But I had to find it. This was a diamond earring my father gave me. It was his first pair, and he gave them to me last year—my first year at Barnaby Middle.
“You think it’s on the track?” Ghost asked, peering down at the ground.
“Maybe. Might’ve fell out when I was running.”
So me and Ghost joined Chris and Sunny on the track, and they helped me look up and down the straightaway, but we ain’t see it. I even checked along the edge by the grass, but there was no shine, no sparkle between the blades. Finally, the old people were done talking in the parking lot—my mother showed up and had joined the bunch—and they were calling for us.
We headed off the track, back across the field toward the cars.
“Sorry, man,” Ghost said, about my earring.
“All good. Maybe I’ll find it tomorrow. Not sure how I’m gonna tell my dad, but . . .”
“Hey, at least it’s an earring. You can get another earring. Your pops probably got a bunch of those.”
“Yeah.”
“It would’ve sucked if you lost something that really couldn’t be replaced,” Ghost said. “Like how Coach lost his Olympic medal. Now that’s something to really be messed up about. I mean, I ain’t sayin’ this don’t suck, because it does, but can’t nothing be worse than—”
“What you talking about?” I asked.
“Yeah, what are you talking about?” Chris followed up, just as confused.
“He’s talking about Coach’s medal,” Sunny confirmed.
“We know that, Sunny. But . . . Coach lost it?” I asked.
“I never told you that story?” Ghost knew he never told me that story. I wouldn’t have forgotten a story like that. Ghost glanced around, then said low, “So, when the season first started, I was with Coach. I was having a bad day, and when we were talking about how he grew up in Glass Manor and all that, he told me how his father traded his gold medal for drugs.”
“Wow,” Chris said, stuck between surprised and sad.
“Yeah, and the worst part is that those were the drugs that—”
“What, y’all wanna sleep out here! What is taking y’all so long?” Coach yelled across the field, cutting Ghost off. “Hurry up!” We all started jogging.
“Wait, Ghost. Ghost,” I called out just before reaching the parking lot. He turned to me. “The drugs that . . . what?” I asked, hoping he wasn’t going to say what I thought he was gonna say. What I knew he was gonna say. I repeated the question. “With Coach’s father. Those were the drugs that what?”
And as easy as spitting sunflower-seed shells from his mouth, Ghost spat, “The drugs that killed him.”
Those five words made the ride home feel like my skin was a suit I was too big for. Uncomfortable. Tight. Weird. Weirder than the ride home after dropping off the cowboy hat at Mr. Charles’s Country Store and bumping into Kelvin. Weirder than running from him when he tried to beat me up, after I had zapped him—the roast and run. Weirder than all the names and the jokes about the way I look. Weirder than everything. Everything. It was like me—the lightning bolt—had been struck by one.
And weirdness makes worry when it comes to moms.
“Everything all right?” Mom asked right on cue as we turn onto the main strip, past the people ducking in and out of stores, the corner talkers, and bus waiters, and kids trying to catch up to parents. She asked if I was all right, when really she already knew I wasn’t. She already asked how practice was, and I said fine, and fine always means not fine.
“Yeah.” She knew fine meant not fine too.
It ain’t like I could just say it. That the drugs sold to Coach’s father, his last hit, equals Coach’s gold medal in the hands of Goose. My dad. What was I supposed to do? Just ask her if she knew? If she’d seen the medal? If it was tucked away underneath socks and boxers, or in the back of the closet somewhere, maybe hidden in an old pair of sneakers, or laid out with the rest of Dad’s jewelry?
“Where’s your earring?” my mother asked, now trying to change the subject but picking the wrong one to change to. She brushed her hand against my ear while waiting at a red light.
I played it off. Touched my ear. “Huh! I don’t know. Guess I lost it.”
“Well, your dad’s not gonna be happy about that,” she said, making me feel much better. So . . . much . . . better.
“Yeah, well, what he gonna do, take these chains off my neck?” I said, with a little sting. “Because he can have ’em.”
The light turned green. But she ain’t move. Just looked at me, until someone behind us honked.
“I’m gonna ask you this one more time, son. And I hope you answer, that way I have a better sense of why you feel like it’s okay to give me all this mouth like I’ve done something to you.” Her voice sizzled. “Now, if I have, let me know. But if it’s something else, I think—”
“Why you ain’t tell me about Dad?” I blurted.
“Tell you what about Dad?”
“About the gold medal? Why y’all got me running on a team, being coached by a man that Dad did dirty?”
“Ah . . .” Mom hesitated a tick. Then, “Okay, now—”
“How can Dad know he messed up somebody like that, and know how to fix it, and not fix it?” I steamrolled. “Ain’t that what he always talking about? Fixing his mistakes? Well, one of the biggest ones is right in front of him. So what’s the excuse?”
My mother turned right into Barnaby Terrace, turned left onto our street, pulled in front of the house. Parked. Cut the engine. Yanked the key. Sat for a moment.
“Lu.” She put her hand on my knee. I turned my head away, hard, looked out the window. Ms. Clark’s flower bed had been picked apart, the white rocks sprinkled all around the front of her house, out of place. “Lu, look at me.” Nope. Wouldn’t look at her. Just felt . . . I don’t know. How could Dad just let Coach think his medal was gone forever? How could my mom just be cool with it, and show up and smile in Coach’s face every day? How? “Look at me,” she repeated, this time cupping my chin and turning it toward her. “You’re right. But I need to say this. I knew, and I’ve been asking him, begging him to fix it for years.”
“Then why won’t he?”
She sighed. “It’s not my place to tell. But I think you should ask him. Tonight.”
“What time he getting home?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll wait for him.” I opened the door, got out the car. She opened her door and did the same. We walked to the front of the house, and as she pushed her key into the lock, I sat on the step.
“You staying out here?” she asked.
“Yep. Until he gets here.”
“What about dinner?”
“Not hungry.”
“He might be late, and, even though I know you’re upset, you know I’m not gonna let you sit out here in the dark.”
“It ain’t dark yet.”
Mom let it go. She didn’t say nothing else. Just pushed the door open and went inside.
And I sat there. Right there. Like a hydrant with no water. Just looking at the neighborhood, the cars riding by, the noise slowly coming down with the sun. I picked at the cracks in the step, mashing tiny ants with my thumb and swatting at mosquitoes, which for some reason, all of a sudden were interested in me and my blood. I repeated my mantra, pumping myself up, this time to talk to him. I am the man. The guy. The kid. The one. The only. The Lu. Over and over again. And in between my chants, I thought about future-new-little-baby sis. How her name couldn’t be Gordon. Or Gordy. Or Gordonia. Or Goosey. Or anything like that.
“What you doin’?” a voice came from the sidewalk when I was in the middle of one of my swatting fits. I’d been out there for what felt like forever, but it was probably only like twenty minutes, because time always go slow when you waiting on something. “You look like you conducting the worst orchestra of all time.” It was Cotton.
“Hey.” I tried to get it together.
“You good?” A funny
question. This thing we say to each other all the time, now, all of a sudden, seemed like a for real question. Am I good? Is my family good? My father?
I ain’t know how to answer. Just smashed another ant.
“So . . . I’ll take that as a no.” Cotton walked up, sat down beside me. She was eating a water ice, cherry flavor. “Want some?” She held it out. Again, I ain’t know how to answer. “I just got it from down the street, dang. I ain’t even touch that part yet. Plus it’s payback from yesterday. For the orange.”
“Tangerine.”
“Same thing.”
“Pretty much,” I said, and if I wasn’t so mad about Dad I would’ve gave Cotton a whole book report on oranges. “But, nah. No thank you,” I said. Cotton shrugged. And then we just sat there. She ain’t even ask if I wanted to talk about something, and that was nice. We were just chillin’, smacking our own legs trying to stop the mosquitoes from eating us alive, watching blue day turn to black night.
And then the streetlights came on. And there was nothing left of her ice but the cup, which she had smashed and folded into a tiny fan. Her mouth was still red. “Yo, I gotta go, before Grandma sends Skunk out looking for me, and I ain’t got time to hear his stinky mouth, or Stinky Butt’s stinky mouth, with all that yapping.” She got up.
“Cool.”
Cotton stood in front me, staring, looking for the cracks. “You need a hug or something?” Such a funny thing to ask somebody after you’ve been sitting with them for a while. Seemed so random, but honestly, I did need a hug.
“You gon’ tell Patty?”
“Um . . . of course.”
I laughed. Stood up. And hugged Cotton. And it was like hugging cotton. And for a few seconds, I was okay.
A few minutes after she left, my mother opened the door. “Lu, it’s getting dark now. He’s not here yet, so you need to wait for him inside.”
I ain’t the type to not listen to my mom. For real. I don’t got that in me because my mom, though she cool, can sometimes remind me that she’s not playing, and even says to me, Don’t make me remind you how fast cool can turn cold. I ain’t want that. But I wasn’t going inside. I wasn’t moving until he got home.
I stayed right where I was. Faced forward. Stared at the street ahead of me when I heard the house door close behind me. And then.
“Scoot over.” My mother took Cotton’s seat. She was holding an orange, already peeled, already split, and handed me half. “Remember when I named you the Orange Master?”
I peeled a slice from the bunch. Popped it in my mouth. Nodded.
“Remember why?” she asked, and immediately just started laughing. “You thought eating an orange was like eating an apple. Just bit into it. And when you tasted that skin, I thought you were gonna die.”
“I thought I was gonna die,” I said, still mad. But, yeah. Orange skin is gross.
“Yeah.” Mom’s laugh simmered. “And then I taught you how to peel it. Told you that skin is part of the orange, but not all of it. It’s just there to protect all the sweet stuff on the inside.”
“And I believed that, until I tasted a grapefruit,” I said, this time letting myself laugh a little bit. Just a little bit.
Mom didn’t say nothing else. Just put her head on my shoulder. We sat there, just like that, on the front step, eating slice after slice, quiet. And not too much time later—maybe ten minutes—my father pulled up. He got out of his car, and when he saw us, his face scrunched.
“What y’all doing out here?” he asked, coming toward us.
Mom stood up. “Waiting for you.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, he put his hand on her stomach. She put her hand on his chest, almost pressing him to stop. To not come closer. To stay where he was. Then she turned around and went inside.
“Wassup, kid?” he said, cool. Normal. Goose-like. Before answering, I pinched each of my eyes. Peeled my contacts out, held them in a loose fist. Turned him into blur.
“I need to ask you something?” I said, trying to put strong in my voice.
“O . . . kay.”
“You said you sold Coach’s father his last hit, right?”
“Yeah, and that I’m not proud of—”
“So, you got his gold medal?” If there was ever a time I believed my mother when she called me lightning, if there was ever a moment when I really felt like I could split something in half in a second, it was right then. Those words were a sharp bolt that seemed to come out of nowhere.
I couldn’t see him. Couldn’t see what his body was saying, and I ain’t really care. I needed to hear what his mouth had to say. I saw the smudge of him move to the left, so I moved to the center of the step to block him from taking Mom’s (and Cotton’s) seat.
“Okay.” He stayed standing. “I . . . there’s an explanation.”
“How could you take his medal and not give it back to him? It’s an Olympic medal. There’s no way you don’t know how important that is to him. That’s like . . . I don’t know. Maybe the most important thing ever for somebody like Coach. For somebody like me.”
“I know, but . . .”
“But what? What could you possibly have to say? What could be the reason?”
“I wanted to be him, Lu!” he yelled back. Then took a step back. I couldn’t see his face. Didn’t want to see it. Glad I couldn’t see it. But I could see his arms lifting, probably doing the thing he always did when he was trying to explain something. Rubbing his palms together as if he was washing them. But wasn’t no washing this off. “I . . . wanted to be him. Not be him, but be like him.” Dad calmed his voice a little. “He teased me, and he was better than me. A better runner, a better everything. That’s why—I wanted you on his team, because he’s the best.”
“But I thought you said y’all were kids and you ain’t take it personal.”
“I don’t . . . now. But I did back then. I mean, you don’t understand. My mother basically took care of him, and then around other people he’d just trash me. Say stuff like:
“You sound like a broken record playing a song that sounds like a scratched CD.
“You sound like a choking Chihuahua.
“You sound like you need an oil change.
“You sound like a breakbeat over broken speakers.
“Make me wanna pop-lock on a cardboard box.
“You sound like a car radio, on scan.
“You sound like a Michael Jackson ad-lib. Not the hee-hee, or the sha-mon.
“The other one.
“You sound like you always about to sneeze, but don’t.
“You sound like Donald Duck imitating Daffy Duck trying to imitate Donald Duck.
“You sound like all these things, but you look like a goose.
“Yeah, you look like
a goose.”
My father’s voice was jittery, but not in the way that made me think he was about to cry. It wasn’t like that. But I could tell he was feeling it. Made me know it was still stinging.
“Look, I’ve just been, I don’t know . . . I guess . . . too embarrassed to confront him and give it back. He doesn’t even know it was me. And the more time that went by, the harder it got.”
I heard his feet shuffle, felt him on my side. This time, I scooted over to let him sit.
“Dad, you gotta give it back to him. You always telling me about fixing mistakes. . . .”
“I’m sorry, and you’re right. I’m going to give it to him.”
“Tomorrow.”
“I can’t do it tomorrow. I gotta work.”
“Tomorrow. Ain’t no way I’m gon’ be able to keep this secret. Coach too good. Too . . . real. A honest dude. So you gotta do it tomorrow.”
My father blew a hard breath, and I could hear the scrapey sound of his fingers scratching his head. I stood up, put my hand behind me to feel for the door. “Oh, and I lost an earring.” And quickly added, “Good night.”
8
A NEW NAME FOR PROTECTION: A Shield . . . that Looks Like a Heart (Made of
Fruit)
The next morning I woke up late. Took a shower, put on a T-shirt, some shorts, and went into the kitchen, and was surprised that Mom was already putting the finishing touches on her masterpiece for the day.
“Morning,” I rumbled. “Sorry I slept long.”
“Hey, baby.” She glanced up from her work. On the table were the guts of a watermelon, a cantaloupe, and one of the green melons. Mom had cut them all up into different pieces, each chunk a different shape, so when put all together they made a big three-color heart. “No big deal. This was an easy one, anyway,” she explained. “Didn’t need any oranges or even any toothpicks, so I went on and knocked it out without you.”
“It’s supposed to be a heart, right?” I asked, hoping it was supposed to be a heart. Not sure how I would respond if she told me it was her version of a pair of sneakers, or something like that. I leaned in for a better look.
“Nope, it’s a knight’s shield,” she explained. “Which I guess is kind of the same thing, huh?” Mom looked down at the thing I thought was a heart, then looked back up at me. I knew what she was doing. She was doing that mom thing. The check-in. She was trying to take the temperature of the room, of me, to make sure there wasn’t no fever. Make sure everything was cool. But everything wasn’t cool. Not yet. Not until the coolest dude I knew fixed the coldest thing he ever did.
If my dad did what he said he was gonna do—which I wasn’t so sure about, because I wasn’t so sure about anything when it came to him, all of a sudden—then maybe things would start to be okay. But I was going to have to wait and see. And so would he. And, in this moment, so would she. But it was still morning, and she was still my mother, and we still had to go deliver this shield thing that looked like a heart thing to whoever was getting a shield thing made of fruit as a gift, so . . . I just smiled. Held it for three seconds, because if I held it for longer, she’d know I was forcing it, and if I held it for shorter, it ain’t really a smile. Hold it for exactly three seconds and my mom stops holding her breath.
I opened the fridge and grabbed the milk and juice. I didn’t eat dinner last night and was starving, so I couldn’t wait to eat my cereal, which she’d left on the counter for me, as usual.
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