good as you are at bowling, you’d get a full ride somewhere.”

  As if on cue, X strolls in with an algebra book in one hand and his basketball under the other arm. He ducks his head to avoid the archway leading from the hall. School has always been year-round for X because he’s forever sitting in a summer class. His first session is algebra. The second one will be algebra again because he won’t pass the first session.

  Xavier’s seventeen, and in August, when school starts, he’ll be a senior. If he bombs algebra this summer, he could also sink his chance of playing college ball.

  He bumps me on his way to the kitchen. “I know you didn’t ask about bowling scholarships. Get real. Basketball and football, baby. That’s a straight ticket to the NCAA.”

  X looks at Mom’s Post-it and pushes my head.

  “Thought you knew that, superstar.”

  Dad interrupts, “Okay, that’s enough. Xavier, keep your hands off your brother. And stop the sarcasm about your mother’s note. How would she feel about your smart mouth?”

  All three of us glance up at the mantel. Dad stands between us, but he doesn’t pull us close like Mom did. He just clears his throat.

  “X, get to class. Lamar, don’t be out too late.”

  Xavier and I turn in different directions but respond the same way.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Everybody calls Xavier “X.” Sometimes they call him “Xavier the Basketball Savior,” a name Dad came up with. I call him X because to me he’s a mistake for which my parents owe me a long overdue “Our bad, Lamar.”

  I turn the doorknob and burn off. That scholarship conversation circles my brain. Who are these people who decide which sports are the good ones? I bet none of them are bowlers.
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  And it doesn’t help much that bowling isn’t big here in Coffin, Indiana. We’ve never hosted a professional bowling tournament or even had a pro bowler visit our lanes. We just don’t get many out-of-towners here. From the interstate, people take the Coffin exit because they need gas or directions, or because they’re jerks who think we’ve got some Guinness book graveyard on display.

  Our town is named after Levi Coffin, the Underground Railroad conductor from Indiana. My teachers say he helped more than two thousand slaves to freedom. What makes that really cool is that Levi Coffin was a white dude. To me, that took guts. He deserves megaprops for what he did, and I let people know when they laugh at our town’s name. They don’t laugh long.

  This obsession with basketball isn’t just a Coffin thing. It’s statewide. You can’t live or die in Indiana without some kind of hoops connection. Newborns leave the hospital and dead folk leave this world dressed in Hoosier basketball gear.

  That’s why a lousy YMCA game in Coffin can end up with a standing-room-only crowd. I bet somebody older than sausage started this basketball madness. I’m going to end it. As King of Striker’s, it’s my job to announce that hoops has fouled out and bowling is now the maddest, baddest, most spectacular game in town.

  Chapter Two

  Since Mom died, every woman in Coffin’s been trying to raise me. They put me on blast, asking embarrassing questions in front of God and everybody. I’m strutting down the street when Mrs. Ledbetter waves from the side of her driveway, where she’s planting flowers. She’s a big woman with a butt so wide, it wipes all the dirt off the side of her car when she stands to greet me.