by Carl Deuker
“Last at bat,” their coach called out as I headed to the mound for the bottom of the fifth. I took the ball in my hand, turned around, and checked the fielders. Then, from nowhere, a wave of sadness broke over me.
Summer was done. Summer baseball was done. There wouldn’t be a North Central baseball team in the spring. This was my last time pitching with my guys from my neighborhood behind me.
“Let’s go!” a parent shouted from the sideline, and I snapped out of it.
It took eleven pitches for me to strike out the side.
Shutout.
No-hitter.
Perfect game.
PART
TWO
One
When I was little, the first day of school had been exciting. When had that stopped?
Antonio and I left early, trudging off in a light drizzle. “It’s going to be weird at school,” Antonio said as we neared North Central. “All those years, with everybody knowing I didn’t have a dad, and now I’ve got one.” He paused. “For as long as he stays.”
“He’ll s-stay.”
“How do you know?”
“I just feel it.”
Once we reached the campus, kids started calling out to him. “Hey, Antonio what’s up?” . . . “Antonio, who you got for gym?” . . . “Antonio, when’s your lunch period?”
It was as if I were invisible. The same thing happened every year and—in a smaller way—every day. I gave him a quick nod, and he nodded back. Then I headed to my first period class.
I’d barely passed Algebra I, so Algebra II—a state requirement for graduation—had me terrified. My teacher, Mr. Eagan, was new to the school and also looked like a brand-new teacher.
Eagan’s voice was shaky and his smile way too big as he introduced himself. It was the first period of the first day, but ten minutes into the class, kids got rowdy, leaning back and talking to kids rows behind him. Thirty minutes in, they had cell phones out and were texting or playing games. A girl made a phone call and then covered one ear so she could hear. Mr. Eagan—his smile gone—said, “Please, no phone calls during class,” but she kept talking.
During lunch, I joined a long line outside my counselor’s office. It took nearly the entire period before I was able to see Ms. Wilhelm, and she was not in a good mood. When I told her I wanted a different algebra teacher, she leaned forward, her eyes wide. “Seriously, Laz? One day? Not happening.”
I started to argue, but she flapped her hands in front of her face. “Goodbye, Laz. Door is right behind you.”
I had my hand on the doorknob when she suddenly snapped her fingers. “Wait one second. You’re the baseball player, right?”
I nodded.
“Sit back down.”
As I settled into the chair, she fumbled with papers on her desk. “You heard there’s not going to be a team this year?”
“I h-heard.”
“A man from Laurelhurst High called this morning,” she said as she shuffled through a stack of papers on her desk. “Here it is. Bill Thurman. He’s someone involved with their baseball team. He wants to talk to you about playing for them.” She slid the slip of paper to me. “You must be pretty good. Normally Laurelhurst doesn’t want anything to do with us.”
Two
For the rest of the day, I kept feeling in my pocket for that piece of paper, afraid I’d lost it. When sixth period ended, I headed to the library and found a study carrel in the back. I’m always in dread that I’ll stutter on the phone, and Mr. Thurman had to be Ian Thurman’s father, which made it worse. I took deep breaths for a few moments before I punched in the numbers.
“Bill Thurman,” a gravelly voice said after one ring.
“Hello,” I said, making myself speak slowly, “this is Laz Weathers returning—”
“Laz, glad to hear from you. You might remember me. You had quite a game against my son’s team this summer. The Seattle Marauders. We talked a little after.”
“I re-remember,” I said.
For the next few minutes he asked how I was doing, how my arm was feeling. In the dark of the carrel, my stutter mostly stayed hidden.
“Well, here’s why I called. Since your school won’t have a team this year, we here at Laurelhurst would like you to pitch for us. How’s that sound?”
“It sounds g-great.”
“Good. Listen, our off-season training program begins in a couple of weeks. It’s totally voluntary and has nothing to do with Coach Vereen or the school team, though most of the Laurelhurst players will be there. You’re welcome to participate, get a feel for what Laurelhurst baseball is about. Interested?”
“Y-Yes.”
“Officially, it’s the YMCA that runs the program, and they have forms that need to be filled out and signed. Talk to your parents and then call me with a good time for me to stop by. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Any questions you have for me?”
I swallowed. “My b-brother plays baseball, too. He’s a g-good hitter and a g-good fielder. He’s the one who g-got a d-double against your pitcher. He c-can come, right?”
There was a pause. “Sure he can. Like I said, the workouts are open to everyone. No guarantee that he’ll make the Laurelhurst team, though. No guarantee for you, either, for that matter, but you’re both welcome to try out.”
I thanked him and cut the connection. Then I carefully folded up the piece of paper with his phone number on it and tucked it into my wallet.
I’d never told Antonio about the chance to play for Laurelhurst. I was afraid he’d say no, and I wasn’t sure I’d have the guts to go alone. But in the darkness of the study carrel I knew that it didn’t matter what Antonio did. It didn’t matter that I stuttered, that my shoes were old, my glove ratty, my jeans ripped.
Laurelhurst was my last chance.
Three
When I reached Jet City that afternoon, a crowd of people was milling around the main entrance, staring at a large sign. As I moved closer, I saw the words PROPOSED LAND ACTION in foot-high letters, but I couldn’t read the smaller words below.
Jasmine, the girl who was new to Jet City, was in front of me. She was wearing shorts and a pink tube top that left her shoulders bare. I was a little afraid of her, but I needed to know, so I tapped her shoulder. She wheeled around, angry, and then not angry. “Oh, it’s you, Laz.”
“What’s g-going on?”
She grinned sarcastically. “My family just moved in, and now we’re getting booted out.”
“What are you t-t-talking about?”
“Jet City is going to be demolished. One hundred twenty-five high-class townhomes are going to be built right here.”
“T-Townhomes?” I said, not believing. “B-Behind a d-driving range?”
“They’re tearing down the driving range, too.” Her smile broadened. “You get it double. You lose your home and your job.”
There was a roaring in my ears. “D-does it s-say when?”
“Somebody said three months.”
From across the roadway, Garrett called her name.
“Got to go,” she said, and she wiggled her fingers as a goodbye wave.
I headed down the gravel road to our trailer, where no one was home. After dropping my backpack on my bed, I walked to work. There was another PROPOSED LAND ACTION sign in the parking lot of the range. No one was crowded around it, so I was able to read everything. When I stepped into the golf shop, Mr. Matsui looked up. “You saw?”
“Is it t-true we have to b-be out in three months?”
He shook his head. “Who told you that? Summer is more like it.”
The roaring in my ears lessened. Summer meant there’d be time for Mom to find a new place, time for me to finish high school. Then I thought of my job. “Is the d-driving range g-going to stay open?”
“That’s the plan. You can work here until they tear it down.”
“What about y-you?”
“Weighing my options, as the rich guys say.” He smiled. “Chances
are, I’ll be here to the bitter end, or close to it.”
His phone rang. As he answered, I grabbed the keys to the John Deere and headed out.
It was so noisy driving up and down the range that I couldn’t think, which was okay. On one pass, a golf ball whacked the metal cage protecting me, making me jump. A guy on the range pointed at me with his club, a big smile on his face, while next to him his buddy laughed.
After I’d picked up the range, I drove to the far back fence. Golf balls get caught in the net there, and the only way to retrieve them is by hand with a ball shagger.
I’d walked almost the entire fence line when I spotted Garrett and Dustin Browner heading down the gravel road toward their hangout. Dustin had been in the juvenile jail up on Capitol Hill. I tried to remember what he’d done. Stolen a car?
“That looks like fun, Laz,” Garrett said as he neared me.
“Laugh a m-minute,” I answered, working quickly.
“You missed some,” Dustin said, pointing behind me. “There’s one there and another one there. And two more there.” He snorted. “You kind of suck at your job.”
I kept going forward.
“You’ll see your brother tonight, right?” Garrett said after a while.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Have him call me. Tell him I’ve got something for him.”
“Why don’t you c-call him yourself?”
Garrett looked at the sky. “Because his phone is off or else his battery is dead. So just give him my message. Okay?”
I could feel my chest tighten, as if it were in a vise. I picked up a couple more balls and then faced him.
“N-No,” I said.
Garrett looked confused. “What do you mean,no?”
“I m-mean, you want to sell d-drugs—that’s your b-business. But k-keep my b-brother out of it.”
“You’re joking,” Garrett said, smiling in disbelief.
Instead of answering, I turned and headed back to the John Deere.
“K-k-k-keep m-m-my b-b-b-b-brother out-out-out of-of-of it-it-it,” Dustin called after me, and they both laughed.
Four
I worked until eight. When I returned to the trailer, Mom was sitting at the kitchen table, smoking for the first time in months. Curtis, drinking a beer, sat across from her, two empties in front of him.
“You see the sign?” Mom asked.
I nodded.
Curtis took a swig of his beer. “America. Land where the rich get richer and the poor get poorer.”
Mom stubbed out her cigarette and lit a new one.
“Mr. Matsui says nothing will happen until summer,” I said.
Mom blew out a stream of smoke. “I hope he’s right. Old Mr. Hastings says Christmas, but he’s always doom and gloom. Maybe they expect us to move into a stable with Baby Jesus and the donkeys.” She paused. “There’s an information meeting Friday at the community center.”
Curtis checked the time on his cell. “Where’s Antonio?”
“I d-don’t know. I’ve been at work.”
Curtis hated it when Antonio was out late on school nights. Mom had never been strict about things like that.
Right then we heard Antonio’s footsteps on the metal stairs leading up to the trailer. “Where you been?” Curtis asked once Antonio stepped inside.
“Just hanging,” Antonio mumbled.
“Did you see the sign about the townhomes?” Curtis asked.
Antonio nodded. “Yeah. I saw it. It sucks.” He turned toward Mom. “Is there something I could microwave? I’m starving.”
Mom stood. “I’ll do it for you. How about you, Laz? You must be hungry, too.”
Ten minutes later, as Curtis was watching a football game in the main room, Antonio and I were eating enchiladas, rice, and beans. As we ate, I thought about Garrett. Antonio would get his message somehow, but it wasn’t going to be from me.
“Classes go okay?” Mom asked.
“Fine,” Antonio said.
She looked to me.
I explained—my voice low so Curtis wouldn’t hear—that I was worried I wouldn’t be able to learn anything from the new algebra teacher.
“I can help you,” Antonio said. “If you want.”
“That’d be g-great,” I said. “Thanks.”
I finished eating, cleaned up, and then went to my room to listen to the Mariners game. Antonio stayed in the living room to watch football with Curtis, which only half surprised me. Some days they got along; some days they didn’t. It was a flip of the coin.
That night, I could hear the two of them shouting at the refs and groaning over botched plays. It was ten thirty before the last game ended and the television went silent. I rolled onto my side and tried to sleep. Only then did I realize I hadn’t told anyone about Laurelhurst.
Five
Curtis took overtime whenever he could, which is why he was still at work the next night when Mom put dinner together. As I helped her, I told her about the training program with Mr. Thurman and then the chance to play for the team. “Their coach wants b-both m-me and Antonio to try out.”
Antonio must have been listening from the front room. “He doesn’t want me,” he called. “He doesn’t even know who I am.”
“Yeah, he d-does,” I shouted back.
“Why does he need to meet me?” Mom asked, ignoring Antonio.
“There are p-papers you need to sign.”
Mom sighed. “Papers and more papers. All right. Tell him to come by Saturday morning at ten. You’ve got his phone number, right?”
“I’ve got it,” I said.
All week, I stressed about Mr. Thurman. What would he think of Mom, of Curtis, of the trailer, of Jet City? Mom never once mentioned Mr. Thurman; I think she forgot all about him. The only thing she and Curtis talked about was the meeting with the developers who wanted to knock down Jet City.
When Friday night came, Curtis was stuck working late at a job along I-5, north of Everett. Antonio wasn’t home either, which was typical. “Come to the meeting with me, Laz,” Mom said after we’d eaten the tomato soup and grilled cheese she’d made for dinner. Her voice was flat, and she had dark circles under her eyes.
* * *
All the chairs in the gym at the community center were taken, so we stood along the back wall. Mr. Leskov went to the microphone, motioned with his hands to quiet everybody, and then introduced a woman—her name was Heather something—who took his place at the lectern.
She had on black high heels, a dark blue skirt, a white blouse, and a blue jacket. She wore a gold necklace and a bunch of gold bracelets. Her teeth were bright white, her lipstick bright red, her short hair perfect.
After Leskov darkened the room, she showed a PowerPoint presentation explaining what would happen, trying to make it seem like closing Jet City was a great break for everyone because her company was going to pay relocation costs.
“But where are we supposed to go?” a man shouted from the darkened room.
She clicked ahead a few slides. “There are many possibilities,” she said, and then she clicked and clicked, showing trailer parks in Kenmore, Everett, and even Mount Vernon, which is sixty miles away—almost halfway to Canada. “Remember the saying: when a window closes, a door opens. It sounds silly, but it’s true.”
The PowerPoint ended; the lights came back on. “There are brochures on the back table near the exit,” the woman said. “In them, you’ll find a list of all the mobile home parks I just showed you, plus a few more.”
“What about Seattle?” a voice called out.
The muscles in her face tightened, but she kept smiling. “There are some mobile home parks just outside Seattle, and they are listed in the brochure, but they all have waiting lists. Construction will begin on July first, so you will need to be in your new homes by the end of June.”
Shouts came from around the room. “This is our home” . . . “I work here, not in Everett” . . . “Why don’t you move to Mount Vernon?”
Mr. Le
skov took the microphone and tried to restore order, but the shouting only grew louder. Mom gave my elbow a pull, saying, “This is going nowhere.” On the way out the door, she grabbed a brochure.
In the night air, she lit a cigarette.
“At least they’re going to pay for moving,” I said as we walked to Jet City.
Mom took a drag and blew out a stream of smoke. “Laz, don’t let that woman in there fool you with her pretty clothes and her fancy words. Their money won’t cover half of what moving will cost, if we can even find a place. She doesn’t care about us. Nobody cares about us but us.”
Six
When I got up Saturday morning, Antonio was gone, off to his morning job at Home Depot. Mom was sitting on the sofa with Curtis, the brochure from the meeting in front of them. I could tell they’d been calling trailer parks. I could see lines drawn through some of the names.
“Morning,” I said.
“Morning,” Mom replied, looking up and giving me a smile.
In the kitchen, I poured cereal into a bowl and stuck two pieces of bread in the toaster. Mom and Curtis were taking turns calling, but I could only hear half the conversation, so not much made sense.
I was certain Mom had forgotten about Mr. Thurman, so after eating, I stepped into the living room to remind her.
“Who?” she asked.
“The m-man from Laurelhurst. Remember? He’s c-coming this morning at t-ten.”
Mom punched in another number. “Yeah, I remember now. But he can’t take long. We’ve got to be in Kenmore by eleven.”
* * *
A gold SUV pulled up in front of the trailer at ten on the dot. I opened the front door as Mr. Thurman was getting out, recognizing him right away. You don’t forget a man who tells you that you’ve got a golden arm. He came inside and shook hands with Curtis. Standing side by side, the two of them made our trailer seem even smaller.