by Tim Tingle
What is she talking about? I thought.
“A modern woman does not wait for a man to kiss her,” she said.
Before I could say a word, Mystery Lady Faye dropped the flashlight and wrapped both arms around me. Then she kissed me. Not a kid-style peck kiss. She kissed me so long I thought she was gonna chew my lips right off my face.
When she finally stopped, I sucked in two lungs worth of fresh air and stared at her with big wide eyes. I open my mouth to say something, but my brain malfunctioned.
“Good night,” she said, standing up and pushing the door aside.
“No, Faye, don’t leave!” I shouted. She climbed to the ground, then turned and dropped the towel on my face.
“Clean up,” she said. “You’ve got lipstick all over your face.”
The door plopped shut and she was gone.
Chapter 18
My Turn to Be Dad
I woke up in a new world. I didn’t have to hide from my dad. Maybe I should be hiding from Mystery Lady Faye, but I knew that wouldn’t do any good. She was more like a movie star than ever, and I hoped she’d come back tonight.
Too much to think about!
Hoke. The one normal unchanging thing in my life was Cherokee Johnny and basketball.
“Breakfast is ready, son! How about we eat at the table?” Dad’s voice brought me back to the strange happenings of last night. Basketball would have to wait.
When I entered the kitchen, my eyes went to the chair where I was sitting the last time I was in the house. Dad saw.
“Yeah, Bobby,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about it too. That’s why I wanted to eat here, to get this over with. You hoke?”
“Yeah, Dad, I’m hoke,” I said. “I’m sorry about your cut.”
“It’s me who should be sorry. But, hey! I’m gonna make it up to you.”
The table was already set and the kitchen was filled with the sweet aroma of fried eggs and bacon. Dad stood up to serve the eggs and bacon.
“Let me do it, Dad,” I said. “You cooked breakfast. Let me serve it.”
“Sounds good to me.”
So my father and I had our first breakfast together.
When I reached for my orange juice glass, Dad put his hands over his face. He was remembering the orange juice and blood on the floor.
“Ohhh,” he moaned. “I am so ashamed of myself.”
“Me, too, Dad. I’m ashamed of things I thought about you.”
“You gonna practice today?” he asked as we finished eating.
“Yeah, me and Johnny will shoot some hoops, play a few games if anybody else shows up.” Then I remembered I hadn’t done any chores in at least a week. “Uh, Dad, is it hoke if I wash your truck first, before basketball?”
Dad just looked at me. I had heard about role reversal, but this was ridiculous! He started laughing, then I joined him. We laughed so hard I thought I’d toss my breakfast all over the table. It was maybe the best laugh of my life.
A few days later I moved back to the house. But several days a week I’d ask Dad if I could spend the night in my underground room. He always said yes. Before leaving for work, Dad always told me the chore for the day.
I knew he’d come home for lunch. That was always his first-beer-of-the-day time. And that didn’t change, though he did cut back—from three or four to one or two. After work, Dad got into the habit of driving by the park before coming home. If Johnny and I were playing, he’d honk and wave.
One afternoon, Dad parked his truck and watched us shoot three-pointers for a while. Next thing we knew, he was sitting at the picnic table by the basketball court. Johnny and I just looked at each other. This was a little strange, but still hoke.
“Can I take a shot?” Dad finally asked. He stood up and Johnny tossed him the ball. Dad dribbled it a few times, then arched a long shot from the corner. If I had not seen it myself, I would never have believed it.
The ball swished through the net without touching the rim!
“Hoke, guys,” Dad said, laughing. “That was total luck, I promise you. I haven’t shot a basketball in twenty years.”
“Wow,” Johnny and I said at the same time. Dad shrugged his shoulders and returned to the picnic table. Mission accomplished. He was one of us, a real live basketball player.
That night when he turned my light out and said good night, I told him, “Nice shot, Dad.”
“A sign from above, Bobby,” he said. I fell asleep thinking that one over.
School finally started. I walked Faye to school, met her in the hall between classes, and tried to sneak a kiss at least once a day.
Basketball practice didn’t start for six weeks. But every afternoon, Coach Robison left a few basketballs out for us to play pick-up games. Unsupervised. That was state rules. No coaching till October 15.
Back home I noticed a disturbing change in Dad—a return to his old ways. Dad was drinking more. With no one around the house, nothing to do but watch TV and drink, he was slipping. He even yelled at me once.
I was in my room doing math homework. He came in late, around eight o’clock. I knew he’d been to the bar.
“Clean this kitchen up!” he shouted. Then he banged his fist against the door, like he used to do. I ran downstairs as fast as I could.
“Sorry, Dad,” I said. “Won’t happen again.” I pretended not to be afraid.
Dad must have realized what he had done. He disappeared into his room and shut the door.
The next morning I got up an hour early and fixed eggs and bacon for us both. Dad gave me a funny look when he entered the kitchen. I filled his coffee cup and sat down. I was just about to cut my fried egg when Dad held his hand up.
“Let me say a little prayer first,” he said. I closed my eyes and bowed my head. Mom was always the one to lead the prayers.
“Dear Lord,” he said in a quiet voice, “thank you for this food, thank you for my family, and thank you especially for my son, Bobby.”
This was his way of saying he was sorry for yelling at me. When I opened my eyes, his head was still bowed.
“I miss her,” he whispered.
“So do I, Dad,” I said.
We had not spoken of my mother all summer long.
Chapter 19
Got It Bad, My Man
October 15, the first day of official practice, came sooner than expected.
“Panthers come in all sizes!” Jimmy said, welcoming us to the team.
“Don’t you mean all colors?” Darrell said, but he had a big smile on his face. Johnny and I were teammates of the Nahullos now, and they stood up for us in the halls, too. Jimmy and Darrell—the two guys who battled and finally beat us on the playground—were even better than we remembered.
The first week of practice went well. I guess I could shoot a three-point shot better than anybody else on the team. And Johnny was his usual inside self, hard to score against and a great rebounder.
But playing on your high school basketball team is very different from playing at your neighborhood park. When you’re playing on a team, you have a coach. Mr. Robison was not a bad coach. As long as you did everything he wanted, he was cool. But throw one bad pass, take one stupid shoot, and “WHIRRRRRRRRR!”
When Coach Robison blew his whistle, everything stopped. Everybody froze. Not like on TV when the refs call a foul and play stops.
No, I mean everything froze. No one moved a muscle. We all waited to see how many laps we’d have to run.
“Faster!” Coach Robison yelled while we ran laps around the gym. “Don’t get lazy on me!” After a few days of running laps, every muscle in my body was sore. But Dad was cool. He had supper waiting every night when I got home from practice. And the list of chores grew shorter.
And he tried to hide his beer cans so I wouldn’t know how drunk he was.
A few days before our first game, just after practice, Coach Robison called everybody together.
“We’re gonna be tough to beat, guys. If we play as hard as
we can, we’ll win some ball games. Now, listen up. Here’s our starting lineup.” He read from a small notebook he carried with him everywhere.
Of course he knew who the starting lineup was, but somehow reading from his notebook made it more of an honor, more official sounding.
“Starting center, Jimmy Harris. At forward, Johnny Mackey. Small forward, Darrell Blackstone. Point guard, Bart Zimsky. And at shooting guard, Bobby Byington.
We were so cool about it, Johnny and me. We just nodded and low-fived the other starters. But when we climbed into Johnny’s car for the trip home, we went crazy!
Johnny turned the volume up as loud as it would go, and I popped in an old Led Zeppelin CD my dad let me borrow.
In the days of my youth
I was told what it means to be a man.
Now I’ve reached that age
I’ve tried to do all those things the
best I can.
“Hey, there’s Faye,” Johnny shouted. Faye was walking by herself on the sidewalk. “Wanna see if she wants a ride?”
“Naw, man. Let’s just give her a hard time.”
“It’s your funeral,” Johnny said. He eased his car to the curb, a few feet from Mystery Lady Faye. She was wearing a dark-blue dress. I walked her to sixth-period class just a few hours ago. She was wearing blue jeans then.
What’s up with this? I thought.
“OK, little Bobby,” Johnny said, “you’re on.” He rolled the window down and I was staring at Faye. The cool dude who’d just made starter on the basketball team, where did he go?
“Uh, hey,” I mumbled. Johnny hit me in the stomach.
“Hey, chickadee,” I said, turning to Faye and bobbing my head up and down.
“Chickadee?” she said, still walking. “That’s the best you can do? Stop showing off for your friend, Bobby. Be the nice little boy I know.”
“I’ll show you nice little boy!” I said, still head bobbing. “Wanna ride home?”
“I’m not going home,” Faye said. “In case you didn’t notice, I’m dressed for a party.”
“Hey, Johnny, stop the car,” I said. “This isn’t funny. Pull over.” Johnny turned off the Zeppelin and we pulled to a halt. I jumped out of the car. Faye folded her arms and looked at me. She didn’t smile or smirk. She just looked at me. I felt bad.
“Hoke, I didn’t mean to be such a smart aleck,” I said. “Hoke, maybe I did. But I’m sorry. Coach Robison just announced the starters on the basketball team, and me and Johnny made the starting five! We were celebrating, that’s all.”
“I forgive you,” Faye said, and she was smiling.
“Now, what’s this about a party?”
“I didn’t say I was going to a party!” Faye said, and now she was LOLing. “I said I was dressed for a party!”
“What’s the difference?”
“I already went to the party. It was the first meeting of the year of the Latin Club. We thought we’d have a party, maybe attract new members.”
“The Latin Club?”
“Gee, I wish I’d known,” Johnny said, leaning his head out the window. “Who needs basketball when you’ve got the Latin Club?”
“I’m going to ignore that because you are Bobby’s friend,” Faye said, but she had that sweet smile on her face. “When’s the first game?”
“Next Friday,” I said. “Please come. Please?”
“I wouldn’t miss it, Bobby,” she said. “And maybe some time in your room after the game?”
“I’ll bring the popcorn,” I said, and before she could change her mind, I jumped in the car.
“Later!” I yelled as we pulled away. Johnny put the pedal to the metal, as Dad would say, and Led Zeppelin screamed again.
No matter how I try
I find my way is still the same old
jazz.
Good times, bad times
You know I’ve had my share.
When my woman left home with a
brown-eyed man
I still don’t seem to care.
“Zeppelin never knew Faye,” I said.
“What do you mean?” Johnny asked.
“I think they’d miss my Mystery Lady if they knew her. I know if Faye left home, I’d be gone too, trailing after her.”
“So if you had to choose between basketball and Faye, you’d choose Faye?”
“I’m just glad I don’t have to make that choice,” I replied.
I glanced in the rearview mirror. Mystery Lady Faye had not moved. She knew I was watching her. She tilted her head and smoothed her long dark hair over her shoulder. The next thing she did made me jump out of my seat.
“What’s up?” Johnny asked.
“Nothing,” I whispered. “Uh, Faye just blew me a kiss.”
“You’ve got it bad, my man,” Johnny said. “I mean bad.”
Chapter 20
Baptism by Car
“You nervous?” Dad asked. We were sitting on the patio two hours before tip-off.
“Yeah. But I’m hoping once the game starts I’ll be hoke.”
“First-game jitters,” Dad said, taking a long sip from his third beer of the afternoon. “Want a ride to the game?”
Before I could answer, Johnny pulled into the driveway and honked.
“No, thanks,” I said. “Johnny’s giving me a ride.”
“Have a good game. Play hard. I’ll see you there.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
Thus began the most frightening night of my life.
The gym was packed. Everybody in town wanted to see if this year’s team was a winner. When we starters took the court for the opening tip-off, I scanned the stands for my dad. He wasn’t there.
I hated it, but I couldn’t help remembering No Name, how his dad was never there for him. We lost the opening tip and the Doaksville guard dribbled down court for what looked like an easy, wide-open lay-up. He even smiled as he took off for the shot.
Didn’t happen how he hoped.
Jimmy Harris waited for the ball to leave his hand. He slapped the basketball so hard against the backboard it came sailing to me. I took a dribble and passed the ball to Johnny. He crossed midcourt, and when he tossed the ball to me I heard Coach Robison holler, “Shoot!”
What was I to do? He’s the coach. It felt so sweet when it left my hand. SWISH! The crowd yelled louder and our cheerleaders jumped up and down.
Panthers, Panthers,
Fight, fight, fight!
I didn’t know what to do. I just stood there.
“Get back on defense,” Coach hollered, and I came out of my trance.
The whole first half went like that first basket. By halftime, we were up by twenty points. I was exhausted and dripping in sweat, but we were winning!
I was in shape. That wasn’t the problem. It was the excitement, the energy, the yelling and cheering after every shot, every rebound, every everything!
Coach Robison gave us a short pep talk at halftime. “They will come back,” he said. “Expect it. Play tough defense, don’t foul, and only shoot when you are open.”
As we took the court for the second half, he yelled, “Remember! Defense and share the basketball!”
I nodded and cast one more look into the stands. Still no Dad.
Then I spotted him, staggering through the front door. He threw money on the ticket table and pounded his fist when they were too slow giving him the ticket.
I didn’t want to be playing. I wanted to disappear, to climb into my hole. We lost the tip and my man dribbled by me for a lay-up. He faked Johnny out before shooting, and Johnny fouled him.
A three-point play to start the second half, and it was my fault.
“You okay?” Coach Robison asked as I ran by the bench.
I nodded. But I was not hoke. My dad was being led out of the gym by the local police. Two minutes later Coach Robison benched me. The principal had called him over during a time-out. I didn’t have to ask. Coach Robison knew about my dad showing up drunk for my first
basketball game.
“You’ve played a great game, Bobby,” he said, patting me on the shoulder. “Take a break. You’ve earned it.”
We won the game by twenty-five points. I scored fifteen, all in the first half. I didn’t shower or celebrate after the game. I threw my clothes on and headed to the door. Parents and friends were all waiting to greet us, but I ignored even Faye and ran to the parking lot.
He was waiting for me. I knew he would be. A little late, but Dad was there, sitting in his truck at the far end of the lot. His engine was running and his mufflers were roaring.
“Come here, kid!” he yelled. “Who won? You do any good?”
I stood on the curb looking at him. He blinked his headlights and drove by me.
“You too good for your dad, is that it, kid?”
I didn’t know what to say. I wanted my new dad back.
“Hey!” Johnny shouted. “Where’d you go in such a hurry? We’re all getting together for pizza. Even Coach is coming.”
“Can I borrow your car first?” I asked.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, digging in his pocket for the keys. Johnny didn’t ask where I was going. He saw my dad’s truck pulling out of the parking lot. “Meet us as soon as you can at Big Boy’s. I’ll get us a giant pepperoni. Sound good?”
“Sounds good,” I said. “And thanks, Johnny. You played great tonight.”
“So did you. Good luck with your dad.”
I jumped in his car and adjusted the seat so my short legs could reach the gas pedal. Dad saw me get in Johnny’s car, and it made him mad.
He gunned his motor and the truck roared to life. He sped across the parking lot to the four-lane street in front of the school. Dad was easy to follow. He had a bright row of red taillights across the rear of his truck.
When he saw me tailing him he looked in the rearview mirror and shook his fist at me. “No, Dad,” I said. It was hard for me not to cry. “I thought you were proud of me.”
Then I got mad.
“What am I supposed to do?” I shouted, banging my fist on the dashboard. “I work my tail off, trying to please you. You say you’re proud of me, then you show up drunk at my first game.” By now I was sobbing. I could barely see the winding road.