by Carl Deuker
While 1 shot around, first Mom and then Dad, would come home from work. Mom would wave and go inside to make dinner. Dad would shoot a hoop or two, maybe even play a little horse. And every day he'd ask the same question. "Did your brother practice at all?"
Every day I'd shake my head, and his eyes would darken.
Toward the end of September Dad was injured at work. A forklift driver started to lose a bunch of boxes, and when Dad grabbed for them his fingers were squashed. It was no big deal, nothing broken, but his left hand was so swollen the doctor told him to stay home for a couple of days.
When I returned from school that first afternoon, he was playing ball in the back yard. That didn't surprise me; puffy fingers weren't going to keep him down. What did surprise me was seeing Scott on the court with him. Katya was sitting on the back stairs, clarinet in hand, a bored look on her face. I sat down next to her to watch their game.
They were going one-on-one, and they were playing hard. Even with his swollen hand, Dad was crushing Scott. He'd post Scott up and shoot over him. If he missed he'd crash the boards, grab the rebound, and put up another shot. Power basketball, and Scott couldn't stop him.
Once Dad scored his eleventh point, Scott started off the court. "Where you going?" Dad asked, a sharp edge to his voice.
Scott wheeled around, frustration on his face. "Like I've been telling you for the last half hour, I've got to practice. That's why Katya's here, you know."
"Yeah?" Dad said. "Well, Katya can wait a few more minutes. I want to see you play Nick."
"Why?"
"Because I want to. Is that so much to ask?"
Scott gave Katya a look, sighed loudly, then turned to Dad. "One game?"
Dad nodded.
"And then I'm done."
"Then you're done."
Scott looked to me. "All right, Nick. Let's play."
I thought I'd win easily, that Scott would roll over to get the game finished so he could play his trumpet. I'd forgotten that Katya was watching.
In the beginning I think he forgot too. I scored the first three buckets, two on pull-up jumpers and one on a lay-in. But after the third hoop Katya called out, "Come on, Scott!" and I knew he was coming after me.
It was on the boards that he did it. He was taller than I was by four inches, and without a ref to call over-the-back fouls, he could pound away inside. He did to me exactly what Dad had done to him. A couple of times he bodied me right off the court.
Down 9–6, I backed up a step and sunk a long jumper. He shook his head. "Pure luck," he grumbled, but I swished another one, and then a third to tie it up.
That brought him right out on me, so close I could smell his sweat. I drove hard down the right side of the lane, then went behind the back and scooped up a little left-handed running hook that dropped. Score: 10–9, my lead. One more basket and I had him.
Again he guarded me tight, and again I drove the lane. Only this time I pulled up for the jump shot. He stayed with me though, and he swatted the ball out of the air. The ball was headed out of bounds, and it would have been my possession, but I hustled after it anyway, hustled because that's the way you win.
Scott watched me, not realizing what I was doing. So when I did grab the ball just before it went out-of-bounds, I was in the clear, so open in fact that I was afraid I'd choke the shot. I dribbled once to get some rhythm. Scott flew at me then, but he was way too late. I pulled the trigger. The ball soared high, tracing a beautiful rainbow, then fell out of the air, down and through. I'd beaten him.
As soon as the ball whistled through the net, Scott headed off the court. "You quitting?" Dad asked him, incredulous.
Scott didn't answer. Dad followed behind him as he headed up the back steps. "I don't understand you. Nick beats you in front of your girlfriend, and you don't even want a rematch."
Scott turned on him, his face contorted with anger. "What is it you want from me, Dad? What is it? You want me to be the big basketball star you never were. Is that it? Well, I'm not going to be. Got that? I'm not going to be. Maybe Nick will be, but I won't. So spend your time with him, and leave me alone."
The back door opened and Mom stepped out. I hadn't known she was home. I don't think Scott or Dad had known either. "What is all the screaming about?" she demanded, looking from Scott to Dad.
No one said anything. Scott looked at Dad, then turned to Katya. "Come on. Let's go downstairs."
"You're a quitter," Dad called after him. "You hear me! A quitter."
Mom stepped aside as Scott, red-faced with rage, stormed by her into the house. Katya followed him, her face pasty white. I stood on the court, holding the ball, looking from Mom to Dad and then back again to Mom. She was at the top of the stairs, her whole body quivering with fury, glaring at Dad. "What are you looking at?" he asked scornfully.
She studied him for a long time. "I don't know anymore. I just don't know." Then she went back inside the house, the door quietly clicking closed behind her.
Both Dad and I stared at the closed door for a while, almost as if we were in a trance. Then all at once he turned to me. "What do you say, Nick? You want to play some?"
Chapter 8
I heard the voices after midnight. At first it was the way it usually was, the low urgent tones, Dad louder than Mom. Then came the screaming, screaming like I'd never heard before. Scott's door opened. We stood side-by-side at the top of the stairs and listened.
"Why does he have to play basketball? Will you tell me that? It's perfectly clear he likes music more. Is that so awful?"
"Get a clue. How many times do I have to tell you this? It isn't music he likes; it's Katya Ushakov's body. And you know what he wants to do with her—or should I say to her—as well as I do."
There was a long pause. "You've got a filthy mind, Matthew, but that doesn't mean Scott does."
"Every boy has a filthy mind, Caroline," Dad said. "That's one of the many things that you don't know about boys."
"I'll tell you one thing I do know," Mom shot back. "I do know how to talk to my son. He doesn't look at me with hatred in his eyes. At least not yet. But if you don't back off, he'll end up hating both of us. You're poisoning this house."
The laugh again. "So now I'm poisoning the house! If I'm so awful, I'm surprised you still want me around."
"Who says I do?"
It was as if a blast of icy air had filled every corner of the house. Mom's voice was different than I'd ever heard it, dark somehow.
"Watch yourself, Caroline," Dad said, his voice now dark too. "Don't push too hard or I'll walk out that door and never come back."
"Do you want me to open it for you, Matthew?"
The silence seemed to last forever. Finally Dad's voice burst out like gunshots. "You want it, Caroline; you got it. I'm gone. I'm out of here."
"Fine. You can leave in the morning."
"The hell with that. I'll leave right now." He paused. "There is a place where I'll be welcome, you know."
"Yes, I'm quite aware of that."
For a few minutes we heard his heavy footsteps moving from the living room to the bathroom to the bedroom. At last we heard the front door open and then slam close. Mom walked around a little after that, as if she was cleaning up or something. Then we heard her crying.
"Do you think we should go down?" Scott whispered.
"What would we say?"
He thought for a second. "I don't know."
She cried for what seemed like hours, but was probably only a few minutes. Then the living room light went off. Immediately we sneaked back to our own rooms.
At breakfast Mom was businesslike. "I'm not going to lie to you. There's been too much fighting around here. You know it and I know it and your dad knows it. It's not good for you and it's not good for us. So today I'm going to see a lawyer about a divorce. It won't be easy. There will be less money, and we'll all have to make sacrifices. But it has to be done." She looked at Scott, then at me. That's when I noticed how red-rimmed her eyes were
, and how sad. "This isn't your fault. And it doesn't mean you won't see your dad anymore, or that he doesn't love you. He's your dad, and there's no one in the world who will ever love you like your dad."
Part Two
Chapter 1
I'd always been a decent student, B's mostly, with a few A's sprinkled in like three-point baskets in a game. But I didn't do so well during my first months at Bothell High. I'd try to pay attention, only my mind would drift in and out. I was good about writing down the homework assignments at the end of classes, but when I got home I'd shoot hoops until dinner, and then I'd shoot some more after dinner.
Eventually Mom would call me in and tell me to get busy on my homework. I'd open a book and start. But then I'd hear her on the phone with her lawyer or her sister or her nursing supervisor, talking about IRA accounts or how my dad had treated her or the possibility of getting more hours at work. And on the nights she wasn't on the phone, I'd find myself listening to the traffic on the streets. Every truck would sound like my dad's truck, coming back home. Only they all drove by, every single one of them, as the minutes ticked away. Finally I'd look up at the clock and it would be ten, too late to get started. So I'd shove my books into my backpack and head off to school the next morning with nothing done.
It was crazy. Basketball tryouts were coming up, and my chances of making the varsity were good. So I should have been working harder than ever. A million times I told myself that starting now I'd get to work. But when the weekly grade reports were posted, the name "Nick Abbott" was at the bottom, right down there with "Trent Dawson."
That put me in pretty sad company. Not that Trent was stupid. Every once in a while he'd shock everyone by raising his hand and saying something decent, but most of the time he did nothing and said nothing. The only class he cared about was P.E. Since he never played on school or rec league teams, gym was the only place where he could show his stuff. He treated every run-of-the-mill gym game as if it were some national championship.
That's why what I did was so idiotic. We were playing touch football; I was on defense, free safety. Their quarterback hit Trent with a little check-off pass in the right flat. Trent cut back, raced past a couple of guys, and suddenly he was running in the clear down the sideline.
The guy is fast, the only one in the class who can keep up with me, so it looked like a cinch touchdown. But I had an angle on him, and I had energy to burn, so I chased him down. I caught him about ten yards from the end zone. Instead of tagging him lightly, I gave him a hard push. The instant I did it, I wished I hadn't. Trent was running so fast that my push caused him to lose his balance. He ran flat-footed, his strides too long, for about ten yards. Then he fell, rolling head-over-heels into the drainage ditch between the field and the sidewalk. There's muddy water and green muck in there, and when Trent climbed out of that ditch, slop was oozing off him.
Everybody started laughing ... everybody but Trent and me. He stood stock-still for a moment, his mouth tight. Then he charged me, fists flying. I covered up, but he hit me a couple of times in the stomach and once on the side of the head before the teacher, Mr. Shelly, could get him off me. Even with Shelly pulling him away Trent kept swinging. "I'm going to get you, Abbott," he raged. "I'm going to get you."
Shelly spun him around. "You're not going to get anybody, Dawson! Not unless you have a burning desire to spend a month of Saturdays pulling weeds around here. You understand?"
Trent glowered at him, and then at me, his eyes glittering. I'd never seen him like that, but there were stories floating around, stories about what his brother Zack had done to Ross Paulson and Mike Anderson, and how the police had wanted to press criminal charges, especially over Ross, but how Ross's parents were afraid to. If Zack could go crazy, then so could Trent. I didn't want him coming after me. I stuck my hand out. "I'm sorry."
"There," Mr. Shelly said, looking at Trent. "He's apologized. Shake his hand and forget it."
Trent's hand flashed out and slapped mine away. The bell rang and he stormed off the field. After Mr. Shelly watched him go, he turned to me. "Anything happens, anything at all, you tell me."
I didn't see Trent again until last period, geometry with Mrs. Glandon. I'd hoped he'd forgotten about what had happened, but the second my eye caught his, I knew he hadn't.
When geometry ended, I gathered my books and headed for the door. I wanted to get out of school on time, to walk home with the first wave of kids. But as I reached the door, I heard Mrs. Glandon's voice. "Nick Abbott, I want you to stay a minute." She waited until the room was empty, and then she lit into me. "You're failing, Nick. And you don't have much time before the midterm report goes home. I had your brother, so I know your mom and dad, and I know they won't be happy about these grades. It's time to get on the ball."
"Yes, Mrs. Glandon," I said, but she wouldn't let me go until I'd written down all my missing assignments and promised to complete them within a week.
When I finally escaped her room, the buses had left, and the only kids remaining on campus were involved with some activity or other. As I stepped out onto 88th, I could feel the threat all around me, feel it in the silence of the street and the dampness of the air.
At the cul-de-sac before my own block I saw him—and Zack. The two of them were leaning against the mailbox, staring across the street, acting as if they didn't notice me. My heart started pounding and a lump came to my throat. I wanted to turn and run away, the way zebras run away from lions on those TV shows on PBS. But where? And if I did run, what good would it do?
I continued walking, trying hard not to show any fear. When I was about ten feet away, they turned toward me. I nodded as if we were all friends. They nodded back. I walked steadily forward, came even with them, and then past them. A step, another step. They weren't after me. They just happened to be standing there. I'd imagined the whole thing.
I was about to exhale when I heard their footsteps. They were on me before I could turn myself fully around. I toppled over, grabbing at them as they pushed me off the sidewalk and down into the drainage ditch.
Within seconds we were all in the muck, only this time I was at the bottom. Trent or Zack or both of them together were pushing my head down under the water. Before I could breathe, my nose and mouth filled with slime. I fought my way up, gulped air, and then my head was pushed down under. I tried twisting and turning, but they were too strong for me. They kept pushing me down, down, down. I fought, I kicked, I slammed my fists into the mud and water. It was no use. I was drowning. They were killing me.
My eyes rolled inward and a last wave of something close to pleasure filled me. Then, just before I lost consciousness entirely, the hands released me. I felt my head slowly rise out of the water. I was able to breathe air, pure delicious air, and it tasted better than anything I've ever tasted in my entire life. I rolled out of the ditch and lay on my side sucking it in by the gallon.
I heard voices, but I couldn't follow what was being said. Every bit of me concentrated on breathing. Finally I felt a hand under my armpits pulling me to my feet. I stood, shaky in the legs and only half-clear in my mind.
Luke Jackson was helping me up. I knew him a little from P.E. and from seeing him around in the summer. He lived in the Highlands, the fanciest housing development in the area. A black guy, maybe six four or six five, with a shaved head and one gold earring, new to the neighborhood. We'd been on the same team in gym a couple of times, though we'd never really talked. "You okay?" he asked.
I nodded.
He looked up the street toward where Trent and Zack were walking rapidly away. "Those guys got a little carried away, I'd say." He paused. "You make it home?"
"Yeah," I said, my voice sounding strange. "I can make it home."
He nodded. "All right then. See you tomorrow." He looked down at his muddy pants and shoes. "Damn. They got my clothes all dirty." Then he crossed 104th and headed up his own block. I never even thanked him.
When I opened the front door that afternoon, Sco
tt was on the sofa with his arms wrapped around Katya Ushakov. Their faces both flushed red when they heard me come in, and they jumped apart. But once Katya got a good look at me, she sprang to her feet. "What happened, Nick? Are you all right?"
She walked me straight to the bathroom, Scott trailing behind. She ran the bath and started peeling my clothes off. I was so dazed I didn't object. When I was down to my underwear she scooped up my jeans and sweatshirt. "Where's your washing machine?" she asked Scott.
"I'll show you," he answered.
Once they were gone, I finished undressing and slid into the tub. I closed my eyes, lay back, and soaked. If I could have, I would have opened my skin and let it warm my insides. Twice I fell asleep, but both times I woke with a start, shaking and gulping air, as if I were somehow back in that ditch, my head underwater. As the water cooled, I drained some off and added more hot. I did that until I'd used every drop. Then I wrapped myself in a towel and went to my room.
I would have liked to have stretched out on my bed and gone to sleep. But I knew Katya and Scott were waiting for an explanation, so I forced myself to go to the front room. She was sitting in the big chair by the window. He had his feet up on the coffee table.
I'd thought about telling them that I'd slipped and fallen head-first into a ditch. But once I saw Katya's face, I couldn't lie. So I told them what happened. "Anyway, it's over with now," I said.
Katya's eyes widened. "What do you mean, it's over with? You've got to call the police. They could have killed you."
"Calling the police would make it worse."
"How?" she demanded. "How could it make it worse?"
"Nothing would happen to them, Katya. And then they'd beat me up again."