Full Court Press

by Todd Hafer

  His eyes found it almost immediately—a battered yellow school bus, which looked as if it had been dropped from above into a clearing amid aspen trees and an assortment of mutant-sized weeds.

  “What’s that bus doing here?” Cody asked.

  “Serving as Greta’s home.”

  Cody studied the scene. “Is it even legal to live like that?”

  “I don’t know, idiot. But that’s not really the point, is it?”

  “Why is she living out here?”

  “It’s a long story. Greta won’t tell me all of it. Let’s just say it involves her mom’s suicide, her dad’s getting fired, and their house getting repossessed.”

  Cody started to speak, but he was cut off by a sudden burst of robust barking. A thick-necked, mud-brown dog charged into view, ears flat against its huge skull.

  Is that a Rottweiler or a pit bull? Cody wondered. He felt his heart accelerate. Some dogs barked just for show, but he got the sense that this one meant business. Fortunately, the barking seemed directed at something on the other side of the creek, at a 45-degree angle from where he and Robyn crouched.

  “Back off, Cujo!” called a voice in front of the dog. Cujo complied in midbark.

  “That’s a good boy,” Greta cooed, as she emerged from a cluster of aspens. Cody wondered if he had heard Greta speak before.

  He turned to Robyn. “What’s that in her hand?” he whispered.

  “I’ll give you a hint. In your house it’s squeezably soft. But Greta’s family can’t afford squeezable or soft. Imagine life with no indoor plumbing, Cody. Imagine what it will be like for her when winter sets in and there’s a foot of snow on the ground most of the time.”

  “I gotta tell Blake about this. Maybe our church can help them.”

  Robyn looked at Cody. She seemed on the brink of crying. “Cody?”

  “Yeah?”

  “A church can help, and that’s fine. I know they will always be willing to do something. The question is, what are you gonna do? You know what the Bible says about helping the poor, the widows, the orphans, ‘the least of these.’ This is about as ‘least’ as it gets. You’re seeing it with your own eyes. So forget the church for a minute—what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Cody saw disappointment in Robyn’s eyes. “Well, then—you have some thinking to do, don’t you? Maybe some praying, too.”

  The duo slipped away. They walked silently back to the middle school, where they parted ways. Before she left, Robyn gave Cody an earnest, pleading look that reminded him of his mom’s face in those final weeks—when she needed a cushion adjusted, a painkiller, or just someone to hold her hand.

  Cody sprinted upstairs to his room and read the parable of the Good Samaritan. It’s been too long since I read this one, he thought. Okay, God, he whispered, as he smoothed the open pages of his Bible, I get the message.

  The next Monday morning, instead of shooting free throws, Cody spent an hour talking with Coach Clayton. The subject of basketball never came up. On Tuesday morning Robyn and Cody arrived at the gym at 6:45. Greta was waiting for them. Robyn wrapped her arm around Greta’s slumping shoulders and led her to the girls’ locker room, where Coach Clayton and Miss Engle, the girls’ basketball and volleyball coach, had arranged for her to shower every morning. Miss Engle also gave Greta a permanent locker, a privilege usually reserved exclusively for athletes.

  In science class later that day, it was Cody’s turn to put all the chairs on top of the tables so the cleaning crew could sweep and mop the floors. Typically, whoever had this duty left Greta’s chair untouched. But on this day, as the students filed out of class, Cody went to Greta’s place first and placed her chair on the table.

  As he moved from table to table, Cody felt someone watching him. He looked up and saw Greta, standing in the doorway. At the final table, he came to Andrew Neale’s chair. He smiled at Greta as he tipped the chair onto its side and left it lying on the floor. As he left the room, she smiled back.

  On Wednesday after lunch period, Cody saw Pork Chop, Neale, and a few others press their backs against the wall as Greta passed by. Cody approached Pork Chop and yanked firmly on his right arm. Pork Chop, looking puzzled, planted his feet and refused to be moved.

  When Greta was out of sight, Pork Chop sighed and allowed Cody to tug him into the boy’s bathroom.

  “If you wanted me to go somewhere,” Pork Chop said, “you coulda said ‘please.’”

  “I didn’t feel like saying ‘please’ out there. But I do now. Chop, please—you gotta stop this Greta stuff. Check this out—the girl lives in an abandoned bus outside of town. No toilet. No running water. Her mom killed herself a while ago. They lost their house. And that’s only the beginning.”

  Pork Chop shook his head sadly. “Man, that’s rough. I had no idea. But, Cody, you gotta understand—I didn’t mean anything vicious.”

  “It does mean something vicious to her. It hurts her. Every time Alston or one of his cohorts pulls something on her, it beats her down a little more. You may think you’re different from them, but to Greta you’re not. You’re just another one of Alston’s cruel tools.”

  Pork Chop took a step toward Cody. “Hey—I’m nobody’s tool!”

  Cody held his ground. “Then stop acting like one.”

  Pork Chop took a deep breath and then exhaled forcefully, just as he did when completing a bench press. “Okay, Cody. You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t tell me. Tell her.”

  “Aw, I can’t do that, dawg.”

  “Sure you can. I did.”

  “You did?”

  Cody nodded. “Monday morning. I said it.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Nothing. But she heard me, and she knows I meant it. That’s what matters.”

  Pork Chop nodded. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “You’re right. I’m not promising I can bring myself to talk to her, but the harassing is done.”

  On Friday after first period, Cody saw a small crowd gathered in front of a row of lockers in the science hallway. Neale was leaning back against a locker, trying to look casual. Greta stood two feet in front of him, head bowed, arms crossed in front of her body.

  Cody angled toward Neale, uttering a silent prayer as he walked. God, please show me what to do here. And please let me keep all my teeth. Amen.

  As he drew up to Neale, three words flashed in Cody’s head, like opening credits on a movie screen—LOVE ALWAYS PROTECTS. He smiled. “First Corinthians 13:7,” he whispered to himself.

  “What’s up, Neale?” Cody asked, trying to sound confident.

  “Nothing, Martin. I’m just kickin’ back. But this ugly sow here seems to have a problem with that.”

  Cody turned toward Greta. “He’s leaning against my locker,” she said quietly. “I asked him to move. I asked him nicely.”

  Cody willed himself to look Neale in the eyes. “She asked you,” he began, “and now I’m asking you. C’mon, dude—move. We’re all gonna be late for class.”

  Neale snorted. “You want me moved? You move me. And I don’t see your fat slob, half-breed bodyguard around. You’re on your own.”

  “So are you. Alston’s not here to have your back either. Now, move. Or I will move you.”

  Cody studied Neale. His arms hung loosely at his sides, but he looked as if he could go into fighting mode instantly. His expression was hard to read. Neale looked as if he were trying to solve a complex algebra equation in his head.

  Seconds crawled by. Cody could feel his armpits growing moist. He was glad he remembered to use his deodorant that morning.

  Love always protects. Love always protects. But how was he supposed to protect Greta—and not get expelled or beaten to a pulp?

  Cody raised his right hand slowly and scratched his ear. Then, quick as a rattlesnake strike, he lashed out at Neale, smacking the locker with his palm. He missed Neale’s head, just as he had planned—but only by inches.

 
Neale leaped from Greta’s locker, as if it had suddenly delivered an electric shock to his backside. He also squealed like a piglet.

  That drew a roar of a laughter from the onlookers. Crimson-faced, Neale began to back away from Cody.

  “I’m out for now,” he said, “but this isn’t over, Martin. You best watch your back, Cuz.” Neale’s voice sounded threatening, but he continued to back up as he spoke.

  “You don’t have to watch your back, Neale,” Cody said evenly. “Because if I see you harassing her again, I’ll come for you—and it’ll be straight on.”

  Cody turned his attention to Greta. She loosened her small, rigid mouth and gave him her second smile of the week. Cody grinned in return. The morning showers and makeup tips from Robyn hadn’t transformed Greta into a stunning beauty. After all, this was Grant Middle School, not a production of Cinderella. Greta was still a plain-looking girl. Clean, but plain. Still, she had a nice smile.

  After the Cody-Neale showdown, almost everyone in school quit going into wall-hug mode in Greta’s presence. But not Terry Alston.

  The following week, Cody arrived in the science hall after first period. The scene was identical to the one a few days earlier, except this time it was Terry Alston camped in front of Greta’s locker, like a watchdog. Neale, Schutte, and a few other of Alston’s sycophants stood nearby, taunting Greta in their nasal voices.

  Cody walked grimly toward Alston. He knew that getting pummeled by Alston and his homeboys wouldn’t get him a place in the next Jesus Freaks book, but he hoped that Blake would use a “Cody the Courageous” story the next time he preached for Pastor Taylor—or maybe at his memorial service.

  Cody whipped around as he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. He hoped it was a teacher. It was Pork Chop, looking uncharacteristically grim and shaking his head slowly from side to side.

  “Hey, Chop,” he said quietly. “Don’t try to stop me. I gotta do this. Just come and visit me in the hospital. Or say a few kind words at my funeral.”

  Pork Chop’s head was still moving. “No, Cody. I got this one.”

  Cody couldn’t stop the sigh of relief before it escaped from his throat. “You don’t have to—”

  “Cody,” Pork Chop interrupted, “I’ve been thinking about what you said, okay? And you were right. And then what you did last week—that showed me something. I guess you could say you inspired me. Now, like I said, I got this. You just watch my back in case one of Alston’s monkey boys tries to jump on it.”

  Cody nodded solemnly.

  “Yo,T,” Pork Chop called as he and Cody reached Greta. “Step off from Greta’s locker, or I’ll put you through it.”

  Alston’s hands were at his sides, but Cody saw them curl into tight fists. “Try it, fat boy. I can hit you ten times for every time you tag me.”

  Pork Chop shrugged. “One time is all I need. And don’t call me fat. I prefer the term ‘big-boned AfricanAmerican.’”

  The ripple of Coach Clayton’s whistle preempted Alston’s response. The coach loped toward the scene, with smooth, ground-gobbling strides. Cody felt a twinge of disappointment. The “Fight of the Year” had just been postponed.

  “Problem here, fellas?”

  Alston spoke up first. “Nah, Coach—we were just talking.”

  “Yeah?” Coach Clayton’s voice was laced with suspicion. “Well, you best save your breath for the extra suicides you’re all going to run tonight. My athletes get to class promptly, understand? They don’t hang out and clog up the hallways. Now, all of you—get to class!”

  As the students dispersed, Cody heard Alston address Pork Chop in a conspiratorial whisper, “Someday, Porter, you and I are gonna war!”

  Pork Chop smiled good-naturedly. “I know,” he said. “Meanwhile, I’ll just keep stacking hay, pumping iron, and sparring with Doug in our basement, waiting for that fateful day to come. I’m gettin’ thicker and stronger every day. What’re you gettin’?”

  Grant faced a disorganized Cook team and a tired Lincoln squad that week, beating both by twelve—on the road. In the Lincoln game, Cody held Locke, a five-foot-nine power forward who was averaging fourteen points a game, scoreless. At halftime Locke was zero for eight, and Coach Clayton issued a challenge to Cody, “Martin, if you blank Locke in the second half, I’m buyin’ hot-fudge sundaes for everyone after the game.”

  Later, when Cody tipped just enough of Locke’s last-second turnaround jumper to make it fall short, the entire Grant bench ejected from their seats, whooping and clapping.

  “That’s my white boy!” Dylan screamed.

  “No, that’s my white boy,” Pork Chop countered.

  Coach Clayton smiled. “That’s my dawg!” he said.

  Locke ended the game zero for fourteen. After the final buzzer, he rebounded his errant shot and punted the ball into the rafters.

  Week four of the hoop season brought Maranatha and Mill Creek to the Grant gym. The Raiders won both games but lost something more important. In the fourth quarter of the Mill Creek game, with Grant leading by two, Alston tried to block a Mike Riley fallaway jumper from behind. He was whistled for a foul and immediately drew nose to nose with the referee. About the only three clean words Cody heard from Alston during the thirty-second tirade that followed were “you,” “blind,” and “moron.”

  The ref responded by assessing Alston his second technical foul and ejecting him from the game. Alston marched from the court, snatched a towel from Dutch, and sat heavily at the end of the bench.

  Coach Clayton followed Alston down the bench, kneeling in front of him and whispering something in his ear. From his vantage point at midcourt, Cody could see Alston’s eyes widen and his head shake in disbelief. Coach Clayton drew to his feet and stood over his star guard, hands on hips. Alston rose slowly and slinked away to the locker room.

  After Riley hit his three free throws, Coach Clayton called time out. “Men,” he said, his voice measured, “we’re going to have to win this one without Terry Alston. Losing your cool is like spilling a box of Cheerios. It’s messy, and it takes a lon-n-n-n-n-g time to get your stuff together afterwards.”

  Cody nodded. Blake had talked about the same thing on Sunday—only without the cereal analogy. His words had come straight out of Proverbs 16:32—“Better a patient man than a warrior, a man who controls his temper than one who takes a city.”

  Cody had never thought of himself as being stronger than Alston, but maybe, in at least one important way, he was.

  Before the Raiders broke their huddle, Coach Clayton looked almost pleadingly at his team.

  “This is the last game before Christmas break,” he said, “so we’ll have a long time to think about it if we lose. C’mon fellas—we can win this thing if we play tough D. That’s defense, Gannon. That thing we do while you’re waiting to get the ball back.”

  Gannon grinned, winked at Coach Clayton, and jogged to midcourt.

  “Heaven help us,” Coach Clayton sighed.

  As he took up position on the left wing, Cody looked up at the game clock, which read 1:31. Gannon charged up the middle of the court, and Cody and Pork Chop shot each other a foreboding glance as they moved in to rebound the inevitable Gannon miss.

  I wonder if this will be a clanker off the front rim or an air ball, Cody thought as he battled Riley for position in front of the hoop.

  Gannon was just inside the top of the key when he launched his jumper. Riley tried to hip-check Cody aside as the ball flatlined toward the bucket. Cody held his ground, went into a slight crouch, and prepared to jump for the rebound.

  Cody relaxed his leg muscles as Gannon’s shot whipped through the net. He saw Gannon do the Tiger Woods fist-pump as he jogged back on defense. However, as he crossed the center stripe, Gannon jump-stopped and pivoted back toward the Raider basket. Riley had just released a lazy inbounds pass to Brach, his backcourt mate, and Gannon got to the ball well before it reached its intended target.

  Gannon collected his prize and elevated for a ju
mper from the right wing. Cody fought his way down the center of the lane for the rebound. Out of the corner of his left eye, he saw Gannon release his shot at a severe downward angle.

  In the split second that followed, Cody realized he was witnessing a triple miracle. First, Gannon had actually made a shot. Then, he played defense. And now, with the game on the line, he was declining a cherished opportunity to shoot, in favor of a potential assist.

  Cody caught the bullet jump pass in stride and hit a left-handed layup. As he hustled back on defense, he saw Coach Clayton jumping up and down, his heels nearly hitting his backside.

  “He looks like a cheerleader,” Cody whispered.

  “An ugly cheerleader,” Pork Chop agreed.

  Energized by Greg Gannon’s rare display of complete basketball, Grant pulled away to win by seven. The Raiders entered the Christmas break 9–0.

  Chapter 7

  Un-Merry

  Christmas

  Cody’s dad turned down no fewer than five invitations to Christmas dinner, including one from his sister in Oregon. Dad also had a brother in Texas, but he rarely spoke of him—or to him—as far as Cody knew.

  On December 22 Cody heard a knock at his bedroom door. He put down his Bible and called, “Yeah?”

  Without opening the door, his dad asked, “Cody what would you like to do for Christmas? It’s coming up so fast, and I really don’t know what to do.”

  Cody rose from his bed and opened the door.

  “I don’t care what we do, Dad. I just don’t want you to go to any trouble. Around two, Blake will pick us up to volunteer at the soup kitchen, just like always. Then Pork Chop is coming by a little later. Other than that—”

  “I just can’t do the soup kitchen thing this year, Cody. There’s no way.”

  Cody looked closely at his dad. His face bore deep lines, as if they’d been etched with a sculptor’s tool. Had they been there for a while, or was this something that sadness did to a man?

  “Really, Dad?” he said. “I mean—Mercy House has been kinda like a family tradition.”