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

by Crystal Allen

  Dad pulls over and puts the money in his wallet. “No more hustling, Lamar.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

  “I’m so proud of you.”

  I lift my pen and press it to the paper. I’m not writing an essay. What I’m writing is much harder—harder than any essay I’ve ever written.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Monday is the deadline for essays to be postmarked and mailed. It took me all evening Saturday, all day Sunday, and some of today, but I got my letter written. I read it aloud once more before mailing it.

  Dear Bubba,

  My name is Lamar Washington. I’m thirteen years old and way pumped about you coming to Coffin, Indiana. You are the baddest bowler in the universe. I’ve read your book six times because I love to bowl and I want to be just like you.

  Unfortunately, I’m not entering your essay contest because I don’t deserve to win anything right now. I bowled for money and scammed people doing it. I even rolled two gutter balls on purpose just to make bowlers think I wasn’t very good so I could take their money. I’ve made some really bad decisions and said some bad things. I disgraced you, my idol, and I disgraced bowling, my game. I did other stuff, too, but I’m too embarrassed to talk about it.

  I want you to know I’ve changed. I no longer bowl for money and I stay out of the gutter. I’m really sorry and I sure hope you can forgive me.

  From your number-one fan,

  Lamar Andrew Washington

  When I drop the envelope in the mailbox, my shoulders lower, I sigh, and there’s no doubt in my mind I’ve done the right thing. I sure hope he accepts my apology.

  After doing my chores, I sit at my desk in my room and pull up Bubba’s website. His Pro Thunder Giveaway Tour schedule is up, and Coffin is on it. If I don’t get off punishment soon, I’ll miss Bubba. I’m thinking Dad will take us off lockdown on the Fourth, especially since it’s Independence Day.

  But now I’m bored to death. There’s nothing to do. I hear Xavier vacuuming in the living room. I’m sick of watching television. I’m even sick of surfing the net.

  I stretch out across my bed. My ceiling represents me well: blank. I’ve got nothing going on and it’s my fault. I might as well go to sleep.

  I don’t wake up until nine o’clock Tuesday morning. My life is terrible! I’m up just in time to start my outdoor chores again. I get dressed, eat breakfast, go outside, and freak. Dad has stacked five bags of mulch near the porch steps. There’s a note on the top bag.

  Lamar, put this mulch around the trees and in your mother’s flower bed. I want it all done today. Dad

  If I ever find the drama fairy who sprinkled all this drama dust in my life, I’ll personally pluck her wings. This will take me all day. I can’t believe it. I have to spend one whole day of my summer break spreading tree bark chips mixed with cow manure around the yard. Then I have to watch people walk by and sneer at me as if I’m the one smelling like that.

  I drop my bandana from my head to around my nose and mouth. I’ve got my sunglasses on, so maybe, just maybe, no one will recognize me. I opted for shorts and a T-shirt because I don’t want that stuff on the bottoms of my jeans. Since Dad made me do this, I borrow a pair of his work boots. I figure it’s only fair.

  The only exciting thing about today is Xavier took his algebra test this morning and his teacher said he’d post the results by five o’clock online. If X didn’t pass his test, I want my money back from Kenyan.

  At three thirty, a guy strolls up the sidewalk with a laptop case in his hand. He grimaces. I stop shoveling mulch and stare.

  He squeezes his nose. “Is that you?”

  I pull my bandana down. “No. It’s the mulch.”

  He chuckles. “I know. I was just playing with you. I’m Kenyan. I know you’re Lamar by the way my cousin Makeda described you. Well, your brother finds out today.”

  I shrug. “I know. Hope he passes.”

  “Me, too,” says Kenyan. “I’ll let you know.”

  I rip open another bag of mulch. Two more bags and I’ll be finished. I don’t know which smell is worse; this or boot camp. At least this one doesn’t make me wheeze.

  Soon Dad comes home with pizzas, hot wings, sodas, and chips.

  “Come and join us as soon as you can, Lamar,” he says with a wink.

  I even out a mound of mulch in Mom’s garden and wipe my brow.

  “Yes, sir.”

  An hour later, there’s so much noise inside they don’t hear me come in. Dad screams at the replay of a mammoth home run hit by the Cubs’ catcher. Kenyan’s laptop has a wireless connection. He keeps checking to see if the grades are posted while asking Xavier about his test questions.

  X is really into it. He’s got Mom’s pink feather duster in his hand and a whisk broom in his back pocket. He points the duster at Kenyan.

  “Yo, check it out, K. I talked myself through each one, like you showed me. My teacher tried to hate. He said I was disrupting the test session with my mumbling. I said, ‘Whatever,’ picked up my desk, and moved away from everybody just so he’d chill. I bet I didn’t use my eraser more than twice. I’m the real deal, playa. I own algebra.”

  Dad bought enough munchies to feed twenty people. Four pizza boxes stacked on one side of the coffee table leave little room for all the chips, hot wings, sodas, and cookies. I sure hope X has passed that test, because Dad went all out.

  I walk in front of the television and pull my bandana off my mouth. “Hey, everybody.”

  Dad and Kenyan hold their noses. X frowns and points at my feet.

  “You better not get any of that mulch on my clean carpet!”

  I go back to the door and take the boots off.

  “I’m just going to get a plate of munchies and sit outside,” I say.

  No one answers. X eyeballs me as I gather pizza, chips, and hot wings on my plate. He mumbles to me.

  “In your face, sucker. I know I aced that test.”

  “I hope you did,” I say, and leave.

  The window is open. I hear all the talk and laughs coming from inside. It gets quiet, and more laughter escapes through the window. Then I hear:

  “Wooooo-hooooo! Yeah, baby!”

  The front door opens. It’s Kenyan.

  I move down the steps and throw my paper plate in our big silver trash can. Kenyan is standing at the base of the steps when I turn around.

  “He passed. Your brother got a B-plus. Missed an A by two points.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, he did it!”

  I shake his hand. “Thanks, Kenyan. Thanks a lot for helping X. I really mean it.”

  He nods. “You’re the big man, Lamar. I don’t think I would ever do anything like this for my brother.” He reaches into his pocket and gives me a piece of paper.

  “Here’s my cell phone number. Let me know if you need my services again. Next time I’ll give you a discount.”

  I turn away from him to finish my work and see X standing in the window, staring at us. I spin back to Kenyan.

  “Did you tell him?”

  Kenyan glances up to the window, then back at me. “I swear I didn’t.”

  I freak. “He saw us.”

  “He should be happy he’s got a brother like you.”

  I glance at the window again. X is gone.

  “You don’t understand, Kenyan. He hates me.”

  Kenyan pats my shoulder. “He’ll cool off. Don’t lose that paper, okay? Take it easy.”

  “Yeah, you, too.”

  After I finish the yard, I put away the yard tools and go inside. Dad is still all smiles.

  “Did you hear the news, Lamar? Your brother passed algebra.”

  I cut my eyes to Xavier. “Kenyan told me.”

  Dad keeps talking. “That is the best news I’ve heard in a long time. And I think in honor of this day, as of tomorrow you’re both off lockdown. Lamar, you can’t have your bowling pass back yet, and X, you can’t have your ball, but you can go hang out with
your friends again. I still need to see a little more from both of you before I give those precious things back.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I say.

  “Yeah, thanks a lot, Dad,” says X.

  Dad heads for his room. “And with that, I’m going to take a nap before I have to be at work tonight.”

  X stares at me like those scary dogs that don’t bark or wag their tail; the ones that make you uneasy because you don’t know if they’ve got a “licker license” or a “license to kill.” A shiver goes through me.

  “Why were you talking to Kenyan?”

  I shrug. “I just told him good job, that’s all.”

  “I saw him give you a piece of paper. What was on it?”

  “Nothing. His phone number, I think. He said if I knew anyone who might need his services, to give him a call. Here, you can have it.”

  I take the paper out of my pocket and stretch it out to X, but he won’t take it.

  “You’re a terrible liar, Lamar. I heard the whole conversation.”

  I back up and hope he doesn’t walk forward. When I feel the knob of my bedroom door, I turn it, walk in, and lock the door behind me. Maybe I should crawl out my window and run down the street.

  Instead, I settle in for the night. Maybe if I’m out of sight, I’ll be out of mind, too. But I can only do that for so long. Eventually he’s going to come after me.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  I’m up before X. After chores and breathing exercises, I bounce. Even though my yard smells like cow patties, it’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood. I strut down the street with purpose. There it is! I push the door open to Striker’s. Oh Mylanta! I’m home!

  The wonderful cheesy smell of pizza welcomes me back. I’ve missed this place like crazy. I check to be sure there are still forty lanes. I scan the carpet. Same stains, same colors, everything looks the same, except now I’m here to have fun again, not to make money. I spot Sergio sitting alone at his usual table. He sees me and shouts.

  “Dude, you’re off lockdown?”

  “Yeah! I’ll be there in a minute.”

  I buy two Cokes and take them to his table.

  “It’s about time you got off punishment, Lamar.”

  “I know. Here, I bought you a Coke.”

  “Sweet.”

  I tell Sergio about my visit to see Billy and how the boot camp guard threw Billy’s phone in the trash.

  Sergio grins. “That cell was a ball and chain, bro. You couldn’t go anywhere without Billy blowing up the phone, making you meet him somewhere to hustle. I’m glad you tossed it.”

  “Dude, it’s a new day. I’m done with Billy.”

  Sergio grins. “Are we rolling?”

  “Is water wet? Dad still has my pass, but I’ve got a few dollars. Did you get a lane?”

  Sergio shows me his waiting-list pager. “When are you buying your Pro Thunder?”

  “I’m not. I used the cash for something else.”

  “I hope it was worth it.”

  “I got a tutor for X so he’d pass algebra.”

  Sergio gives me props. “That’s tight, bro. That’s what’s up.”

  “Plus I had to pay a fine for that Y thing.”

  “Too bad you didn’t enter Bubba’s contest. At least you’d have a chance.”

  I’m not telling Sergio about my letter to Bubba. That’s private. “Yeah, I know. And worse, I’m broke and pathetic again.”

  Sergio looks around, “You’re talking to a dude who followed his ex-girlfriend to the mall and got his face cracked. That’s pathetic. I’m just not…”

  His eyes fix on something over my shoulder. I’m scared to look.

  “Dude, what’s wrong? Is something crawling on me? What are you staring at?”

  He doesn’t answer. I peek over my shoulder. Holy guacamole!

  A señorita made of the hottest salsa walks toward us. Long, black hair blows off her shoulders like one of those sexy models in a magazine. Her dark eyebrows and darker eyes have me hypnotized until I hear my boy whisper.

  “Dang.”

  She’s wearing one of those half shirts that show midsection skin. Sergio’s talking to himself. I snap my finger at him.

  “Yo, Sergio, who’s that?”

  He shrugs but keeps his eyes on her. “I don’t know, but she’s fine with jalapeño cheese.”

  This Hispanic honey half grins at Sergio and sashays by. He’s stuck in stupid. I lean toward the aisle, and Sergio looks over his shoulder so we can rate this beauty from the back.

  Wait.

  I’ve seen that butt before. When Sergio turns to me, the fear in his face seems real and funny at the same time as he pleads.

  “No way, bro. That can’t be.”

  I break the news. “There’s only one girl with a butt so high it looks like someone installed hydraulics in it.”

  Sergio leans in. “Esmeralda Sanchez.”

  Word around school claims Esmeralda’s butt is wider than the sun and the backs of her legs have never felt the warmth of a summer day.

  Sergio scratches his head. “She used to part her hair down the middle and sport two fat braids, didn’t she? What’s going on? Is everybody changing around here?”

  I catch him sneaking another look Esmeralda’s way, so I call him out. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Nothing. It’s Esmeralda Sanchez.”

  “Dude, if I had passed on Makeda, I would have lost out on a really awesome girl.”

  “You’re right about that, bro. Makeda is a good catch.”

  I look up and my best friend winks at me. I nod and take a long chug of Coke. Once again, I lean into the aisle for a look down the carpet.

  “Okay, Romeo, she’s settled in. Time to bust a move.”

  Sergio grimaces. “What are you, crazy?”

  Flashes of a few weeks ago swarm my brain, and I repeat exactly what I remember him saying to me.

  “Go talk to her. I double dare you, with cheese.”

  He eyeballs me. “Do you know what this will do to my reputation?”

  “After Tasha, your rep is invisible. Esmeralda is fine, fool.”

  Sergio and I look her way again. She’s sitting at a table all alone. I can tell he’s thinking about it, tapping his fingers on the table and slurping the last of his beverage.

  He pushes back in his chair. “Wish me luck, bro.”

  I hold out my fist. “Luck is for chumps. Handle your business.”

  Sergio shuffles down the main aisle. I watch him motion to the seat across from her and sit down. It takes me back to when I first took that chance with Makeda. I wonder if he’s nervous. Girls usually come to him. This is a new thing for Sergio.

  The disc lights up. Our lane is ready. I hate to interrupt him getting his mac on, but I’m here to roll the rock. I finally get his attention and hold up the blinking disc. He jogs to me.

  “Go ahead and take the lane. I’m going to be a minute,” he says with a smile.

  I rent my shoes and grab a ball. On my way to my lane, I hear an announcement over the PA. “Just a reminder that reigning PBA champion Bubba Sanders will be right here at Striker’s this Friday at six o’clock to help us celebrate the Fourth of July. Bubba’s giving away four of his signature Pro Thunders to four lucky winners. Join us on Independence Day at Striker’s Bowling Paradise, where we have tons of fun, all under one roof.”

  I’ll be here. That’s for sure. I tune out the people around me and zone in on my game. Those ten white pins remind me of Billy and the other boot campers in their prison gear. Billy’s gone for six months. I can’t imagine six months without bowling. As the music blares, I pick up my ball. I don’t care what anybody says, there’s nothing better than rolling the rock.

  POW!

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  By seven o’clock Thursday morning, I’m dressed, finished with my chores, and on my way out of the house with the trash bags when I hear a door open and slam. I know it’s not Dad. He’s not home from work
yet. I turn to see X stumbling toward me, still half asleep, wiping slobber from the side of his face.

  “You’re just the person I’m looking for. Where are you going? Get back here! I need to talk to you.”

  I’m taking the stairs two at a time with this Hefty bag over my shoulder like I’m some ghetto Santa when I hear Xavier’s bare feet flap on the porch.

  “You’ve got to come home, Lamar. And I’ll be here waiting on you.”

  I drop the trash at the curb and run down the street. When I begin to wheeze, I pump my brakes and check behind me. He’s not there. Striker’s doesn’t open for another hour, so I pass it and step through the hole in the chain-link fence at the soccer fields.

  I make it to the end of the bleachers before taking a puff from my inhaler. As the medicine creeps to my lungs, I slide my back down a wooden post as my face floods with tears.

  I’ve failed at doing things wrong and now I’ve failed at trying to make things right. I grab my head and say what’s on my mind.

  “I’m such a loser.”

  X still hates me. He’s going to kill me, I just know it. It’s been two weeks since my monumental screwup and I still get dirty looks from people. I don’t think they’ll ever forgive me. This is the absolute worst summer ever. I need a new plan. Maybe I’ll just take a nap, right here under the bleachers, and a really good idea will come while I sleep. Because X is right. At some point I have to go home. But I can’t get into trouble again. I’m allergic to boot camp.

  I wipe my face and get up. Since I’m not that far away, I take a walk to Makeda’s house. Grandma’s on the porch, so I knock on the door. Makeda answers with a smile. I try to look cheery.

  “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by. Are you avoiding me?”

  She giggles. “Did you forget that I go to MVP camp this Saturday? I’ve been studying and packing. But I did hear the good news about X. Kenyan said he got a B-plus!”

  I’m trying to smile, but the edges of my mouth keep sliding downward. Don’t cry in front of your girl, Lamar.