He throws his hands in the air. “Geez, Lamar, haven’t you had enough?”
I stare at the asphalt. “I’ve had more than enough.”
Sergio stares at the side of my face. I can feel his stare. His hand touches my shoulder.
“Dang, bro, I didn’t know it was like that. Is Makeda talking to you, or has the cheese melted off that sandwich, too?”
“She came over yesterday and we talked for a long time. She’s going to help me figure out some things.”
“I was wrong about her, Lamar. My bad, bro.”
I crack a grin. “Did you just call me ‘bro’ twice?”
Sergio rolls his eyes. “Totally slipped.”
“Anyway, I’m starving and I’ve got an afternoon of chores to do. Check you later.”
When he opens the door, the sounds of everything I love fill my ears. I can’t wait to get back in there.
On my way home, I make one more stop. This shouldn’t take long. Billy is on me and I’ve got to find out where he is. Before I left home this morning, I checked the phone book and got his home address.
I shuffle up the porch steps and knock on the door. It opens and a lady wearing an apron pushes the screen open. She’s holding a feather duster just like Mom’s. Mr. Jenks must have a cleaning service to help him keep things in order. I smile.
“Is Mr. Jenks home?”
She shakes her head. “No, not at the moment. Can I help you?”
I shake my head, too. “No, ma’am. I need to talk with him about his son Billy.”
She shrugs. “Well, I’m Billy’s mother. What is it you need?”
Oh, Mylanta. Goose bumps ripple across my skin.
“Do you mean you’re his stepmother or something?”
She frowns. “Stepmother? What’s this about?”
I get the willies. “I’m sorry. It’s just that Billy told me you were dead.”
Her face smoothes out. “I see. Yeah, that sounds like something Billy would say. Would you like to come in?”
Heck no.
“No, ma’am. I plan to visit Billy, but I don’t know the name of the boot camp.”
“You want to visit Billy? I can’t imagine why. He’s in LaPorte, at Camp Turnaround. It’s a good three-hour drive from here.”
“What’s the quickest way to get there?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Never been and have no intention of going.”
“Oh. Dang. Okay. Thanks, Mrs. Jenks. Uh, glad you’re not dead.”
She chuckles and waves. “Me, too!”
I walk home and wonder why she never asked my name. She didn’t seem to care about Billy at all. Maybe he didn’t lie. Maybe she is dead to him.
As I climb the steps to my porch, I hear the television. Dad is watching a Cubs game. He looks at his watch. “It’s twelve forty-five, Lamar. Where have you been?”
I tell him and he listens, then lets out a long sigh.
“That’s a long trip down I-65, son, almost to Chicago.”
I get up to leave. Dad grabs my arm and smiles. “That’s why we’ll need to leave early. I’ll request Saturday off so you and I can take a little road trip. How does that sound?”
“It sounds perfect. I’ll be ready.”
Dad nudges me. “Guess what? Your brother has a tutor and he promises to help X pass his final exam next week. He’s some kind of math guru. Isn’t that awesome news? Xavier! Come out here a minute.”
My brother appears from his room.
Dad points at me. “Tell your brother the awesome news.”
Xavier nods. “Yeah, so this dude walks up and says Coach sent him to me, you know, to help with this algebra. His name is Kenyan and he goes to I.U. He said he gets college credit for helping high school students over the summer and he asked if I would help him. Can you believe that? He asked me to help him! And he’s helping me! It was crazy, sitting at the table, listening to him. Then suddenly—bam!—algebra blew up in my head! I understand it, fool! And he’s going to come every day until my test. I knew Coach would come through for me.”
Dad chimes in. “And I think taking your medicine every day is helping, too.”
X nods. “I forgot I was supposed to eat before taking it. That put the brakes on my stomach drama. And now that I take it at night, it doesn’t matter that it makes me sleepy because sleep is what I was going to do anyway.”
I turn to Dad. This is the first time my father has smiled since the alarm thing. Seeing his face light up is worth ten times what I paid Kenyan. I hold out a fist to my brother. “Congratulations, X. That is awesome news.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Saturday morning, after Dad and I have a monster breakfast, I make sandwiches and pack them away in a brown bag with chips and Gatorade. I rush to my room and stuff everything I’ll need in my backpack. I hear his keys jingle.
“You ready, Lamar?”
“Yes, sir, and I made us lunch.”
“Got your inhaler?”
I roll my eyes and sigh. “Yes, Dad.”
He tells Xavier we’ll be back later and to work hard during his tutoring session today. Once we’re in the car, it’s not long before we’re on the freeway. Dad takes an exit for I-65.
“It’s a straight shot from here,” he says.
I settle in the backseat and unzip my backpack. I take out a brand-new notebook full of empty sheets and my favorite pencil. It’s time to get busy on this essay for Bubba.
Dear Bubba,
I should be the winner of a Pro Thunder because…
No, that’s dorky. Let me start over.
Dear Bubba,
This is your number-one fan, Lamar, and…
And…I’m an idiot.
It’s too hard. Sergio’s right. It will take me two years to write one paragraph. I look up and lock eyes with Dad through the rearview mirror.
“What are you doing?”
“I decided to enter the essay contest.”
“Bubba’s contest?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I thought the deadline had passed on that.”
“It’s Monday at midnight. But I’m having major trouble getting started.”
“Let me hear what you’ve got so far.”
“Okay. ‘Dear Bubba.’”
It takes Dad a minute, but he gets a clue. “That’s it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lamar, that sounds like the beginning of a letter, not an essay. You start an essay with your reasons for writing one. For instance, yours should start off with something similar to ‘I should be the winner of your essay contest because’ blah, blah, blah.”
“Yeah, that’s right, I forgot.”
I try again, but it just won’t come. Other than the fact that I think I’m Bubba’s number-one fan, I’ve got nothing. It doesn’t matter how long I hold this pencil, the eraser isn’t big enough to remove what I’ve done to Bubba. I close my notebook.
Even though he doesn’t know it, I’ve totally disgraced Bubba by rolling gutters, trusting someone else’s advice, and dissing his essay contest to my friends. It’s not that I can’t write an essay; my problem is it’s so dang hard asking for something I know I don’t deserve.
If I were going to write one, I’d write about how this is the absolute, hands-down, no-questions-asked worst summer of my entire life. I could go on and on about dumb mistakes and even outline them.
All this thinking makes me so tired that I lie across the seat and go to sleep. I’m in a deep dream about me and Makeda when I feel the car slow down. Dad makes a sharp turn and I fall off the seat.
“Are you okay back there?” he asks.
“Yes, sir. Are we there yet?”
“I’m pulling in right now. This place is huge.”
The big parking lot is almost empty. Visiting hours start in a few minutes. There are a few people standing at the front door of a huge one-story building at the front of the parking lot. Far behind the building are six long tents. In front of each tent is a line of
boys standing in single file. Billy’s in there somewhere. I feel it.
Dad gets out of the car. “We have to go into this building and sign in. I hope you brought some form of ID with you, Lamar.”
I get out of the car. “I’ve got my school ID. But Dad, I was hoping you’d let me do this by myself.”
He seems surprised. “No problem. I can listen to the radio. You made some sandwiches, didn’t you?”
“They’re in that bag on the passenger seat. This won’t take me very long. I’ll be back in no time.”
Dad leans against the car. “Take your time, son. I didn’t bring you all the way up here to rush. I’m proud of you, Lamar. I really am. Now go get in line.”
There are seven people ahead of me. When the guard opens the door, we form one line. I hear a commotion toward the front. Some lady is arguing with a guard.
“There’s nothing in these cookies but sugar, flour, and butter.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Either take the cookies to your car and go to the back of the line, or I’ll throw them in that big trash barrel in the corner. It’s your choice.”
The lady in front of me turns around and whispers, “I learned my lesson with cupcakes. There was a long line that day and it was so hot outside. I couldn’t go to the back of the line and wait again, so that guard tossed all of them in the trash, right in front of me.”
I make it to the front of the line. The guard seems a lot bigger.
“Empty your pockets,” he says.
I take my ID out and…oh no. I’ve got Billy’s cell phone.
“Either take your cell phone to the car or I’ll throw it in the big trash barrel.”
He looks over the long line of people and begins to shout. “If you have anything other than your ID and five dollars on you, take it back to the car and go to the end of the line or I’ll dump it in that big trash barrel in the corner.”
He looks back at me. “So what’s it going to be?”
I shrug. “Toss it.”
He doesn’t hesitate, then points over his shoulder with his thumb. “Proceed through the open door and wait for the next guard’s instructions.”
I take my time moving forward and stare at that door like it’s the gateway to hell. As I step through to the other side, a strong odor slaps my face and makes my eyes water. A few people are already seated at tables. They’re staring at me.
A uniformed guard wearing a cowboy hat gives me a hard look. He checks his clipboard.
“Name.”
“Lamar Washington.”
“Visiting.”
“Billy Jenks.”
He checks off something on his clipboard before glaring at me.
“Do not touch William Jenks or any other resident. Please keep your hands on the table and refrain from any inappropriate conversations or vulgar language. Go to table four.”
“Yes, sir.”
I inch toward table four. On the ceiling, several brown water stains line up with dark spots on the carpet directly below them. Two short vending machines are the only things in this room besides the chairs and tables. One machine has sodas and the other has chips and candy.
There are twelve card tables in this room. Each one seems far enough away from the others for people to have a private conversation. I don’t think I want to hear the conversations in this place.
I put my hands on the table and look around. Tables one, two, five, seven, eight, nine, and eleven have women sitting at them. I bet those are mothers.
If Mom had to visit me here, I’d be so embarrassed and ashamed.
Moments later, the guard with the clipboard turns on a walkie-talkie. In a booming voice, he speaks into the radio and closes the one open door.
“All clear. Bring in the residents.”
The room is dead quiet. I’m scared to move. My eyes search for some sign of Billy.
Click!
A side entrance opens and a line of guys in white jumpsuits marches in. Some look very young, maybe ten or eleven. Others look as old as Xavier.
In a firm drill-sergeant voice, the guard calls names and table numbers.
“Rodriguez, table two. Masterson, table eleven. Jenks, table four. Jackson, table eight.”
They march quickly to their assigned tables with their hands to their sides and eyes straight ahead. Billy’s face turns as white as his jumpsuit as he gets closer to me. He stops in front of the chair that has a sign on the back that reads FOR RESIDENTS ONLY.
I whisper. “Hey, Billy.”
“No talking!” yells the guard.
“Oh. My bad.”
After the last name is called, the guard shouts again. “Residents, be seated! You have exactly thirty minutes, beginning now.”
Some of the women immediately walk to the vending machine and get snacks. I don’t budge. Billy cuts his blue eyes to me. I stare right back and talk about his momma.
“Why didn’t you tell me you knew how to do séances? I would have asked you to bring my mom back from the dead, too.”
He slumps in his chair and crosses his arms. “Why are you here?”
“I want to know why you lied to me, Billy. I want to know why you left me out there at the Y when you promised you’d be my lookout guy.”
“I don’t owe you anything, Washington, and that includes an explanation. You made crazy money with me. You should be thanking me.”
“For what? I’m the biggest saphead in Coffin for trusting you, Billy. I thought we were friends, but you were just using me.”
“I don’t need any friends. I don’t want any. I’m a businessman, Washington. How many times do I have to tell you that? As a matter of fact, I’ve already got a new business in the making.”
I frown. “What?”
“I met two guys in here who have a hookup to brand-name designer clothes and athletic shoes. I’m considering a clothing business. Maybe I’ll sell my stuff at Striker’s on the weekends. You down?”
“You mean stolen stuff?”
He leans in. “Keep your voice down. What are you trying to do, get me busted?”
I lean in, too. “News flash—you’re already busted, Billy. And it doesn’t seem like it makes any difference. Didn’t you learn anything?”
He leans back in his chair. “Yeah, I learned to stay away from weak chumps like you. I can’t believe you rolled all the way here to ask me some punk questions. Why don’t you man up, Washington?”
“I’m more man than you’ll ever be. While you’re touring boot camps around the country, I’ll be handling my business like a real man. Bank that!”
I’m wheezing. Dang. I try to cough it out. Something’s triggering my asthma. Maybe it’s that smell. I cough again and sniffle. Billy stares at me.
“I want my phone back. Where is it?”
I shrug. “Check the trash.”
“You owe me for the phone, Washington.”
“Take it out of my last paycheck.”
“We had something, but you turned out to be a lot different than I thought.”
“Yeah, I am. I thought I wanted to be like you, Billy. But you use people.”
“I don’t use people; I just don’t do anything for free.”
“There’s nothing wrong with doing stuff for free. You should try it.”
“That’s why you’ll always be broke, Washington.”
“But I’m not locked up, and I might get to see Bubba on Friday. You won’t, because I don’t think he makes boot-camp visits. And I can bump my gums when I want, where I want, and for as long as I want. And I don’t have to wear a busted white prison jumpsuit every day.”
Billy shrugs. “Whatever. Did you bring any money? Dude, I’m dying for a Coke. This is the only time I can have one.”
My wheezing comes back stronger. I cough again and stand.
“No, I’m broke, remember?”
I rush to the guard. “Something’s making me wheeze in here.”
He takes no pity on me. “Then leave. Nobody’s making you stay.”
>
I walk by table four. Billy eyeballs me. Just before I get to the door, a whistle blows.
“Time’s up!”
Nine guys in white jumpsuits bounce to their feet with their hands to their sides.
“Visitors stay seated until the residents have vacated the visitors’ area.”
As I listen to the guard bark out names and watch the guys respond by rushing to get in line, I know that my road will never lead here. The guard at the door slips sunglasses over his eyes, then looks down at me.
“I hear you wheezing over here. Get your butt off my property and handle that noise.”
“Yes, sir.”
By the time I get to Dad, I’m gasping for air. I open the car door and he freaks.
“Where’s your inhaler?”
“I left it on the backseat.”
He starts the car and turns the air to arctic blast, then snatches the inhaler from the backseat before rushing around to help me get in. I grab the inhaler and prop it in my mouth. I’m so weak. Dad notices and squeezes the medicine for me.
“Relax, Lamar, breathe in, breathe out. Just relax, son. I’ll get us out of here.”
Dad burns rubber out of the parking lot. “I’ll take you to the hospital.”
“No, Dad, don’t. The cool air is helping me. My inhaler is working.”
“You scared me. What happened?”
I shrug. “I think I’m allergic to boot camp.”
“Did you see Billy? Did you get your answers?”
I turn to him. “All I want to do is bowl, Dad. That’s the difference between me and him. It’s about having fun with my friends. Once I figured that out, I had the answer I needed.”
I climb over the seat and open my notebook.
“You’re going to work on your essay?” asks Dad.
“No, sir. I need to write a letter. But before I do, I need to give you something.”
I take two hundred bucks out of my backpack and drop it on the passenger seat.
“This is for my fine.”
Dad’s eyes widen as he looks from the money to the road to me through the rearview mirror. “Where did you get that kind of money?”
“Hustling with Billy. I was saving for something else, but I need to handle my business first. My fine is my business, not yours, and you shouldn’t have to pay it.”
How Lamar's Bad Prank Won a Bubba-Sized Trophy Page 15