The Right Hook of Devin Velma

by Jake Burt

  “Worse,” I assured him. “Sports, singing, acting—it doesn’t matter, Devin. All of it takes work. Lots of work. So you’ve either got to put in the hours…”

  “Which I don’t have, because of my dad’s heart.”

  “Or know a guy who’s famous already who can hook you up. And trust me, I’m not that guy.”

  Devin kicked at the corner of his desk. “Why didn’t my parents make me start acting when I was two?”

  “Have you seen your baby pictures? You’re lucky they let you out in public with that big old head of yours.”

  “I grew into it!” Devin pouted. “And besides, why do you have to keep shutting me down? You said you’d help!”

  “I am helping, man,” I countered. “By telling you this isn’t the way.”

  “Then what is?”

  I flopped down on his bed and looked up at the ceiling. There was a picture taped there of a massive galactic battle. Devin and I had drawn it in third grade—Star Wars versus Star Trek versus the Power Rangers. In the center of all these laser beams was Yoda, chopping off Klingon heads and flinging the Red Ranger around with the power of the Force. Usually I felt like Chewbacca, but today I was feeling way more Red Ranger.

  “I don’t know, but it sure as heck isn’t dragging me out to do Shakespeare in the streets. I’m fine right where I am.”

  “Well, yeah.” Devin smirked as he sat down next to me. “As soon as a spotlight hit you, you’d pee your pants.”

  “You mean like I’m doing right now? On your bed?” I joked, and I smiled wide.

  “Ew! Gross, Addi!”

  I laughed as Devin chased me downstairs with his pillow.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE GAME PLAN

  Clippers games in the Velma household were a big deal. There was popcorn and ice pops, fruit and chips, and a very specific seating arrangement. The couch that directly faced the TV was occupied from left to right by Mrs. Velma, G, Double-G, and Triple-G. Arranged in front of them were TV trays. Each tray had a plate of food and a drink—a glass of wine, a cup of tea, a bottle of lime soda, and something called a whiskey sour, in that order. Devin, who usually sat on the carpet right in front of the TV, was curled in his dad’s recliner. And me? I was on a plastic folding chair next to Devin. “Warriors fans don’t get cushions,” Triple-G had said.

  “That’s okay,” I replied. “Gonna be standing up cheering so much I won’t need one.”

  “They might have to sleep in the backyard after the game, too,” she warned, and I shut up.

  The game was awesome—at least, for me. I had plenty of moments where I could have popped my Klay jersey and gloated, but I knew better. Instead I quietly crunched on chips and ate a banana, passing the brown parts to Devin like I always did. The Gs all yelled at the TV and the referees. Double-G even took her sandal off and threw it at the screen at one point. I started to go get it for her, but she barked, “Leave it, Addison. If the refs keep this up, the other one will join it soon enough, and I’ll know where to find the pair later!”

  It was during a time-out midway through the second quarter that Devin started acting strangely. Well, okay, for him it was acting the same way he had all week, but I knew his brain was chewing on something other than bananas and bad foul calls.

  “Wait a sec,” Devin said. “Rewind that, Mom.”

  “Rewind what, baby? It’s a time-out.”

  “Rewinding TV is unnatural!” Triple-G declared.

  “It isn’t, Mama. All just bits in the stream. Doesn’t matter if they’re going backward or forward. Why shouldn’t you be able to rewind it?” Double-G murmured.

  “’Cause it’s unnatural!”

  I sat back and smiled. Listening to the grandmas argue was maybe one of my favorite things ever.

  “Just do it, please, Mom!” Devin begged. He perched on the edge of the recliner, not even looking back. Mrs. Velma rolled her eyes, but she rewound the game a bit, until Devin shouted, “Stop! There! Right there!”

  It was still the middle of the time-out, and the camera was panning through the crowd. It had settled on the front row, where a famous comedian was sitting. He eventually noticed the camera, smiled, and tipped his cap.

  “Look!” Devin exclaimed. “Did you see that!?”

  “What?” I asked. “Billy Crystal? Yeah? So? He’s at, like, every single Clippers game.”

  “No, behind him. And listen to what the announcers are saying!”

  Mrs. Velma rewound again, and this time she turned the volume up, too. Behind Billy Crystal were two guys, college kids maybe, and they were going nuts. One of them had an inflatable Clippers hammer and was pounding on the other’s head. The second guy seemed not to notice; he was too busy ripping his shirt off to show that he had painted the Clippers logo on his chest.

  The announcers seemed unamused.

  “And there’s the Clippers’ number one fan, Billy Crystal, star of When Harry Met Sally; Monsters, Inc.; and, as far as I’m concerned, The Princess Bride.”

  “Oh, he stole that movie.”

  “Absolutely did, Chuck, you’re right. Hilarious.”

  “And look at those two buffoons behind him.”

  “Boy, that really gets my goat—people looking for five seconds in the spotlight by being close to a celebrity.”

  “I feel bad for Billy, having to deal with those two camera hogs.”

  “Something tells me, Chuck, that Billy’s perfectly content to allow them to have the attention so he can enjoy the game in peace.”

  “He’s probably not enjoying the score right now, with the Warriors up seventeen.…”

  Devin was watching with his mouth wide open, and he was rocking back and forth a bit.

  “There you go, Devin. You saw Billy Crystal. Happy now?”

  “Phase one…,” he mumbled.

  “What, dear?”

  “Oh, I mean, yeah, Mom, thanks. Big fan…,” Devin said softly. “I’ll … I’ll be right back.”

  We watched as he slipped out of the chair and skittered upstairs. All four Velma women looked at me. I nodded.

  “I’ll go check on him.”

  “Devin’s lucky to have a friend like you, Addison,” Mrs. Velma said, and she rubbed my back as I walked past.

  Upstairs, I found Devin on his computer again. His face was almost touching the screen, and he was reading something fiercely.

  “Billy Crystal fan, my butt. I know what you were thinking.”

  Devin replied without peeling his eyes from the computer.

  “Did you see them? How they were on camera and everything?”

  “Yeah. But you’re not backflipping behind Billy Crystal.”

  Now he did look at me.

  “Pssh. No.”

  I leaned against the wall behind him. “Good, because that’d be—”

  “He doesn’t have nearly enough followers. Not even a million!”

  I covered my face with my hand.

  “So you’re thinking … what, exactly?”

  “Promise to help.”

  “No.”

  “You owe me?”

  “I already followed you on Twitter.”

  “No, I used you to follow myself on Twitter. You haven’t done squat,” Devin said, crossing his arms. Then he started bouncing in his seat like a little kid. He knew I hated it when he did that.

  “What are you getting me into? Are you going to streak the court? Please tell me you’re not thinking of streaking, because that’s a completely different kind of exposure, and there’s no way I’m—”

  “I don’t know what I’m thinking yet, but I know I’ll need your help. And this is the way, man. It’s free publicity! You saw those two guys! The spotlight! Five whole seconds!”

  “I don’t think the announcers meant that as a good thing.”

  “Any press is good press, Addi.”

  “Not if you get it by doing something stupid, or illegal, or dangerous,” I said. After thinking for a couple of seconds, I added, “
Or all three.”

  “What if I swear it won’t be?”

  I sighed. “I’m your friend. I promised before, and I’m not going to back out now … as long as it’s not totally messed up.”

  Devin nodded. “Thank you, Addi. You won’t regret this.”

  I left Devin up in his room, furiously scribbling on a notepad and clicking his mouse. By the time I got downstairs, I already regretted it a little.

  At least the Warriors won, 123–111. And I kept my mouth shut so I didn’t have to sleep in the backyard.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A SIGN FROM HEAVEN

  In the morning, I popped my head out of my sleeping bag and looked around. It took me a few seconds to remember that I was on the floor of Devin’s room. Part of my confusion came from the fact that I couldn’t hear him; he always slept longer than I did, and he snored like an elephant seal with a sinus infection. When I sat up, I saw him. He was at his computer already … or maybe, still.

  “Tell me you weren’t up all night.”

  “I wasn’t up all night.” He yawned.

  The way he slumped and the red spiderwebs in his eyes said otherwise.

  “Wanna go downstairs and get breakfast?” I asked. That banana last night was already a distant memory, and my stomach had more of a “What have you done for me in the last three minutes?” kind of attitude.

  “Look, Addi. I’ve got it,” he said, pushing his scribbly notebook at me. I saw a massive cloud of red circles surrounded by more circles. Occasional lines zigzagged through the mess. It looked like a very woolly sheep had exploded onto a herd of even woollier sheep.

  “That’s … nice, Devin. Really pretty drawing! You can tell me all about it after you eat. And sleep. For, like, twelve hours straight.”

  “Shut up, Addi. It’s my plan. The real one this time. Look.”

  He shoved his rolling chair back from the computer. There on the screen was a picture of a dark-haired woman. I recognized her instantly. Who wouldn’t?

  “Jeska Monroe?”

  “Her most recent music video has almost a billion YouTube views! And it’s Jeska Monroe-Stone,” Devin corrected. “She’s married to Bradford Stone, remember?”

  I nodded. It was hard to go anywhere in L.A. without hearing about Jeska Monroe. She had her own TV shows—as in more than one. She was on the cover of every magazine. She sold, like, every product you could think of. At one point last year, she had the highest-rated reality show, the top-selling memoir, and the number one country album in the nation, all at the same time.

  Oh, and her husband was one of the most famous actors alive.

  I smirked. “Tell me you’re not going to hit her over the head with an inflatable hammer,” I said, thinking of how ridiculous that would be.

  “No. That would interrupt their kiss.”

  I stopped smirking.

  “What?”

  “Look.”

  Devin showed me a series of webpages. The first was Jeska’s Twitter page. I saw that she had eighty-eight million followers.

  “Whoa…,” I whispered.

  Then I saw the message Devin had at the center of the screen. It read, “Got Clips Tix 4 VDAY! SO Xcited 2 B @ game w/ My Man! #Clippers #Valentines #loveislove.”

  “She’s going to be at the Valentine’s Day game,” Devin said, and he pointed to his scribbles. Peering closely, I thought I could make out a letter V in there. “Now check this out.”

  Another Twitter page—Bradford’s this time. He had sixty-one million followers.

  Devin tapped the screen. “Add that to Jeska’s, and you have a hundred and forty-nine million followers. A hundred and forty-nine million, man. That’s more than ESPN, LeBron James, and YouTube combined. And yes, YouTube has a Twitter account. It’s weird.”

  He didn’t look like he was in the mood to have me point out that a lot of Jeska’s and Bradford’s followers were probably the same people. Still, it was millions.

  “Now this,” Devin continued. The next website was the Clippers homepage. The first article said, “Bring Your B-Ball Baby! Special Prizes Awarded on Valentine’s Day for the Kiss Cam Lucky Winners!”

  Devin slipped off his glasses, rubbed his blurry eyes, and slapped the notebook. “See? It’s all coming together. The Valentine’s Day game is nationally televised, Addi. Nationally. And Jeska and Bradford are going to be there. All I’ve got to do is get to the game, sneak down during the Kiss Cam time, and reveal my message behind them when they kiss. Then we run.”

  “Your message?” I dared to ask.

  Devin leapt up onto his chair, scaring me so bad I stumbled back onto the bed. He lifted his shirt up just like the guy on TV last night. On his chest and stomach, he had written something … a poem, maybe? At least, the kind a twelve-year-old operating on zero sleep might write at three in the morning. It said:

  THINK THEY’RE IN HEAVEN?

  THEN YOU SHOULD SEE DEVIN!

  HIT ME UP ON TWITTER:

  @LILSWAGGYD47

  “That’s … that’s…,” I sputtered.

  “Brilliant?”

  “Absurd!”

  “But not illegal or dangerous!” he countered, jumping off the chair and smoothing his shirt down.

  “It might be! It kind of is, to sneak down into the rich people’s section! And it’s definitely stupid!”

  “No, it’s not, Addi. At the very least, I get to post a picture of me on Twitter. If you’re quick with my phone, we can get a recording to post on YouTube. Sure, I could get into a little trouble, but I’m twelve. And who knows … if Jeska and Bradford think it’s cute, they might even post links to my videos!”

  “I can’t tell if this is you trying to break the Curse, or the Curse going into overdrive to get you early. You’re gonna be, like, naked in front of the world!”

  “Don’t be such a grandpa, Addi. Guys do this at games all the time. Remember last night? And it’s even less than someone would see at the swimming pool, anyway. Only my belly.”

  He patted it confidently, like he’d just conquered the Big Fat Fatty sandwich challenge at Fat Sal’s Deli.

  I trembled just thinking about it. “I’d die before I even got halfway down there,” I murmured. “Please don’t say you need me to be, like, an exclamation point next to you or something.”

  “No! You couldn’t handle Ms. Carrillo, let alone an arena full of people. Leave the face time to a pro. I just need your help to set it up, and to take video of me with my phone while I do it.”

  I cringed. “What if I drop it again?”

  He rolled his eyes and said, “You won’t. Besides, if anything looks like it’s gonna go wrong, we call it off. You get to enjoy a game at the Staples Center, and you get to say ‘I told you so.’”

  “Anything goes wrong at all, and we call it off,” I repeated.

  He nodded. “Yeah, man. Yeah. We call it off.”

  I realized I was stuck. What if I shot down this idea, and a worse one took its place? He had already done the Backflip of Doom … I figured it was either help him with this, or feel guilty when he tried something even more dangerous.

  “If we do this, we’re square?” I asked.

  He grinned. “Yep.”

  Wincing, I whispered, “Fine.”

  Devin rubbed his hands together slowly, and he pointed down at his hairy wool-pile drawing again. “First, you’ve got to…”

  As he told me what I needed to do, I broke out in a cold sweat. I started shaking, and I actually lost my appetite.

  Devin wanted me to talk to his sister.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  DEVIN’S SISTER

  This one time, Devin and I snuck into Double-G’s bedroom, because he said he had found some books in there we should check out. Double-G was a big fan of romance novels, the kind that had guys with no shirts on the covers. Didn’t matter what they were doing or where they were—they had no shirt. Middle of a battlefield? No shirt. Front deck of a pirate ship? No shirt. Standing in front of an entir
e city while it burned to the ground? Where’s your shirt, dude?

  In other words, they’d fit right in at a Clippers game.

  Devin and I took turns reading out loud all the parts we shouldn’t, giggling like fools the entire time. Double-G caught us and scared us away with what I thought was a really, really effective threat: next time, she’d sit us down and force us to listen while she read them to us, cover to cover. I don’t think I’ve ever blushed so hard or promised more sincerely never to do something ever again. I even tried to erase from my mind any traces of the stuff we had read, just so I wouldn’t have to imagine it in Double-G’s voice. Still, no matter how hard I tried, a few details stuck. One of them was how every book seemed to talk about the woman in the story. It was weird, if you thought about it: they all called the ladies “indescribably beautiful,” and then went on to try to describe them anyway.

  Well, Sofia was not that. She went so far beyond that, she circled right back around to describably beautiful. Devin liked to tease me about having a crush on her. He couldn’t have been more wrong, though. I didn’t have a crush on her.

  I was terrified of her.

  Whenever I saw her, I froze. Of course I did. But it was different, because with her, everything shut down except my mouth. It was like the NOPES wanted to make me embarrass myself as much as possible. She’d say, “Good morning, Addison!” and I’d just start describing: “Your hair is dark and shiny and like waterfalls of oil only not the greasy kind I mean the kind that you can see all the colors in on the blacktop after a car pulls away and I think that’s really pretty and you’re pretty too.”

  So I avoided her whenever I could.

  That morning, though, I couldn’t. We needed tickets to that Clippers game, and according to Devin’s plan, Sofia was our way in. It made sense—she had been asking us to come see her dance all season, and she had team connections that could get tickets any time we wanted. The trouble was, Devin couldn’t ask her. He could smooth-talk just about anyone, but his sister always saw through him. She’d know he was up to something.

  Add that to the fact that he had ruined a pair of her yoga pants last month by using them to make a giant slingshot, and he was on the outs. That left me.