Lu

by Jason Reynolds

  Eventually, I got to the corner, made the right, and started down the next block. Almost there. A few more steps. And.

  Trip. Of course. Over nothing. Of course.

  Stumble. Stumble stumble. Save. Phew!

  Clap!

  Clap!

  Clap!

  Clap!

  “Yoooo, you almost played yourself, kid!”

  That was Skunk. He was sitting outside on his front porch, a cigarette dangling from his mouth as he continued to clap for me. Clap at me. A little scraggly hair dog sat next to him. The dog looked exhausted, as if it had worked a hard day. Or had been jumping hurdles. Or had been smoking cigarettes. The dog’s name is Stinky Butt. Skunk’s had him forever. “Almost lost your whole life out here,” Skunk dragged the joke on. His voice was squeezed, almost choked, as he blew the smoke out, then dabbed the cig butt on the bottom of his shoe.

  “Well, I’m glad I didn’t, and you should be too because this for you,” I said, coming up to him, my arms out holding what seemed like something way more important than it was. Like I was delivering some kind of special scroll. The closer I got, the more Stinky Butt perked up. And right when I got to his porch, the puny mutt started growling.

  “What’s this?” Skunk asked, nodding at me and rubbing his dog’s head.

  I thought about doing my whole rollout with the Good afternoon, my name is Lu and whatnot. Just to be funny. Instead I just said, “Camel.”

  “What?” Skunk took the box.

  “A camel.” I handed him the note from Patty’s mom. “Made of fruit.” He opened the letter, read it, kissed the air. Then he opened the box. “Don’t eat the skin. It comes right off.” Skunk was the kind of guy who would try to eat whatever was in front of him. Type of dude that needed to be warned.

  He pulled a piece of the “fur” off, pinched off some of the kiwi mash, tasted it. Flashed a distinguished frown. Then looked back up at me. Pinched another piece and gave it to Stinky Butt, who had stopped growling and was now sitting up, waggy-tail, waiting for it. Skunk nodded, then, balancing the camel with one hand—I just knew he was about to drop it—got up and opened the front door.

  “Ash! Lu out here!” he yelled into the house, all of a sudden.

  “Oh, I gotta go.” I wasn’t expecting him to call for Cotton—Ashley her government name—but I guess he figured I must’ve been standing there looking silly for a reason. But I wasn’t. And if I was standing there looking silly, the reason would’ve been because he was eating a camel.

  “No, you don’t,” Skunk said, taking a few steps into the house. He was now holding the camel with both hands. Called out for his sister again. “Ash!”

  “I’m coming!” she yelled back. A few seconds later Cotton was standing in the doorway, pushing Skunk farther in, away. Stinky Butt followed behind. “Eww, you smell like smoke! And what you eatin’?”

  I stood there trying to figure out what to do with my hands. Fold them. Nope. Behind the back. Nope. In the pockets. Maybe. But there was an orange there. A tangerine.

  “Hey,” Cotton said to me. She had on sweatpants too, and a hoodie, probably because her grandma always kept the air conditioner blasting. I could smell her. Smelled like bacon. Because her grandma was also always frying bacon. Her face, freshly greased.

  “Hey.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Chillin’. Had to bring your brother a camel.”

  “You had to do what?”

  “It’s Hump Day.”

  “It’s what?”

  “My mother.”

  “Lu, what you talkin’ about?”

  Without even knowing, I had somehow taken the tangerine out of my pocket and was peeling it. Just . . . peeling it right there, sliding my thumb under the skin, rolling it back, sliding it off in one piece.

  “Nothing.” I shook my head. “Forget it.” Talk about embarrassing. I split the tangerine and shoved a whole half of it in my mouth so I wouldn’t have to say nothing else. Probably was chewing it . . . like a camel. Yikes. Cotton, clearly confused, held her hand out.

  What started as just me sharing a piece of stupid delicious fruit turned into a big deal when I got to practice. Because, Patty.

  “Well, well, well, look who it is. Lover boy Lu,” she announced, standing on the bench as if making some kind of speech.

  “What?” I said, giving Ghost and Sunny five.

  “Come on, Lu. Don’t front. You know I know, and you know the reason I know is because Cotton called me right after you left her house. She told me you showed up to deliver a camel to her brother, whatever that means.” Patty hopped down.

  “It means exactly what it sounds like it means.”

  “It does?” Sunny asked, immediately excited about the idea of me showing up to Cotton’s house with a huge animal with weird-looking humps growing out its back.

  “No. It . . .” I didn’t know what to say.

  “No, it don’t, Sunny. What it means is that he went over there to do some cheesy romantic woo-woo mess with an orange. And Cotton be so up in the clouds about this dude that she fell for it.” Patty’s eyes rolled to white. “I just want you to admit you like her, goofball.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You do.”

  “I really . . . she . . . I’ve known her forever, just like I’ve known you.”

  “You love her.”

  “Nah, you love Sunny.”

  “What?!” Patty yipped. “Don’t try to change the subject, Lu. We talkin’ about you. We ain’t talkin’ about me.”

  “Whatever. You love him, and he love you.”

  “That’s true,” Sunny said, shrugging. “About me loving you. Not about the other part. Don’t worry, I don’t think you have to love me for me to love you. Because it’s like sense, you know? It just exists. Like, um . . . like sky.”

  “See? Like sky, Patty. And you know what? That’s what Cotton is to me. She’s like sky. Just always been there, to the point that I barely even be noticing her.”

  “Yo, I swear, Lu, if your skin got darker every time you lied, you’d be midnight by now.”

  “And still the man.”

  “But you not the man!” Ghost crashed in.

  “Neither are you!” I sparked back.

  “Sorry, I can’t hear you right now. My shoes so loud they making me deaf.” Ghost pointed down at his feet, thankfully taking the attention off me. I hadn’t even noticed. Looked down, and there they were, new, and bright white, clean. High-tops.

  “You got new shoes?” I was shocked. And instantly played back all that mess Aaron brought up yesterday again. “Not because . . . of . . .”

  “Man, no. This was my, um, anniversary gift from my mom. She buy me a new pair every year, since it all went down, as a way to say we still a’ight. We good. The old sneakers we always take down to the thrift store because she made up this smart saying that I really believe—one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.” Ghost sat down, started unlacing them.

  “Wait. Your mom’s the person that made up that saying about the trash and the treasure?” Sunny’s eyes bugged.

  “Man, no.” I shut that down.

  “Yes, she did,” Ghost insisted.

  “No she didn’t,” I insisted back. “And let me get this straight, you feel like the man just because you got another pair of new sneakers, huh?”

  “Pretty much,” Ghost confirmed.

  “Well, what you get her?” Patty asked, the conversation bouncing between us like a game of hot potato. “What was her anniversary gift?”

  “I made her tacos,” Ghost said, all confident.

  “Tacos? Dang. Okay, maybe you the man.” I bowed out. I love tacos.

  “Yeah, because you ain’t make Cotton no tacos. You talkin’ about tangerines. Tuh.” Patty cut her eyes at me. “Okay, Ghost, you really are the man.” Patty nodded. “But only for today.”

  “And tomorrow, I’ll be the man,” Sunny spread his arms wide, like ta-da.

  After our
warm-up laps, I went straight over to Coach, because even though it was Ladder Wednesday, the last of the season, I knew I wouldn’t be doing ladders. I’d be doing what I’d been doing. Trying to get comfortable with the hurdles. I had new contacts in, and could see everything clearly, and was ready to get busy.

  “Everything cool?” I asked Coach. He had been on the phone, pacing back and forth, and now was off, but still texting.

  “Yeah, yeah. Margo’s just a little worried. Tyrone always has a tough time with his allergies this time of year. The wind got the pollen and all that stuff all over the place.”

  “And the dust,” I said, remembering the craziness I went through the day before.

  “I should’ve brought you some goggles or something,” Coach said.

  “Nah. Too cool for that. The wind ain’t as bad today, anyway. Plus, I brought extra contacts, just in case.”

  “Too cool,” Coach said under his breath. “You a trip.”

  We set the hurdles up—all ten of them—each one a few meters away from the next. Then I took my spot at the finish line, and Coach took his on the sideline, pep-talking. “Ain’t nothing to it. Just like we did yesterday. Twelve count, then take the first, and waltz it down the line.”

  Got it. At least I thought I had it. But when Coach blew the whistle and I started blazing down the track toward that first hurdle, it looked like I was about to have to jump over a goal post. Like I needed one of those sticks to do the pole thingy. You know the . . . pole thingy event they do in the Olympics? That thing.

  And . . . I just couldn’t do it. It felt too . . . I don’t know. It just felt unjumpable, just like it did on Monday.

  “Blew the count?” Coach asked, wondering why I dodged the first one.

  “Yeah, sorry,” I lied. Then I jogged back up the track to the start. I looked down the lane, staring at the hurdles. Get up quick. Lead with the knee.

  Coach tapped his head. “Concentrate.” I nodded.

  Then, badeep!

  I took off again. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven . . . eight feet, nine feet, ten feet tall, no no no no no, and right when I got to the hurdle I jumped it. Like, I just jumped over it—not hurdled, jumped, like hopping a fence.

  Coach shook his head, confused. “What’s up?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, frustrated. “I just . . . I don’t know.” I turned my back on Coach and headed back to the start for a third try. All frustrated. The kind of frustrated that stings the back of your throat, waters your eyes. I could hear Coach’s steps behind me, following me. When we got back to the start, we looked down the lane at all the hurdles, together.

  “What you see today?” Coach asked. Seemed like a silly question, but that’s Coach. Being deep. Like I need Shakespeare to get me over these hurdles.

  “What you mean?”

  “What. Do. You. See?” He stood behind me, and pointed over my shoulder. I could smell his sweat.

  I swallowed. “Um . . . I see hurdles, Coach.”

  He came back to the side of me. Folded his arms. Nodded. Humphed.

  “Take ’em out,” he commanded.

  “Take . . . what out?”

  “Your contacts.”

  “Wait, what?”

  Next thing I knew I was back on the track, as the albino Ray Charles.

  “What you see now?”

  “Coach, I know there are hurdles there. I helped you set ’em up, remember?”

  “I know. But can you see them? Can you make them out? Or is it like yesterday?”

  “It’s like yesterday. Everything’s a blur.” I threw my hands up and let them fall back down, slapping the sides of my legs.

  “Good. You know they’re there. But you’re not focusing on them. Right?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Right. So twelve to get to the first. Then waltz. Just like yesterday.” He stepped to the side. Repeated, “Just like yesterday. On my whistle.”

  Remember, lead with the knee. Lead with the knee. Come on, come on, come on.

  The whistle chirped and . . .

  One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten-eleven-twelve (knee) UP!

  One-two-three (knee) UP!

  One-two-three UP!

  One-two-three UP!

  And on and on, hurdling until I got to the end of the straightaway. And then Coach blew the whistle. Not like his normal badeep! But badeepadeepadeepadeeeeeeeeeeep! And Sunny stopped spinning, and everybody else stopped running their ladders. Even Whit looked surprised.

  After he finally stopped, all he said, very quietly, almost whispering, was “Back on the line.”

  “Back on the line?” That’s all I could get out, between breaths.

  “Yeah, of course. What you think I was gonna say?” Coach grabbed me by the arm, and started walking me back up the track.

  “I don’t know. Maybe, ‘Good job, Lu. You did it.’ ”

  “Ha!” That’s all he said to that. A single laugh.

  I ran it again, and again, hurdling the wooden planks, faster and faster, leading with the knee, kicking the air, seeing nothing but what’s down the line. Coach was always there to meet me and walk me back, until he wasn’t and called out for everyone else to come get me.

  “Newbies, come show him some love. The blind boy is hurdling!” And then I watched my friends come from different parts of the track and turn into blurs of random colors, smudges of browns and reds dashing, ghosting around me, gripping my shoulders, slapping me on the back. Honestly, I know it was supposed to be awesome, and it was. But I couldn’t see. So it . . . also kinda scared me. It was like I was being haunted! Attacked by funny-acting (and funny-smelling) ghosts, one of them thinking it would be funny to give me a wedgie. Because . . . of course. OF COURSE.

  After practice, after I put my contacts back in, after I chased Ghost around for jacking me up like that—I knew it was him—Chris came over to where we were. Where we, the newbies, always were.

  “Yo, Lu, good job out there,” he said, holding his fist out for a pound.

  “Thanks, man.” I knocked my fist against his, then tilted my head back to put drops in my eyes. “Trying to take one for the team.”

  “I feel you,” Chris replied, as I wiped dripping solution from my cheeks.

  “Yo, I been meaning to ask you, how Coach get you to come back?”

  “Why you leave in the first place?” Lynn tossed the words in the air as she walked past. Chris sucked his teeth and shook his head.

  “Yeah, that’s the real question,” I said with a shrug. “I mean, Ghost said Coach said it was about grades. But why did you really leave?”

  “It’s not some kind of conspiracy, Lu,” Chris chuckled. “My grades really slipped. Simple as that.”

  “Ah. So you really left because your daddy went upside your head,” I joked. Before now, I had only ever seen Chris’s father at that first meet—he was now over by the cars talking to Coach, Whit, and Sunny’s dad—but it only took one time to see him, to see him. Chris’s dad was a giant.

  “Pretty much,” Chris snorted, then added, “And I was failing English, and my pops is a writer. So . . .”

  “So he went upside and downside your head,” Ghost joined in, then jumped into fake-serious mode. “Since he a writer, I got a question. Is ‘downside’ really a word?”

  “He don’t know! He was failing English,” Patty tagged in. “But I know it’s definitely a word. Here’s how to use it in a sentence. Ghost is the downside of our crew.”

  “Whatever, Patty, your face is the downside of our crew,” Ghost clapped back.

  “What?!”

  “Nothing.”

  “Thought so.”

  “Anyway, Chris, how’s the mile coming, man?” I asked, getting to the more important stuff.

  “Tougher than I thought, but I’ll get there,” Chris said, lifting his knees, stretching his legs.

  “Better get there quick,” Patty said.

  “Yeah, man. We only got two days,” I reminded him.
I also reminded me. “Really, one.”

  And before Chris could respond, Sunny jumped in.

  “Your pace is off.” Sunny flipped his discus back and forth from hand to hand.

  “What you mean?” Chris asked.

  “I mean, your pace is off. You’re running nervous. No patience,” Sunny explained. He set the discus on the bench.

  “I’m running at my usual pace,” Chris replied.

  But Sunny shook his head and nodded at the same time, agreeing and disagreeing. “But your usual pace is for the eight hundred,” he said. “I can see you from the throwing circle. You’re starting too fast, so you’ll be rigged by the third lap. Start comfy, settle in on two, dig deep on three, and let it burn on four. It’s like running the rings of Saturn.” Sunny started making circles in the air with his finger. “The closer the ring is to the planet, the faster it spins. For you, the planet is the finish line.” Sunny hopped up, headed back to the track. Waved for Chris to follow. “Let me show you.”

  Chris looked at us like we said it, like we knew what Sunny was talking about. “Saturn?” he chirped.

  “Man, just go with it,” I replied.

  “Wait, Chris.” Ghost picked up his bag. “Before you go with it, I got one more question about your dad. You think since he a writer, he can write about me?”

  “Don’t nobody want to write about you!” I snapped.

  “No, don’t nobody want to write about you, blind-o albindo,” Ghost bucked.

  “ ‘Albindo’ ain’t even a thing. And I might be blind, but y’all ain’t. Y’all can clearly see how fly I am.” I pulled my chains from my shirt and thumbed my ears, which is when I realized one of my earrings was missing. “Yo. Where my earring?” My heartbeat skipped. I pinched my left earlobe, started looking around, sliding my feet over the dried-up grass, trying see what on the ground was an old sunflower-seed shell and what wasn’t. Now my heartbeat jumped.

  “On that note . . .” Patty wrapped her arms around her little sister, who had come to get her. Maddy’s braids clicked with red beads. “I . . . gotta go. I can’t be out here all night messing with y’all.”