by Jake Burt
“Addison forgot his lunch,” he said, and four other kids gasped. Marielle started sobbing. “Yeah. He forgot his lunch, and he knew you’d be mad.”
“Why would I be mad? Kids forget their lunches, like, daily. Why, just last week Marielle forgot hers so many times that I—”
She stopped, covering her mouth with her hand.
Right there, she had what our sixth-grade vocabulary book would call an epiphany.
Because of Devin’s heroics, I didn’t get into nearly as much trouble as I thought I would. Mostly, Ms. Wentz was sorry. She even baked us cookies to apologize for scaring us. After that, Devin and I were best friends, and he came through for me again and again.
And on Valentine’s Day, barring any more surprises, I’d finally have the chance to return the favor.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
GETTING THERE IS HALF THE FUN
Valentine’s Day was full of surprises.
I found out about the first when I got to Devin’s house that Saturday afternoon. He pointed at his bed, where there was an outfit spread out on the sheets.
“That’s your disguise for tonight,” he whispered, and then closed the door behind him, leaving me alone. On his bed were draped a red T-shirt, a Clippers hat, and a Blake Griffin jersey. There were no pants, so I figured I at least got to keep my own. What was there was bad enough, though.
A knock made me jump. “Addi! Are you dressed yet?” Devin asked. It sounded like his voice was bubbling up through the floor—he was crouched and speaking under the door.
“You know I hate Blake Griffin!”
“It’s my dad’s stuff. I didn’t have anything that could fit you. And you’re not wearing your Warriors gear.”
I frowned, then hunched down to peer at him as he peeked at me.
“Ahh! Scary Addi face!”
“Why can’t I just wear my Klay jersey? I wear it everywhere.”
“Because you need to blend in to get around security. Wear the stuff on my bed and you’ll be camouflaged. Wear the gold and blue and you’ll stick out. And probably get beat up. It’s pretty much for your own safety.”
I pushed myself up and took off my Klay jersey, shoving it beneath the door to block Devin’s view. I could hear him giggling down there, so I stomped on my jersey to keep it in place, and I stretched out to grab the hat, shirt, and Blake Griffin top. In a few seconds I had it all on, the totally flat brim of the hat cutting across my forehead uncomfortably.
When I let Devin in, he sized me up.
“Decent. Could you maybe pretend like it wasn’t burning your skin to wear it?”
“I’m not that good of an actor,” I mumbled as I reached up to crush the brim into a more comfortable curve.
“Hey! You’re ruining it! Straight across is the style!”
“It’ll look more worn this way, like I’ve been a Clippers fan all my life,” I argued. “And it’s easier to hide under here.” That was the key. Anything to keep me from freezing in the middle of a basketball arena.
“Fine,” Devin grumbled, but he didn’t stay mad for long. He bounced down the stairs, skidded on his socks through the kitchen, and was at his mom’s side before she could even put out a hand to slow him down. He bumped her into the countertop. Because she was on the phone, she flashed him an angry look and put her hand right on his face to push him away. I listened in to her conversation.
“How much longer, Ma? No. That’s no good. We told you we needed the car by five o’clock to get down to the game.”
Devin drooped like someone had pulled a cork from his ankle and let the excitement drain out.
“Mom. Mom! Do we not have the car?” he whined. She put her hand over his mouth, but he swatted it away.
“Fine, Ma … No, you stay there,” Mrs. Velma said into the phone as she held Devin at bay. “We’ll … I don’t know. We’ll think of something. No, Sofia already took the other car. No, Ma. You know it’s hard to fit in her car anyway, what with all her makeup and gear. Ma, no. Look, I’m going now, Ma. Be safe, Ma. Bye!”
Mrs. Velma hung up and sighed. Devin started whimpering again, but she held up a hand. “Let me think, baby.”
After a few moments of pacing, she looked at me.
“Addison, honey, I know you’re not going to like this, but maybe Uber…”
I shook my head. “No … no way. My dad will flip if he finds out.…”
“I called the taxi company before this. It’d take them two hours to get a car out here. Apparently, they’ve cut a bunch of their drivers for the weekend shifts.”
She didn’t need to tell me. My dad was one of them. He used to be able to get work every single weekend. Now he was lucky to have a shift on most weekdays.
Mrs. Velma put a hand on my shoulder.
“You won’t get into trouble. I’ll tell him all about it afterward. He’ll understand.”
I wasn’t sure he would. Of all the shouting that had gone on in my apartment over the last year, no word had been spit, cursed, or growled as loudly as Uber. Even the stupid dishwasher was a distant second. If he poked at it a bit, I was sure my dad could even find a way to blame the dishwasher on Uber.
It was pretty much his version of the devil.
At first, he had said it wasn’t going to be anything. “Who wants to take the chance to ride in some stranger’s car when you could call up an experienced taxi driver? You know the rate is going to be fair, you know the driver understands the city. Only a fool would want to take an Uber.”
Well, apparently, about three-fourths of Los Angeles were fools, because Uber was raking in the money, and the taxi company was having to hike rates, cut drivers, and change rules. The worst part was that my dad was a loyal, loyal man, but I’d heard him whispering to my mom that if we could ever afford a car of our own, he’d probably have to switch over to driving for Uber, too. That was the devil’s temptation, and that’s what made him the most angry—where the work was wasn’t where his heart was. Still, all he could do was cuss and curse at the new driving service while silently saving up enough money to join it. In the meantime, he had put a strict “No Uber for this family!” rule into place.
Devin tugged at my sleeve. “C’mon, Addi. If there’s a taxi outside when the game is over, we’ll take that home. Right, Mom?”
Mrs. Velma nodded. I stared knives at Devin.
A Blake Griffin jersey? Taking an Uber to the game?
I had to pull the hat off for a second, just to wipe my wrist across my forehead. The air-conditioning was on, but I was already sweating, and I could feel my heart thudding against my rib cage. If the sound of my brain ripping joined it, I wouldn’t have been surprised. It almost made me want to freeze, just so I wouldn’t have to get into an Uber.
I consoled myself by thinking of how terrible the driver was going to be. Besides the obvious—horns, red skin, black goatee, little pig hooves for feet—I was sure he was going to get us lost, if he didn’t drive us straight off a bridge first. I even decided it would be fun to tell my dad just how horrible it was, and he’d shake my hand for going into enemy territory and bringing back confirmation of Uber’s evil. All I had to do was stand on Devin’s front porch and watch for a rusted-out black hearse with tinted windows.
When a white minivan pulled up, I snorted. “Gonna need to move that thing so our Uber driver can park,” I stated, expecting Mrs. Velma to march down the stairs and tell the cheerful, middle-aged woman getting out of the van to drive on. I crossed my arms smugly as Mrs. Velma did exactly that.
Well, at least the marching part.
My arms dropped when she shook the woman’s hand, and my jaw followed when she waved us down.
“Boys, say hello to Mrs. Hutchinson. She’s driving us to the game.”
“Happy Valentine’s Day, boys!” the woman said pleasantly. “There’s chocolates and other candy in there. Please, take some. My three kids are all in elementary school. They had their Valentine’s parties yesterday, and now it seems like I’m finding Sk
ittles and Smarties in the craziest places. Swear to heaven, my youngest came home trailing Fun Dip powder from her pockets like sand out of an hourglass. She couldn’t tell why the dog was chasing her around the kitchen!”
Devin smiled and slid the passenger door open wide. The van was totally clean inside. No wrappers, soda cans, or human skulls anywhere in sight. Even so, I wasn’t buying it. As Mrs. Velma and Mrs. Hutchinson continued to make small talk, I tapped Devin on the shoulder.
“Didn’t anyone ever warn you about strangers in vans offering you candy?” I asked, pouting.
Devin laughed. “And how many of those strangers hold the door open for your mom while she gets in the front seat?”
I didn’t take any candy, on principle. Devin fished around in the bowl until he had snagged all the peanut butter cups. I watched as he methodically bit the bottom halves off each one, then stuck the top halves together to make wheels. These he rolled up and down his tongue until the chocolate melted into a little road. By the time he was done, he was a mess. I glared at him.
“What?” he asked, holding up his chocolaty fingers. “I’m nervous!”
“Worried that the Clippers will lose again, dear?” Mrs. Hutchinson said as we stopped at a light. “I’m sure they’ll be fine. Not going to catch my Warriors, though. Is that bad, admitting that I’m a Warriors fan? I just love that Steph Curry. Those three-pointers! Woo!”
Devin slapped a sticky hand over his mouth to keep from saying anything. Mrs. Velma didn’t see the problem.
“Oh, Addison back there—the tall one—he’s a big Warriors fan.”
“Are you really!” Mrs. Hutchinson chirped. “Couldn’t tell with all the Clippers gear!”
It was like somebody had suddenly hit me with a huge spotlight. I looked up at the rearview mirror. Mrs. Hutchinson was staring right at my reflection. My throat got tight.
Smile!
NOPE.
Wave!
NOPE.
“He’s just wearing that because I made him,” Devin said, coming to my rescue. “My sister is a member of the Clippers Spirit, and we’re going to see her perform tonight. Family supporting family, and we get to see a game, too!”
“Well, that’s lovely!” Mrs. Hutchinson gushed, and the light changed.
The rest of the way to the arena, Mrs. Velma spoke proudly about Sofia: how she was juggling being on the dance team and college; how she had been the salutatorian of her high school class; and about her volunteer work cleaning up the beaches. There were even phone photos shared. The whole time, Mrs. Hutchinson couldn’t have been nicer.
And Devin just licked his fingers. Didn’t he know I was trying to hate this woman? But she was so pleasant … and a Warriors fan … and not driving us off a bridge.
When we arrived at the Staples Center, I could barely get out of the van. It was bad enough keeping Devin’s secret, wearing a Blake Griffin jersey, and having to ride in an Uber. The worst part, though, was that I had nothing I could tell my dad to make this betrayal any easier. Mrs. Hutchinson was just a mom giving rides to help pay the bills, and I wanted to stick a pitchfork in her hands and call her my worst nightmare. An ugly ball of guilt sat in my stomach like the gluey, heavy center of the world’s nastiest peanut butter cup. Unfortunately for me, I wasn’t going to be able to just quietly melt away on the sizzling sidewalk.
No, there were far too many people for that.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE STAPLES CENTER
As soon as Mrs. Velma thanked Mrs. Hutchinson, we were swallowed by the crowd pushing toward the Staples Center doors. Devin was wriggling and fussing at his mom, who insisted on holding his hand. I grabbed his shoulder so we’d make a human chain. Eventually, we all squeezed into a line to get into the building.
I kept my head down, shielding my face beneath the hat. I was sure someone was going to point at me and say, “Look! Warriors fan! Warriors fan! Trying to hide in that Blake Griffin jersey!” Then they’d chase me down the street. I tried to get Devin’s attention, but he was mumbling to himself. When I leaned in, I could hear him: he was going over the plan again and again. I thought about teasing him like he did to me in the car but remembered that in his mind, this was a life-or-death situation.
I hoped Bradford and Jeska had remembered to come to the game.
“Do you two want anything to eat or drink before we find our seats?” Mrs. Velma asked. “Your mom gave me a twenty, Addison, so don’t worry about money.”
“I’m good,” I replied. Devin was already scoping out the walkways.
“Up there,” he said, and he elbowed me. I followed where he was pointing. It was the tunnel leading between sections 113 and 114.
“What are you pointing at, honey?” Mrs. Velma asked. Devin ignored her, his head jerking this way and that as he plotted and planned.
I swallowed. “Um, he … he was just saying that right there might be a good place to meet up if, you know, we get separated. Because, um … you can see where we came in from there, and there’s lots of lights.”
Mrs. Velma kissed my cheek, then Devin’s. He twitched his nose and wiped the kiss away.
“Good thinking, boys. Way to be safe. Shall we find our seats, then?”
As his mom led the way, Devin continued to bounce around nervously.
“That was a good save, wasn’t it?” I asked. He nodded.
“Yeah. Good save. And good plan. After I pull this off, we run. Meet back up where you said. Good spot. Lots of lights. Phase one, right on schedule.”
I touched his shoulder, but he shrugged me off.
I’m not going to lie—it would’ve been nice to have seats down on that lower level. To get to ours, we had to walk around ramp after ramp, then up a dark set of concrete stairs, then up two more ramps, then up two more flights of stairs. When we came out at the bottom of our section, I had to grab the guardrail for a second. No wonder my dad called them nosebleed seats … we were up so high I wouldn’t be surprised if the air was thinner up here.
“Mom, can I have the binoculars?” Devin asked, snatching at her purse.
“Not yet. Save them for when your sister performs. I don’t want you dropping them over that edge.”
“Please?” he whined, and he started hopping up and down.
“No. And be careful. These steps are slippery.”
I knew why Devin wanted the binoculars. It was hard to see the people sitting in the first row. There were a few couples who seemed like they might be Jeska and Bradford, but it was impossible to tell for sure. I leaned over the guardrail a little to look and immediately regretted it. Below us were the luxury and press boxes. They formed a sort of wall around the middle of the arena, like they wanted at least forty feet of distance between the people who paid for good seats and, well, us. It was the kind of drop I could imagine Gage and his buddies spitting off of, trying to land one in somebody’s drink cup. I backed up, and I pulled Devin away with me. His mom was already halfway up the rows.
“Here we are,” she said when we reached her. “Row fourteen. One thing’s for sure, we’ll definitely be able to see Sofia’s performance from here.”
“Yeah,” I said as I sat down. “We just won’t be able to see Sofia.”
It was already loud, like the music was being pumped in right above our heads. Across the way, people were streaming down the aisles and filling seats. It reminded me of a game of Connect Four, how they trickled in and filled up the plain black seats with red shirts and jerseys. It didn’t hurt that they seemed to be about the size of checkers, either.
The huge jumbotron screens hung from the middle of the arena ceiling like the world’s biggest bats. They flashed highlights of the 2016–2017 Clippers—DeAndre Jordan dunks, Chris Paul crossovers, and J. J. Redick threes. Some of the plays were from games against the Warriors. I winced whenever they showed Blake Griffin posterizing one of my favorite players.
“Mom. Mom! Can I have the binoculars now? Mom?” Devin begged. He reached over to slip his
hand into his mom’s purse, but she slapped it away.
“But, Mom, I need to…”
I grabbed Devin’s arm and shook it.
“Not now, Addi! Mom! Why can’t I have the binoc—”
“Devin!” I whispered.
“What?”
I pointed at the jumbotron. They had stopped the highlights and were showing the players stretching and warming up. Just behind where Jamal Crawford was running a cut drill was the first row of seats. Right there, dead center, was Jeska Monroe, and next to her sat Bradford Stone. She was on her phone, and he was turned around shaking a fan’s hand, but there was no mistaking. It was them.
Devin pulled his hand from his mom’s purse, no slapping necessary.
“Mmm-mhm! I do love watching those players stretch. Maybe I’ll use the binoculars first, eh, Devin?” Mrs. Velma said.
Normally that’d be when Devin would start his fake puking noises. I had to jump in on his behalf.
“Ew, Mrs. Velma,” I muttered.
She laughed mischievously and lifted the binoculars. I nudged Devin.
“Bro, things are not good when I have to start covering for you.”
“They’re actually here. This is really happening, Addi,” he whispered.
“It doesn’t have to. We could say we tried it and it didn’t work. We’d still have that story to tell, like the Goldfish and the Backflip.”
Devin shook his head and scratched his belly. This time, the story wasn’t going to be enough.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE PRIDE OF THE VELMA FAMILY
I’d never been less interested in the score of a game in my life. I tried to watch the action, tried to get into the music, tried to do the wave as it came around, but none of it seemed to help. Despite all that color, all that noise, my eyes were glued to the plain little flashing bulbs that counted down the quarter. Devin was just as nervous—he passed me his phone in the first minute and mumbled, “Be ready.”
My hands were so shaky I nearly dropped it, just like I had on the climber. It was dumb, but I couldn’t help looking around for Ms. Bazemore … and we still had more than an hour to go before the third quarter started.