by Carl Deuker
“Okay!” Suja shouted back. She took a few quick steps and then turned back to me. “Do you like doughnuts?”
* * *
The next morning, Mom helped me pack up two boxes of stuff, and we loaded them into the back of Curtis’s pickup. As Mom and Curtis headed down the walkway, I stayed behind to say goodbye to Antonio. “You d-don’t think I’m d-deserting you, do you?” I asked once we were alone.
He shook his head. “No, no. This is your chance. Go for it. Besides, you’re not moving to the moon. We’ll see each other.”
Curtis closed the back of the pickup with a bang. “Let’s go, Laz,” he called.
Antonio gave me a soft punch on the shoulder. I did the same to him and then walked to the pickup.
* * *
The Thurmans lived on Latimer Place. Curtis used the GPS on his phone, but he still had trouble finding the house. “Do any of these streets just go straight?” Mom said, irritated.
Eventually we found it. Mrs. Thurman had the door open and was smiling as we walked up the porch steps. “Welcome!” she said in a happy voice. “Come in! Come in! My husband and son are meeting with a coach from Arizona State, but I expect them any minute.”
She had us sit on a sofa that must have been fifteen feet long. Plates loaded with fruit and cheese and crackers were on a glass-and-wood coffee table. “Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Coffee? A soda?”
“A glass of water will be fine,” Mom said, so we all had water.
Mrs. Thurman sat across from us on a matching sofa that was about twice the size of ours. Mom was wearing jeans and a Seahawks shirt; Mrs. Thurman was dressed in a skirt and white blouse and wore a pearl necklace and pearl earrings. I was afraid to eat the crackers, because crumbs would get on the sofa, but both Mom and Curtis ate.
For the first few minutes Mom and Mrs. Thurman—“Please, call me Catherine”—talked about how gray and cold January had been. Things went quiet, and then Mrs. Thurman told Mom that Laurelhurst was a great school and that I’d get a wonderful education. Mom replied that North Central was great, too. Mrs. Thurman said she was sure it was, and then the room fell silent again. Finally, Mrs. Thurman stood. “How about if we get Laz settled in his room.”
After Curtis and I went to the pickup to get my boxes, Mrs. Thurman led us through a gleaming kitchen to a door leading downstairs. Mom and Mrs. Thurman went first. When we were halfway down, Curtis smiled and whispered. “Be careful on these steps, Laz. You fall down, break your arm, can’t pitch, and they’ll kick your butt onto the street.”
A basement room sounds dark and gloomy, and the room was dark, but it was also twice the size of my room in the trailer. It had a gigantic bed, a chest of drawers, a huge closet, and it connected to a bathroom Mrs. Thurman said I wouldn’t have to share with anyone.
“This is really n-nice,” I said.
Mrs. Thurman beamed. “I’m glad you like it.”
Mom’s face was expressionless. Had I hurt her feelings? I wanted to tell her that I liked my old room—my real room—better, but how could I say that with Mrs. Thurman standing there?
“We need to go,” Mom said, her voice a little shaky. She paused and then reached out and took Mrs. Thurman’s hand. “Thank you for giving my son this opportunity. He won’t cause you any trouble. He’s a good son, and a good young man.”
“I’m sure he is,” Mrs. Thurman answered. “And don’t worry, we’ll take care of him.”
Mom nodded and then went up the stairs, not stopping until she’d reached the Thurmans’ porch. When I caught up to her, she reached up, pulled my head down, and kissed me on the forehead. “Don’t be a stranger,” she said.
Mrs. Thurman was right behind me. She waited, and then held out a business card to my mom. “Our phone numbers are on there. Please feel free to call at any time.”
“Thank you,” Mom said as she took the card. Then she went down the porch stairs to Curtis’s truck.
Curtis lingered behind for a moment. “You and me? We’re okay? Right?” he asked.
I nodded. “We’re okay.”
A minute later the pickup turned a corner and was gone.
Back inside, I sat again on the long sofa. Mrs. Thurman disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a glass filled with ice and a bottle of Coke. “I’m sure you want something other than water.” She put the glass down on a coaster, poured the Coke into it, and then put the bottle on another coaster. “So tell me about yourself,” she said, returning to her own sofa and folding her hands on her lap.
I did okay. I didn’t stutter much, probably because I didn’t say much. What was there to say? I go to school. I have a mom and a brother. I work at a driving range. I suck at school, especially math. I pitch.
When I’d finished, she picked up a key from the table and held it in front of her. “This is to the front door. But before I give it to you, I need to tell you our expectations. I’m sure none of this needs saying, but better to be clear in the beginning than to have confusion later on.”
I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
She was right. She didn’t need to tell me. No loud music, no parties, no smoking, no drinking, no drugs, no girls in my bedroom. “Of course you can have friends over,” she said, handing me the key. “Just keep everything within reason.”
Seventeen
I went down to my room and unpacked. Once that was finished, I didn’t know what to do. I sure wasn’t heading back upstairs to sit on that sofa. I wanted to go outside into the air so I could breathe, but where could I go? Better to stay put.
I lay down on the giant bed. It was quiet, too quiet. I missed the noise of Jet City—the people yelling, the music playing, the cars rolling over the gravel, the constant roar of traffic from Aurora Avenue. I felt a lump form in my throat. Then I got mad at myself.
Time to man up.
Upstairs, the front door opened and closed. I heard Mr. Thurman’s muffled voice and his wife’s answers. After that came footsteps on the stairs, followed by a knock on my door.
“Sorry I wasn’t here earlier, Laz. Everything just took longer.” He glanced around the room. “You look settled. How about if I show you the yard and the practice area?”
I pulled on my sweatshirt and followed him down a hallway to a door that opened onto the yard. “Ian is over at a buddy’s house,” he said as we walked. “You’ll see him later. I hope you two will become good friends.”
“I hope s-so t-too,” I said, knowing it wouldn’t happen.
* * *
The Thurmans’ backyard was like a park, or actually two parks, because there were two separate levels. On the upper level was a deck that looked out over Lake Washington. Furniture was covered in waterproof cloth and pushed up against the house. The top level also had a flower garden, though nothing was in bloom—not in late January.
I followed Mr. Thurman (he wanted me to call him Bill, another thing that wasn’t happening) down a stone stairway to the lower level of the yard, which was so big it could have held three single-wide trailers. Tall green hedges separated the Thurmans’ lawn from the neighbor’s yard. Tucked up against the hedge was a screened batting practice area.
Mr. Thurman spotted me eyeing it. “I had that built by a sports construction company,” he said. “I used to pitch to Ian every day when he was young, but I can’t do that anymore.” He patted his right shoulder. “Rotator cuff. That’s why we’ve got the pitching machine.”
The whole setup was incredible. Not just the mound and the batter’s box and the netting, but that he and Ian had practiced every day. No wonder Ian was such a good hitter.
“This is a-amazing,” I said.
“Feel free to use this anytime. And if you need a workout partner and I’m around, just ask. I’m an investment banker. That means I work on East Coast time. I start at six or earlier most mornings, but I’m home most afternoons. There’s nothing I enjoy more than tossing around a baseball.”
Eighteen
Mr. Thurman looked eager t
o coach me right then, but I had to work. Even though he offered me a ride to the driving range, I turned him down. I needed to learn the buses.
I made my transfer, but the trip still took forty minutes. Mr. Matsui had me clean the range and then wash the pro shop windows. The owners had hired some guy to paint EVERYTHING MUST GO! in bright red letters across the top of the largest window, as if it were great news. Once the windows were clean, I drove the John Deere back and forth, back and forth in a steady rain.
Then it was two buses back to the Thurmans’. When I stepped onto the porch, I took out the key, then put it back in my pocket and knocked. Mrs. Thurman opened the door and frowned, a gentle frown, somehow. “You live here now, Laz,” she said. “You don’t have to knock.”
I nodded, and then started to step inside, but she stopped me. “I didn’t mention this earlier, but we’re a no-shoes household.”
“No p-problem,” I answered. As I took off my beat-up shoes, I remembered how Mom and Curtis and I had tromped around inside the house earlier in the day, and I winced.
Inside, Mr. Thurman was standing at the doorway leading downstairs. “Ian is in his game room,” he said eagerly. “I’ll show you.”
I followed him down the stairs. At the bottom he turned left, away from my room, walked down a hallway, and threw open a door. “Ian,” he called out, “say hello to Laz.”
My eyes must have been spinning—there was so much to take in. A pool table stood in the center of the room. To my left were a table and chairs, a small refrigerator, and a microwave. To my right were a foosball table and a pinball machine. On the opposite wall was a huge TV, twice the size of Curtis’s. It was like being at the community center, only all this belonged to one guy.
Ian was sitting on the sofa in front of an Xbox, working a joystick. He half looked around when he heard us come in. Then he hit the pause button and stood. “Hey, Laz. Good to see you.”
“Yeah,” I said. “G-Good to s-see you.”
We stood looking at each other until Mr. Thurman spoke. “Laz, a little advice: Ian is very good at pool, so I wouldn’t gamble with him. In fact, I wouldn’t gamble with him in anything. Foosball, darts, video games, golf, or bowling on the Wii—he beats me at everything every time.”
Mr. Thurman grinned; I smiled; Ian looked bored. More silence. Again it was Mr. Thurman who spoke. “Well, I’ll leave you. Oh, last thing, Laz. Food. With all the different schedules, it’s pretty much every man for himself. That refrigerator will always be stocked with food. Help yourself. Same thing with the refrigerator upstairs. We have fresh fruit, vegetables, juice, nuts, yogurt—all the nutritious stuff. And in the freezer you’ll find pizza, burritos—good things like that. So when you get hungry, eat. The microwave down here is pretty basic, but it works. Sunday we do try to eat together. Mostly that doesn’t happen either, but sometimes it does. Catherine will let you know.”
Nineteen
Once his father left, Ian turned back to his game. “Let me finish, and then you can play.”
“Sure,” I said, even though I didn’t want to.
I watched as he worked the controls. The main guy was a Special Forces type. Navy Seal, I think. He was chasing a bad dude across an airfield. The bad guy stole the plane, flew for a while, strafing people who were shooting SAMs at him from the ground. Finally the bad dude landed on a beach. He raced across the sand, getting shot at some more before breaking into what looked like a drug lab. There was another shootout, and this time the Navy Seal guy shot him right between the eyes.
Ian handed me the controls. “You try. The guy in camouflage with the Nazi hair is a terrorist. He steals, maims, murders—all the good stuff. Your job is to kill him before he blows up a passenger jet.”
I took the controls. Ten seconds in, the terrorist guy hijacked a car and threw the owner over a cliff. The guy bounced off a bunch of rocks, leaving his brains behind. Seconds later, I was in a Hummer, chasing him, but I made some mistake, because the Hummer went off the road and into the woods. Somehow I came out on the main road again, with the pyscho-terrorist, now on a Harley, right in front of me. I forced him off the road and into a tree. The Harley was totaled, but the guy got up, blood pouring down his face, and took off running. I chased after him. I thought—I’m doing okay—when I turned up a pathway and a bunch of his terrorist buddies jumped out of a cave and shot me a zillion times. The word WASTED! filled the screen as an evil chuckle came through the speakers.
Ian snickered. “That was fast.”
I handed back the controls. “I d-don’t play much.”
“What do you have? PlayStation, Xbox? Wii?”
“N-nothing.”
He leaned back. “Nothing? No wonder you suck.”
I wanted to take him out to his fancy batting cage, stick a bat in his hand, and strike him out on three pitches, but I kept my mouth shut.
He switched to Grand Theft Auto. “You live near Aurora Avenue, right? I mean, where you used to live,” he said, his eyes on the screen.
“Yeah.”
He laughed. “My mom is kind of freaked about that.”
I felt myself straighten. “W-Why?”
“There are prostitutes working around there, right?”
“I g-guess.”
“You ever see them? Prostitutes, I mean.”
Did I ever see them? A half dozen worked out of trailers in Jet City. “Yeah, I’ve s-seen them.”
He paused. “You ever—you know?”
“N-No.”
“You ever think about it?”
“Sure.”
“So why didn’t you? If they were right there.”
“I d-don’t know.”
“Scared?”
“Not scared. I j-just haven’t.”
“How about drugs? There are dealers there, too, right?”
I felt my blood pounding in my head. “I d-don’t know.”
He paused the game and then looked from the screen to me. “Come on, Laz. There’s a guy there, he calls himself G-Man. Drives a black Subaru. Your brother or half brother or whatever he is hangs out with him. You must know him. This G-Man guy sells pills.”
“Yeah, ok-kay. I know who h-he is. B-But my b-brother doesn’t s-sell anything.” I stood. “Look, I’ve g-g-got s-stuff to d-do.”
He grabbed my arm. “Wait. I’ve got a proposition. Sometimes on Friday night one of us goes up there and buys from that G-Man guy. We cut his pills in half, wash them down with a beer or two, and then chill. No big deal. Once a month. Maybe twice. No more than that.”
He stopped talking and looked at me, as if he expected me to say something.
When I stayed silent, he screwed up his face. “The thing is—none of us likes going into Jet City. No offense, it’s your home and all, but that place is sketchy. So I was thinking that I could give you money and you could buy from G-man. You could keep twenty bucks for yourself, and it would be work out for everybody.” He paused. “What do you say?”
I shook my head. “N-No.”
“Why not?”
“J-J-Just n-no.”
He sat still for a minute; then his eyes returned to the screen. “All right.”
I started for the door.
“Hey, Laz, you won’t say anything about this to my dad, will you?”
I shook my head. “Don’t w-worry.”
Back in my new room, I lay down on my bed and stared at the ceiling. Ian was an idiot. He could choose either a major-league baseball or a college scholarship, but he’d lose both if he got caught doing drugs. Then another thought came, and I felt numb.
Kids at Laurelhurst High—which was five miles from Jet City—knew about Garrett. I suck at math, but I know that if you draw a circle with a radius of five miles, you get an area that’s more than seventy-five square miles.
What if the wrong guys inside that circle found about Garrett and came after him? What if Antonio was hanging out with Garrett when those wrong guys showed up?
Twenty
; Monday. My first day as a student at Laurelhurst High.
When I got up, the house was silent. Mr. Thurman was off doing his investment job, whatever that was. Ian had a free first period, so he was still sacked out in his room upstairs. Mrs. Thurman had gone to her gym or was out running. I ate a breakfast burrito and slipped out the front door.
The walk took about fifteen minutes. As I neared Laurelhurst, I expected the sidewalks to crowd up like they did around North Central, but it never happened, not even on the final block. Instead, the streets filled with cars, creating a traffic jam around the school.
Before heading up the main stairway, I took a few deep breaths, preparing myself to be the unknown new guy. I was surprised when a burly kid came up beside me. “Hey, I’m Hadley Welsh. You’re our new pitcher, right? The kid from North Central High?”
“Yeah, I g-guess. But how d-did you know?”
“Ian told us. I’m your catcher.” His cell pinged. He read a text and looked up. “Got to go, Laz. That’s your name, right? Cool name, by the way. See you around.”
Nobody else actually spoke to me, but some guys—baseball players, probably—nodded in my direction. I tried to nod back without looking like an idiot.
My first three classes—English, Spanish, history—were about the same as classes at North Central. Maybe the kids were a little less rowdy, the teachers a little more relaxed. Definitely everybody was better dressed. Fourth period was algebra. Here goes nothing, I thought as I pushed open the door and found a seat in the third row by the window.
The teacher was Mr. Marsh, an older guy with wild gray eyebrows and tiny ears. I was the only new kid in the class; he knew everyone else from the first semester. When the period ended, he asked me to stay behind. “I heard from your counselor at North Central that math isn’t your strong point,” he said once we were alone.
“You t-talked to my c-counselor?”
“You bet I did. And I talked to your former math teacher. I want you to start on the right foot. ‘Well begun is half done’—that’s my motto.”