by Carl Deuker
Curtis came out from the kitchen holding a Budweiser, which he tipped in my direction. Mom took both my hands and squeezed. “I am so proud of you.” She looked around. “We all are.”
Ten minutes later we sat down to eat. Mom had bought two rotisserie chickens at Central Market, and mashed potatoes and grilled vegetables and salads to go with them.
As we ate, we talked some about Antonio and some about Curtis and some about my mom, but mainly the conversation was about me. Antonio said that the kids at North Central were following my games. “The teachers, too. It’s like North Central wins whenever you win.”
I was in a glow the whole time. Everybody was. It was as if, for one evening, we had become the family we wanted to be. When we finished eating, we watched Hoosiers on the big TV. I kept expecting Antonio to say he had to leave, but he stayed and cheered for the Hickory Huskers just like the rest of us.
“I should h-head b-back,” I said once the movie ended.
“Curtis can give you a ride,” Mom said, “but hold on for a second.”
She went to the closet and came out holding a box that she handed to me. “From all of us.”
I felt almost dizzy when I looked inside. A brand-new burgundy-colored Rawlings glove.
“It’s b-beautiful,” I said, feeling the leather.
“Thank Curtis,” she said. “He saw your glove in the newspaper photo and said you needed a new one.”
Curtis slapped me lightly on the back. “If you play like a champion, you should look like one, too.”
I didn’t want to go back to Laurelhurst, but it was time. I hugged my mom, knuckle-bumped Antonio, and climbed into the pickup.
On the drive to the Thurmans’, Curtis told me to nuke my glove in the microwave to break it in. “There’s leather oil in the bottom of the box. Rub it in and then stick the glove in the microwave for twenty seconds. That’s how the major-leaguers do it now. Go online if you don’t believe me.”
Twenty-Four
I knew I’d get razzed at school, but I hadn’t even reached the campus when it started. “Hey, there’s my Superhero,” Jay Massine called out from a passing car.
Just about every player on the team said something, and kids who weren’t on the team got in shots, too. “Yankees call yet?” . . . “How much for an autograph?” . . . “If you need an agent . . .” I felt like a boxer being worn down by jabs.
Even Hadley got in his dig. I saw him at lunch at our regular table. “Next game, let’s try that Satchel Page thing. You know, have all the infielders and outfielders sit on the bench and then strike out the side with nobody playing defense. What do you say?”
“L-lay off,” I said.
He snorted. “I’m guessing everybody has been giving you crap?”
“You g-got it.”
He shrugged. “You kind of deserve it.”
“I d-didn’t say it the way it c-came out.”
“It didn’t sound much like you.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was serious. “I got to warn you. Vereen is big on that ‘There’s no I in TEAM’ stuff.”
I leaned back and looked at the ceiling. “What about the p-press conference for Ian when he s-signed with Arizona State?”
Hadley rolled his eyes. “Come on. The Thurmans are different. You should know that by now. So are the Comettes and the Morans and a few others. Their parents fund the Booster Club. That’s uniforms, equipment, buses, field maintenance—everything that makes the Laurelhurst program one of the best in the state. Tell Vereen you’re sorry and flow with whatever he decides.”
“He won’t k-kick me off the t-team, will he?”
Hadley shook his head. “Not as long as he thinks you might be his ticket to the state championship.”
* * *
Coach Vereen didn’t speak to me during gym class, and he didn’t say anything at practice. But once practice ended, he had me stay behind and then made me wait five long minutes before he finally came over.
“Kevin will start the next game, and the twins will relieve. You’re going to sit. While you’re sitting, watch the effort your teammates put out. Maybe then you’ll appreciate their part in your success.”
My knees had turned to Jell-O. “Coach, I’m s-sorry. I d-didn’t m-mean it t-to c-c-c-c . . .” The word stuck, but it didn’t matter. I was talking to his back.
Twenty-Five
Our next game was at home against Broadview High. Before the first pitch, I moved to the end of the bench, away from everyone. I was staring at my shoes and had my cap down over my forehead when I heard a man’s voice behind me. “Not pitching today, kid?”
I turned. It was the man with the Giants jacket, the one who’d sat next to Clay Pearson.
I stood. “No, sir. Coach is r-resting m-me.”
The man pulled on one of his huge ears. “That’s too bad. You got a DVD?”
“DVD?”
“Of your highlights. You got one?”
“N-No.”
He handed me a card. “Put a DVD together and send it to me. And do it fast. We’re working on our draft board right now, and we’ve got almost nothing on you.”
He started to walk away. “I’ll probably p-pitch—”
He turned back, waving me off. “This is my last day in the Great Northwest. Send me that DVD.”
As Kevin cruised through the early innings, I studied the man’s business card. It had the San Francisco Giants colors and logo on one side. On the other was the name Ralph Somerset, with an email address.
Coach Vereen had tape of all the games, but how could I ask him to put together a DVD for me? He’d have done it before the Seattle Times article, but now? I stuck the business card in my pocket and tried to watch the game, but my mind kept going back to that DVD. I had to get one. But how?
Kevin pitched five innings, his fastball sharp and his changeup even sharper. After he came out, each of the twins worked a solid inning. The final score was 7–1. It had been a methodical destruction—solid pitching, hitting, defense—and the team hadn’t needed me at all. If Kevin kept pitching like that, why would Vereen ever put in the North Central kid with the big mouth?
Twenty-Six
I was down in my basement room a couple of hours later when Mr. Thurman knocked on my door. “Laz, I need you upstairs for a few minutes.”
I followed him to the kitchen. He sat, shoulders slumped, at the table, so I took the seat across from him and waited.
“I just got a call from Mr. Chavez. You know him, right? Laurelhurst’s principal?”
“S-Sort of.”
He waved off my answer. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is that the WIAA contacted him. They want to interview you, Coach Vereen, and me. Maybe others, but probably just us.”
I looked to Mr. Thurman. “Why?”
He folded his hands together and leaned forward. “I warned you that an article in the Times would set off alarm bells.”
“What will they ask m-me?”
“These investigations are always about academics and money. Are you going to class? Are you getting paid?”
“But I d-do go to c-class and I’m not g-getting paid.”
“I know that and you know that. Now we just have to convince them.” He tapped the table with his index finger. “Here’s the thing. Tell the truth. Don’t keep anything back, whatever they ask. If you hide anything and they find out about it later, it’ll be ten times worse.”
Silence followed.
“When will they t-talk to me?” I asked.
“Tomorrow.”
“T-T-Tomorrow?”
“They need to get this settled before the state tournament. If they decide you shouldn’t have played, then we forfeit every game you pitched. We’re out, and Cleveland is in.”
Twenty-Seven
I returned to the basement, feeling both guilty and angry. I didn’t want to foul things up for Laurelhurst, but what had I done wrong? Mr. Kellogg, Mr. Thurman, Coach Vereen—all of them had said I wasn’t breaking any r
ules. So why not get my name in the paper?
My mind went in circles for about ten minutes. Then I forced myself to do my homework, reading a section of The Jungle Book and then working on algebra problems. I nailed the first eight, but I’d need to see Jesus Ramirez for help with the last two.
That was all the schoolwork I had, so I opened the laptop and checked my email. Second from the top I saw Suja’s name. The subject heading read Senior Ball Schedule.
I read quickly. Shuttle van picks kids up in Jet City at six thirty . . . Dinner at seven . . . Dance eight thirty to eleven . . . Game Kingdom in Ballard until two . . . Shuttle drops people off at their homes by three. I was about to log off when below Suja’s name I saw a final sentence.
Laz—Don’t be mad at me ☹ but you need to read this.
I clicked on the link, and a headline from the Seattle Times jumped out at me.
Seattle’s Gang War
“There are going to be a lot of dead kids”
I wanted to skim over it, but I read every word. The writer had interviewed a detective who said there’d been a dozen shootings and three deaths since January. The detective described all the stupid reasons people were getting shot: graffiti crossed out, girls dating guys from rival gangs, cars or music or hair or clothes being dissed. But the number one reason? Drugs. “If a gang thinks somebody is infringing on their turf, we end up with teenagers in body bags.”
Twenty-Eight
At the start of first period the next morning, I was called to the office. Mr. Chavez introduced Mrs. Dunne, a tall woman with reddish-brown hair who smiled as she shook my hand. Mr. Chavez then repeated what Mr. Thurman had told me.
“I’m ready,” I said when he finished.
“Good,” Mrs. Dunne said. “So am I. Before we start, though, I want you to know that I left a message on your mother’s phone last night, but I haven’t gotten a reply. We could do this another day if you’d like.”
“I’m nineteen. I d-don’t need my m-mother.”
Mrs. Dunne looked over to Mr. Chavez.
“I’m observing classrooms today,” he said, “so you’re welcome to use my office for as long as you need.”
Once he’d left, Mrs. Dunne took her phone out and laid it on the table. “I’m going to record this. Okay? Just so we have an accurate record.”
“Sure,” I said, but the setup made me feel as if I’d committed a crime.
She had written her questions on a yellow legal pad placed next to her phone. The first set was about playing for North Central High. Did I like my coach? My teammates? My school? Why had the team folded? All easy stuff.
Then she flipped to the next page. “The closest school to North Central is Broadview, but you didn’t try out for their baseball team. Why not?”
“Because they’re b-bad.”
“And Laurelhurst is good?”
“Yeah.”
“And you wanted to win.”
“Yeah. I m-mean, everybody wants to win.”
“But not everybody changes schools.”
“I w-wouldn’t have ch-changed if North Central h-had a team.”
“Okay.” She paused. “Who first approached you about playing for Laurelhurst?”
“My North Central c-coach, Mr. Kellogg.”
“And then?”
“Then Mr. Thurman called m-me and invited me to the off-season workouts that he ran.”
“Did Mr. Thurman ask anybody else from North Central’s baseball team to join Laurelhurst?”
“My brother Antonio thought about p-playing.”
“But did he ask him?”
“Not really. B-But he didn’t stop him.”
“And did you hear from Coach Vereen during this time?”
“No.”
She tapped her pencil against the desk. “Okay. So Mr. Kellogg told you that you could attend North Central and play for Laurelhurst. But why move in with the Thurmans? Why not stay in your own home and continue at North Central?”
“It’s c-complicated,” I said.
“I’ve got time.”
I didn’t like telling Mrs. Dunne about my family and money and Jet City closing and the rules at Woodacres. I didn’t like explaining that Curtis was Antonio’s dad but not my dad. But I got the story out. “So when Mr. Thurman offered me a r-room in his house,” I said, finishing up, “I t-took it.”
“Do you pay any rent?”
My mouth went dry. “No.”
“You have a job, right?”
“I work at a d-driving range.”
“And your mom has a job. And your mom’s significant other—he has a job.”
“Yeah.”
“But you never paid any rent?”
I shook my head. “Nobody ever m-mentioned it.”
“How about board? Did you pay for board?”
I didn’t answer; I was so nervous I couldn’t remember what board was.
“Food. Meals,” she explained. “Do you pay anything for those?”
“No,” I answered, wishing I could get a glass of water.
“Did anyone connected to Laurelhurst High give you cash or a debit card for day-to-day expenses?”
“N-No.”
“How about clothes? Shoes? Gear? Did anyone buy you any of those?”
“No, except—” I stopped.
“Go on.”
“Well, I g-got a Laurelhurst sweatshirt and p-polo shirt and socks from the Booster Club. And a d-duffle bag.”
“How about your mother or your mother’s friend? Did you think they might have received money?”
“No.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because my m-mom would have told me. Besides, she would have n-never have taken it. She d-doesn’t like any of this.”
“And why is that?”
“She j-just d-doesn’t.”
“Were you promised a college scholarship?”
“No.”
“How about professional baseball? Were you introduced to major-league scouts?”
That stopped me for a few seconds. “M-Maybe.”
“What do you mean, maybe?”
My head was pounding. “There’s a Mariners scout, Tommy Zeller. He’s t-talked to me, but I can’t r-remember whether he just came up to me or if Coach Vereen called me over.”
“So Coach Vereen might have introduced you to Tommy Zeller.”
“Or Mr. Thurman. Or n-neither or them. I d-don’t remember. And there is another scout, from the San Francisco Giants, but I know he just came up to me.”
“And how about Clay Pearson’s Seattle Times article? Did Coach Vereen or Mr. Thurman arrange that for you?”
I snorted as I shook my head.
“Why the reaction?” she asked.
“Everybody here is t-ticked at me about that. They think I’m a g-glory hog.”
“So how did it get arranged?”
“Curtis—the man my mom lives with—he knows Clay Pearson’s father.”
She looked at her watch. “Just a few more questions about school. Your grades are better here than at North Central. Why do you think that is?”
“The c-classes aren’t as r-rowdy here, and the school g-got me a t-tutor. I m-meet with him two or three times a week. I n-never had a tutor at North Central.”
“How much help does he give you with your schoolwork?”
That did it. I was tired of the way she kept hinting that I was dishonest. “I do my own work,” I said. “I take all my t-tests. I write all my papers. I don’t cheat in b-baseball and I d-don’t cheat in school, and I d-don’t care whether you b-believe me or not.”
She sat back in her chair, and her face relaxed. “Laz, I’m sorry. I truly am. I know you think I’m your enemy, but I’m not. I’m just gathering information.”
“Are you d-done?”
“Yes, I’m done. And thank you. You’ve been very helpful. Now, do you have any questions for me?”
I thought for a moment. “Is the t-team going to be k-kicked out o
f the playoffs because of m-me?”
“Not my decision. I interview everyone, write a report, and submit it to a committee of school administrators. That committee decides what steps to take, if any.” She paused. “Anything else?”
“Can I g-go?”
* * *
It felt as though Mrs. Dunne had been grilling me for hours, but it had been only one period. All the players on the team knew about the investigation—things like that never stay secret. Ian approached me between classes. “How was it?”
“I d-don’t know.”
“My dad is talking to her next. I wonder if she’ll talk to all of us.”
“I d-don’t think s-so.”
We stood, neither of us speaking for a moment. I had this urge to tell him I was sorry, but I stopped myself.
* * *
We won on Tuesday 10–4 and on Friday night 11–5. Kevin started both games, and Marc and Andrew finished them. As I sat on the bench, I spotted at least half a dozen parents filming the games. It was a bad joke. There must have been hours of film of me from earlier games. Getting a DVD should have been simple, but the way things were now, I couldn’t ask anyone for anything.
After Friday’s win we tried to celebrate the end of the regular season, but it was impossible. Mrs. Dunne’s investigation was a black cloud hanging over us. We were either city champions headed to the state playoffs or a team of cheaters headed nowhere.
Twenty-Nine
Laurelhurst’s Senior Ball was that Saturday night. Ian was taking his girlfriend, Mariah Darcy, who was a soccer and track star. The Laurelhurst ball was pretty much the flip of North Central’s ball. It cost money with a capital M. A tuxedo, flowers, professional photographs, private limousine, dinner at Canlis restaurant, another meal at the Four Seasons Hotel after the dance.
Before Ian left, Mr. Thurman talked to him in the kitchen. I was in my room, but I didn’t have to be there to know Ian was getting the “No Sex, No Drugs, No Alcohol” lecture.