by Tim Green
“Maybe I’m a business genius.” She shrugged. “I don’t know, but I think so.”
Jalen smiled and said, “Could be.”
But Daniel rolled his eyes. “Right now this whole thing is hot sauce. And if making a mess of things is what it takes to be a genius, then you can call me Einstein.”
They pulled up in front of the Silver Liner. The lot was still packed with cars overflowing into the train station.
“Looks like your dad will be busy all night,” Cat’s mom said. “Want me to drop you home?”
Jalen felt he should go in and help, but he was truly exhausted. “When I told my dad I was going to JY’s, he said he’d see me at home, so you can take me if you don’t mind.”
They drove to his house. Jalen was thankful for the darkness that blanketed the place, but then he wished lights were on and he had his mom there waiting to greet him. As the Range Rover’s taillights slipped into the night, the emptiness inside pressed down on him. He made quick work of the bathroom and stripped out of his clothes, leaving a short trail to his bed.
Before putting out the light, he took his mother’s picture off the top of the dresser and brought it back to his bed. He ran his fingernail back and forth over the little metal knobs decorating the frame, and the raspy sound reminded him of the gourd in music class—the guiro, his teacher had called it. He stopped the music and thought of his father, lifted by a balloon of excitement, rising up to the clouds, and his mother, gone long ago, chasing her own dream.
For Jalen’s dreams to come true, one of his favorite baseball players of all time was going to have to fall flat on his face over the next four days.
He’d never felt so alone.
20
JALEN WOKE EARLY TO THE smell of onions and potatoes frying in the pan.
Rain pattered lightly against the window. He yawned and stretched, then fished the picture frame out of his covers and replaced it on the dresser. He pulled on some sweatpants and a T-shirt, used the bathroom, and wandered into the kitchen. The back of his father’s bald head gleamed even in the gray light falling through the windows. Breakfast snapped and sizzled on the stove.
“Hi, Dad.”
His father spun around, spatula in hand. “Jalen! I’m making you breakfast. You gotta look and see what I got on the table. We gonna go get phones, you and me.”
“What? Phones?” Jalen turned toward the table where they ate. Two places were laid out atop the red-and-white-checkered cloth. Between the settings were three fat bundles of money. “What do you mean, Dad?”
The only phones they’d ever had were the one in the diner and a cheap TracFone they used sparingly.
“That’s just the cash!” His father pointed with the spatula, bubbling with delight. “Last night we made almost twelve thousand dollars! That there is just the cash. Most of it was credit cards, but the money we gonna spend today.”
Jalen thought of the deal Cat had tried to negotiate with JY. This outdid even that. “But Dad, it’s just the opening night. That’s not gonna happen all the time.”
His father hurried around the counter and picked a black book out from beneath the money stacks. “Look at this. She’s my reservation book. Greta, I make her write it down off the computer. I don’t trust no computer. Look. The Silver Liner, she’s booked full for the next three and a half weeks already! Last week, the bank, she’s putting me under the squeeze. I was worried about how I’m gonna keep the diner. Today we gonna get iPhones!”
They were happily planning to go right after breakfast when Jalen suddenly sniffed the air. “Dad, the onions.”
“Oh!” His father hurried back to the stove and quickly began flipping things amid a hissing cloud of steam. “It’s okay. I got a couple burned, but it’s gonna be fine. You sit. I got eggs right here and it’s only gonna be three minutes. Have a juice. Have two!”
His father poured the eggs in, crumbled some cheese on top, and gave the whole thing a few mixes and turns before he spun around, beaming. “Jalen! Drink a whole gallon of juice. We are not gonna have to worry about money no more! We are gonna be rich!”
The idea lit a small ember of hope in Jalen’s chest. Having a phone, being “rich”—although Jalen knew it wouldn’t be rich like JY or Cat’s stepfather—would make life a lot easier. He wouldn’t have to worry about fees for travel teams or equipment or batting cage time. He wouldn’t have to borrow people’s phones. He could focus on his game and turn himself into a major league player.
He wouldn’t need JY to get him into stadiums. He’d be playing there. And his mother? It might take longer, but he could imagine her seeing him stepping up to the plate in the World Series, realizing—as Joe Buck discussed his background—that he was the son she’d left behind.
It was a longer, harder road, but it was still possible.
His dad brought the pan over to the table and served his eggs, onions, potatoes, and cheese out on both their plates. Jalen waited for him to put the pan in the sink and return with a mug of coffee before digging in.
The flavors mixed and exploded in his mouth. “It’s amazing.”
“Is nonna’s recipe.” His dad looked at the ceiling. “She’s lookin’ down on us now and she’d be so happy . . . .”
They polished their plates clean before Jalen’s dad said, “I think we gotta get a house. Our own house with a new bathroom and bedrooms up the stairs.”
Jalen choked on his juice and had a small coughing fit before he could speak. “A house? Really?”
“Why not?” His dad looked around at the cracked ceiling and walls. His eyes stopped at a jagged hole in a panel board sprouting tufts of pink insulation. “Maybe with a fireplace. I’m always thinking about a nice fire in the winter. And air-conditioning for the summer. That’s what we’re gonna have.”
“Dad, after one night? You sure?”
“Is not just one night, Jalen. When people are reading about us in the New York Times, they gonna come from a long way to eat at the Silver Liner, and now with all this money,” his father said, picking up a bundle of bills, “everything’s gonna be so fresh and so good they gonna come back again and again.”
“Yeah,” Jalen said, “but Dad, are you sure he’s gonna write something that’s that good? I mean, people say all the time that you can’t trust newspaper reporters.”
“I tell you what.” His father picked up their plates and utensils and headed for the kitchen as he spoke. “We gonna go find out right now.”
“It’s in the Times today?” Jalen said. “That fast?”
“He said for the Sunday edition—today.”
The van’s engine struggled, then roared. They stopped at the drugstore in town, and Jalen ran in for the thick stack that was the Sunday New York Times. He jumped back in out of the rain and thumped it down on the console between them. His father fished through the sections until he came up with the Metro section. He turned to the last page and jabbed it with a stubby finger. “She’s here . . . .”
Jalen struggled to decipher what it said upside down, and instead chose to read the expression on his father’s face as he silently mouthed the words.
21
HIS FATHER’S MOUTH STRETCHED INTO a grin.
He looked up at Jalen and tapped the paper. “I told you! Listen, Jalen. Listen to what he says: ‘Authentic and exquisite! While everyone is looking for the next innovation, Fabio DeLuca has looked back and given us the reason we seek out and adore culinary excellence.’ Jalen, they talking about ME!!”
Jalen hugged his father tight, and he thought maybe the slight tremble in his father’s frame also brought some tears, but he pretended not to notice and looked away when his father let go and dabbed his face on the hem of his white V-neck T-shirt.
They were at the mall by nine for the opening and got free iPhones for signing up with a carrier’s special package. His dad then insisted he buy Jalen some new clothes at TJ Maxx. In short order he had a new pair of jeans, some khaki shorts, polo shirts, and a pair of Docksiders. As soon a
s they got back into the van, Jalen began to explore some of the things his new phone could do.
“It’s got a camera.” He snapped a picture of his dad giving him a thumbs-up. “And there’s all these apps that don’t even cost anything.”
Jalen stayed busy with the phone until they arrived at home.
“You do your homework first, then come help me at the diner,” his dad said, letting Jalen off before heading for the Silver Liner. “Enough on that phone, okay? We gotta have some rules.”
“Okay, Dad,” Jalen said, thinking, Right after two calls.
He flew into the house and dialed up Cat.
“Hello?”
“Guess who?”
“Jalen?”
Jalen laughed. “You were right, the Silver Liner is a gold mine. This is my new phone. You gotta show me how Twitter works and Instagram and all that other stuff. Can you believe it? Me, in the twenty-first century?”
“You were always in the twenty-first century,” Cat said. “Not every twelve-year-old kid has a phone.”
“I know,” he said, “but it sounded good.”
“Daniel told me the Rockets have practice later.”
“If it stops raining we do.”
“He also told me about the Bronxville coach asking you to switch teams . . . .”
Jalen tried to detect any annoyance in Cat’s voice. “Yeah, I was gonna tell you. Things have been crazy.”
“It sounds good.”
“I’d make the change right now,” he said, “but I have to make sure Daniel can come too.”
“ ’Cause you need them to drive you?” Cat teased. She knew that Daniel’s parents gave Jalen rides to and from practice like clockwork. Their path to Simon Park or just about anywhere went right through town, and Jalen would wait on the corner for a ride.
“Not just that,” Jalen said. “Daniel and I have been playing together since second grade, even though you have no idea how much I’d love to get away from Chris and his dad.”
Cat went quiet for a moment before she said, “I can’t believe he tried to help Jeffrey Foxx by spying on us.”
“You never should have trusted him, Cat. He’s a big fat jerk.”
“My mom always tells me that people can change, and if you don’t expect the best, you’ll always get the worst.”
“Well, you expected the best and got the worst.” Jalen remembered the sound of Chris’s laughter as he tossed perfectly good sandwiches into the garbage. “Or, maybe that was his best. I don’t think he can be anything but a rotten creep.”
“Forget about him,” Cat said. “Want to come over tonight and watch the Yankees game with me?”
“So we can root against JY like Red Sox fans?” Jalen said. “How crazy will that be?”
“Don’t think of it as rooting against him. We’ll be rooting for you. My mom said we could order pizza.”
“I think I can,” Jalen said. “I’ve got to get my homework done—it’s just some math and a survey for my shop class, but we get five points for doing it—and then I’m gonna help my dad at the diner until practice. I’m pretty sure he won’t mind. All of a sudden, it’s not hard for him to get help.”
“That happens when you’re famous.”
“So count me in. Okay, here goes nothing with Bronxville.” Jalen hung up and dialed Coach Allen with trembling fingers.
22
“COACH ALLEN? IT’S JALEN DELUCA.”
“Hey, Jalen, the Calamari Kid.” The coach answered like they were old friends. “I am very glad you called. So, are you with us? We’ve got a tournament in Boston next weekend. If we get you going by tomorrow, I’ll have you ready to play.”
Jalen’s mouth went dry, and he tried to swallow before he said, “Coach, I was hoping you could take my friend Daniel Bellone, too. He was the kid who made that incredible catch. He’s a great pitcher, but that position pretty much belongs to the coach’s son. Daniel’s not that big, but he’s really accurate, so he can nick the low inside corner of the zone . . . .”
Jalen had so much more he wanted to say about his friend, but he realized that Coach Allen had gone quiet.
“Coach?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’m here,” said the coach. “Uh . . . look, I’ve got a full bullpen and—”
“He can play third, too,” Jalen added quickly, “really anywhere. He’s got a good glove and he’s a solid hitter.”
“Right . . .” Coach Allen sighed. “Listen Jalen, I really only have one spot. Your guy might have a decent bat and be a serviceable player, but that’s not what the Bandits are about. Our guys are all future prospects. If they’re not, I don’t take them. You . . . well, I see something in you. Like I said, the way you stood up to Gertzy and then popped one over the fence, you’d fit in. But if it’s not you, I’ve got a list of a dozen talented kids who’d love to be on the Bandits. So . . .”
“So it’s take it or leave it, huh?” Jalen asked.
“Yeah, I guess it is,” said the coach. “Sorry . . .”
Jalen’s mind whirred and his stomach flopped. He wavered between thinking Daniel would understand and knowing he wouldn’t.
The coach cleared his throat. “Jalen? You there?”
“Yes,” Jalen croaked.
“So, what do you think? I’d hate to see you sitting the bench all summer. That can’t be good for you. Are you with us, or not?”
23
IT HURT JALEN TO ADMIT it, but what his mother had done to him and his father had tied a choke knot into some vital heartstring. If the truth was to be told, she had abandoned them. If the truth was to be told, he couldn’t imagine anyone doing such a thing. So loyalty was high on Jalen’s list of admirable qualities.
Only something that powerful could make Jalen swallow his hopes and his dreams and say, “No, not without Daniel. I’m sorry, but I just can’t.”
In the silence that hung between him and the coach, Jalen tried to imagine a world where Coach Gamble came to rely on him. Stranger things had certainly happened. Sports was the kingdom of fantastic turnarounds, Cinderella stories they were called.
“Okay,” Coach Allen finally said. “I tried.”
“Thank you, Coach,” Jalen replied. “I appreciate the offer.”
“Last chance . . .”
Jalen took breath. “No, but thank you.”
Coach Allen wished him luck.
Jalen knocked off his homework at the kitchen table. He had two pages of math along with the survey. Even though their teacher had introduced them to trigonometry during the last full week of school, the math was a snap. Jalen got math the way he got baseball. He couldn’t explain how he knew, he just knew. There’d been a time when the teachers had made a big fuss about his math knowledge, so much so that it frightened him and he began answering the complex problems they’d given him incorrectly on purpose. He’d been afraid because they started treating him like a freak, pulling him out of his classes and whispering about him. Fitting in was hard enough already.
He finished his schoolwork and listened to the rain patter for a minute. He heard and felt a low, growing rumble before a train rushed past the house with a blaring horn. A framed fishing picture of him and his dad danced in its spot on the shelf, along with three seashells from a day trip to Sherwood Island.
The train’s brakes squealed as it slowed to enter the station. There were always fewer trains on the weekends. A beam of sunlight passed by the window, signaling the possible end of the rain. Jalen stepped onto the porch and saw the tattered sky through the bright new leaves above. He found a weather app on his phone. It also promised an end to the rain, and that meant baseball practice with the Rockets would be a go.
“And there’s no escaping the Rockets,” Jalen said aloud to himself.
He changed into his practice uniform, shouldered his gear bag, and headed toward the diner. His dad had a full crew there, but there was plenty for Jalen to do during lunch. The diner was busy right through the afternoon, with a full reservation
book for dinner. Jalen felt bad leaving his dad, but his father wasn’t hearing any of that.
“It’s a dream come true, Jalen. I love it.” His father waved toward the busy stovetop, then wiped his hands on his apron before placing them on Jalen’s cheeks. “This isn’t work for me. Now, you go and play baseball and then have fun with you friends. I see you tonight. Late!”
Jalen left with the sound of his dad’s happy laughter ringing in his ears.
Daniel’s dad picked him up in the center of town. Jalen waited until they’d been dropped off in the parking lot behind the ball field before he showed Daniel his iPhone, because he didn’t want Mr. Bellone to feel uncomfortable. One of the things that bonded Jalen and Daniel through the years was being part of only a handful of kids in Rockton whose families didn’t have a lot of money.
“Nice. Now you can have your own Twitter account, Calamari Kid, or something.” Daniel turned the phone over in his hands like a gem, without a trace of envy in his voice, before he handed it back to Jalen. “So, did you call the Bronxville coach?”
“Yeah,” Jalen said. “He wasn’t as excited about having me . . . us . . . as I thought, so . . .”
Daniel’s face fell. He glanced at their practice field, where Coach Gamble and Coach Benning were already huddled at home plate over their clipboards. “Hot sauce. Oh well. Hey, your home run against that pitcher should make them think twice about keeping you on the bench.”
“I wish!”
The two friends entered the dugout, which was busy with boys unloading their equipment bags. At the far end of the dugout Chris sat, sulking. Dirk removed a bat from his bag, noticed Jalen and Daniel, and nudged Chris before pointing their way. Chris slowly turned his head and directed a hateful glare at Jalen.
“Yeah, you did this.” Chris used his left hand to raise his right arm so they could clearly see his elbow packed in ice beneath a thick and tightly wrapped Ace bandage.
It was Daniel who answered Chris. “Stop making excuses. Your arm—or your nerve—fizzed out. That Bronxville pitcher’s didn’t, and we lost. Stuff happens.”