by Carl Deuker
I didn’t regret what I’d done. Those guys would have beaten Antonio to death. Still, I wanted to go to his hospital room, grab him by the shoulders, shake him, and yell at him for totally messing up my life.
While Curtis slept, I read my text messages. The first was from Clay Pearson. Sorry, Laz. Had to report it. News is news. After that came a bunch from kids who’d read about the shooting. I skimmed over them, not answering any, but stopped when I got to Suja’s:
Anything I can do, just ask.
♥♥♥♥♥♥♥
I typed: Thx. Will do.
* * *
Later that afternoon, Curtis and I returned to Ballard Hospital. They’d moved Antonio from intensive care to a regular room. His face was still puffy and bruised, but he was able to talk in a whisper.
In the movies, the good guy gets beat up and then a few minutes later he’s chasing down the bad guys. Real life doesn’t work that way.
He’d sleep and then he’d whisper-talk and then he’d sleep. It seemed as if he was hooked up to about ten machines. Before we left, the same doctor called Mom and Curtis into another room. When they came out, Curtis had his arm around my mom, and their eyes were brighter. “He’s out of danger,” Mom said to me. “He just needs time.”
Sixteen
I had to finish out the year at Laurelhurst High, but I didn’t go back that Monday. Instead I went with my mom to get my leg checked at the Ballard Clinic. When the doctor took the bandage off, the hole in my thigh looked like something a snapping turtle would cause. “No sign of infection,” he said. “You’ll be back to normal in no time.”
Next we went to Ballard Hospital. Antonio was in a new room, hooked up to only one monitor, and his voice was stronger. All that was good, but I could sense Mom growing angrier as he got stronger. She held it in with him, but on the drive home, she let me have it again.
“See something, say something. You ever heard that?”
“I’ve h-heard it.”
“And?”
“I g-get it. It’s j-just that—” I stopped. “I screwed up. I’m s-sorry.”
Silence. Then, in a clipped voice, she said, “It’s over, Laz. Finished. I won’t beat you up over this again.”
* * *
No more putting it off—I had to return to Laurelhurst High on Tuesday. Monday night, my stomach churned at the thought of facing everybody. Then I caught a break. Curtis had a job trimming trees in Montlake, a neighborhood close to Laurelhurst. He could give me a ride, which saved me from a miserable bus ride.
His work started early, so he dropped me off at the high school thirty minutes before first period. I was tempted to hide behind the greenhouses and wait for the bell, but that would have been cowardly. So I tried not to limp as I made my way up the front stairs and headed to the library, hoping to find a corner where I could sit down and pretend to be studying.
I didn’t make it.
Coach Vereen was heading down the hallway in my direction. As soon as he saw me, he pointed to a classroom. “In there,” he said.
I opened the door and stepped inside. A female teacher I didn’t know looked up in surprise. “Can I help you?”
Coach Vereen was one step behind me. “Mrs. Garrigan, could I use your classroom for a few minutes? It won’t take long.”
“Mr. Vereen, I’ve got a class—”
“Just a few minutes, Mrs. Garrigan.” His voice was sharp.
She frowned, sighed, then grabbed her purse and left. “I’ll wait right outside the door,” she said.
Once we were alone, Coach Vereen pointed to a chair. “Sit down, Weathers.”
I sat. He folded his arms across his chest and stared at me. “I’ve never misrepresented a player to a major-league team in my life, and I’m not starting now, not in my last week on this job and definitely not for you. So here’s what I did, and I want you to hear it from me, up-front. I sent an email to every major-league scout on my contact list. I told them exactly what happened Friday night. That you were supposed to start the title game. That minutes before the opening pitch, you walked out on your teammates. That later you were shot in a drug deal gone wrong.” He paused. “Mr. Thurman took you out of North Central High and brought you into his home and into the Laurelhurst community. You had the chance of a lifetime, young man. We got you onto the big stage, but you blew it.”
He stared at me, waiting for me to respond, but I wasn’t going to stammer out any sort of excuse. What good would it have done? Finally he turned, opened the door, and stepped into the hallway. “We’re finished, Mrs. Garrigan. Thank you.”
All morning, it was as if I had cotton in my ears. I could hear words, but they were muffled and made no sense. At lunch, I grabbed two slices of pizza and found some empty steps behind the gym where I could eat alone.
If I hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have seen Tommy Zeller pull into the parking lot and climb out of his white Ford Explorer. The back door of the gym opened and Coach Vereen and Ian walked out to greet him. They were smiling—all of them.
Tonight was the night—the beginning of the major-league draft. The baseball draft isn’t as big a deal as the NFL or NBA drafts; still, ESPN was televising the first two rounds. Zeller being at Laurelhurst had to mean the Mariners were planning to draft Ian.
I dreaded facing Coach Vereen again at gym class, but he had a substitute teacher, a young guy, who opened up the equipment box and then stepped aside. “You can do whatever you want,” he said, “so long as you don’t get in a fight and you don’t get hurt.”
I couldn’t run, so I wandered over to where some kids were playing Frisbee, stood by a tree and caught Frisbees that came right to me, which weren’t many, and then flicked them back.
It was a long bus ride home to an empty apartment—Mom and Curtis were at the hospital. I was bored, and I’d heard Mom complain that the front windows were dirty, so I washed them, but when I finished, they didn’t look much better.
I microwaved a Salisbury steak dinner, sat down at the kitchen table, and ate. After I cleaned the dishes, it was six o’clock. The major-league draft was starting. I didn’t want to watch, but somehow I had to. I flicked Curtis’s TV to ESPN and flopped down on the sofa.
Each team had four minutes to make a pick. As the clock ticked, the announcers would evaluate the highest-rated players. Then somebody from the team would phone in the selection, and a guy in a suit would step to the microphone and announce the choice. After that, ESPN would show a camera feed from the kid’s home. The player and his family would be jumping around, hugging one another. I could picture the Thurmans in the game room, tense, waiting to hear Ian’s name.
The Mariners had the sixteenth pick. At 6:45, the Twins—picking thirteenth—chose a catcher from Biloxi. When a commercial came on, I went to the kitchen and scooped chocolate ice cream into a bowl. I was limping back into the front room as a man stepped to the microphone. “With the fourteenth pick, the San Francisco Giants select Ian Thurman, outfielder, Laurelhurst High School, Seattle.”
The TV filled with a feed from Ian’s house. His mother, wide-eyed, was hugging him while his father was shoving a Giants cap onto his head. That lasted about twenty seconds and was followed by highlights of Ian hitting and fielding. Then it was the ESPN anchor again. “Next up, the Milwaukee Brewers.”
I flicked off the TV and headed outside. It was a warm night. No breeze. Big blue sky with cotton clouds. It was the kind of night that—when you’re feeling good about yourself—makes you feel even better. But when you’re down, it’s as if the world is laughing at you.
I picked up the Interurban Trail, crossed over Aurora Avenue, and walked to the Jewish cemetery. As I turned back, my phone vibrated: a text from Suja. U doing ok? Call me when u can. Miss u.
I didn’t have the energy to talk to her. I typed: Things r better. Call Later. Miss u too.
I hit send and then returned to Woodacres. When I stepped inside the apartment, Mom was unloading groceries. I helped her put things a
way and then went into Antonio’s tiny room.
A couple of minutes later Curtis knocked on the door and stepped inside. “Hey, I saw that Thurman kid got drafted by the Giants.”
I nodded. “First r-round.”
He sort of smiled. “Two more days, Laz. Every team needs pitching, and you know that’s true. Don’t give up.”
What good would it have done to tell him about Vereen’s email?
“I won’t,” I said.
“And listen. If nothing comes through, I can get you a job with the tree service while you figure out what you really want to do. Or you could just stay with tree work. It’s honest work and pays a decent salary.”
Seventeen
The next day, Hadley tracked me down before school. “You heard, right? The Giants snagged him before the Mariners could. He’ll get something like four million as a signing bonus. Four million! He won’t go to Arizona State now.”
In the hallways, kids razzed Ian, calling out requests for cars and phones and trips and clothes and Xboxes. Ian would holler something back, and everybody would laugh like he was some great comedian.
The baseball draft continued on Wednesday. During lunch, word went around that Jay Massine had gone in the ninth round to the Dodgers. “PE today is going to be wild,” I heard one kid in my class say. “Party time!”
He was right. Two guys drafted in the first ten rounds—Coach Vereen was sure to do something for them. There might even be reporters and TV and radio guys. Clay Pearson probably.
I couldn’t face any of that, so I did what I’d never done in four years—I cut my afternoon classes and took the bus back to Woodacres. But when I got off, instead of going to the apartment, I walked over to the driving range. If Mr. Matsui told me to go away, I’d go away.
From the parking lot, I could see that new signs had been plastered on the windows: CLOSING JUNE 15! EVERYTHING MUST GO!
“Hey,” Mr. Matsui said when I stepped in the door. “There he is.” Then he looked at the clock on the wall. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”
“Half d-day t-today,” I said, my voice shaky with the lie. “I thought I’d s-stop in and say hello and g-goodbye.”
“I’m glad you did, Laz. I haven’t felt good about that phone call.” He paused. “If your leg is okay, you could clean up the range one final time. I’d pay you in cash—same hourly rate as usual.”
Driving the John Deere made my leg hurt, but I worked three hours anyway. At the back of the driving range, on the Jet City side of the netting, sat one of those demolition machines that has a giant metal mouth at the end of a long yellow arm—a mechanical Godzilla just waiting to chew up the abandoned mobile homes.
After I finished, I went into the pro shop. “Be smart, Laz,” Mr. Matsui said as he paid me. “Stay away from that gang stuff.”
“I n-never was in any gang stuff,” I said, but I could see in his eyes that he didn’t believe me.
We shook hands, and I left. I was still in the parking lot when my cell rang. I looked at the screen: Suja.
I’d promised to call her and hadn’t. I couldn’t let it go to voice mail.
For the first few minutes, she asked about Antonio and me. I told her I was doing better and he was doing better, and she told me how glad she was.
“I know you probably don’t want to do this, but I need to go over the details for the Senior Ball.”
I blanked for a second. I’d forgotten all about the ball.
“S-Suja, I d-don’t think I-I c-can—”
“Laz, you just told me you were fine.”
“Not for d-dancing.”
“We don’t have to dance. You’re my date. You promised.”
“Come on, Suja. K-Kids go without d-dates.”
“But I want to go with you. It’ll be our goodbye to North Central, to Jet City. We need to do this. For closure.”
I’d already said my goodbyes to North Central, but I could hear in her voice how much this mattered to her. She’d been a friend for a long time, a better friend than anyone. So instead of saying no, I heard myself say “Okay.”
I half listened as she spent five minutes laying out the details of the evening. The only thing that stuck was that they’d pick me up at six thirty at the entrance to Jet City. That was all that mattered. Once they picked me up, I’d just go where everyone else went. “Thanks, Laz,” Suja said when she’d finished. “You’re going to be glad you said yes. I know you will.”
Eighteen
Thursday. The last day of the baseball draft.
Curtis was still able to give me a ride to school, so I wasn’t stuck on the bus in the morning. The teachers weren’t teaching anything, at least not to seniors. It was all free time, which meant it was all talk time. The athletes argued about how much money Ian would get and whether Jay would turn pro. Other kids were pumped about going to college in the fall. And it seemed like everybody was headed to France or Costa Rica or Hong Kong over the summer.
At lunch, I took my food back behind the gym. Six more days and the school year would be over. While I worked tree service with Curtis, I’d look for a place to live. I’d seen some ROOM FOR RENT signs in the University District. The other people would be UW students. I wouldn’t like that, but I’d survive. Later on, maybe I’d do what Mom wanted: go to a community college and learn how to operate a hospital machine or maybe become a paramedic. I wasn’t smart enough to be a doctor, but I was smart enough to get injured people to the doctor.
I was lost in my own thoughts, so I didn’t see Ian until he was right in front of me. I jumped to my feet. “Hey, c-congratulations. The G-Giants. That’s great. Even if it’s not the M-Mariners.”
He grinned. “Thanks. Actually, I’m glad it’s the Giants. The M’s have minor-league teams in Everett and Tacoma. My dad would be at every game. The Giants are going to send me to a team in Virginia.”
I swallowed. “S-Sorry about walking out on the championship game.”
“That’s okay. We got to play at T-Mobile, which was cool.” He paused. “It was your brother, right? The other guy they wrote about in the newspaper?”
I nodded.
“What else could you do? You got to go for your brother.” He paused. “Listen, I heard about Coach Vereen’s email to all the teams. He told my dad, and my dad told me. It sucks. I know how bad he wanted to win, but he didn’t have to do that to you.”
I shrugged. “Yeah. Well, he d-did.”
Ian frowned. “I don’t know if it will help you, but when the Giants called me, before I hung up I told their head scout about you.”
“T-Told him what?”
“That you’re the best pitcher I faced except for maybe Fergus Hart. And that’s just maybe. I also told him that you aren’t a gang guy or a druggie and that they’d be stupid not to draft you.”
“You t-t-told him that?”
“Sure. Why not? It’s all true.”
“What d-did he say?”
“He didn’t say anything.”
The bell rang. Ian gave me a thumbs-up, turned, and headed to his class. I should have thanked him, but I didn’t, maybe because I was having so much trouble getting my head around what he’d told me.
I had no chance.
And now I had one again.
On the way to art class, I ducked into the library, logged on to a computer and searched: Major-League Baseball Draft Day Three. They were in the middle of round 27. I watched for a couple of minutes as empty slots filled with names. It was going fast.
Art that day was outside—the assignment was to sketch a dogwood tree that was in bloom. As I filled my white page with dark lines, I kept picturing the draft board filling with more names and having fewer empty slots. Kids from Arkansas and Maine, Arizona and Montana. Round 28. Round 29. Round 30. How much could teams really know about any of those guys?
Coach Vereen didn’t have a sub that day, but gym class was still free choice. I moved to my out-of-the-way spot by the tree, caught some more Frisbees, and flicked th
em back to anyone who looked interested. Throughout the period, Coach Vereen moved from group to group, smiling and wishing kids good luck. When he saw me, he walked past as if I weren’t even there.
When PE ended, I did a last check at the library before heading to the bus. They were in the middle of round 34. Six more rounds and it would all be over.
Nineteen
I heard my cell ring as I was climbing on the bus. Flipping it open, I covered my ear to block out the noise around me. My blood was pounding. Had some team called my name?
“Hello,” I screamed, trying to be heard over the bus noise. “Hello!”
A man’s voice—but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. I ducked down and pressed the phone even harder against my ear. “Hello!”
“Laz, this is Curtis.”
It was good news, though, and that helped some. Antonio was being discharged from the hospital. He’d need his room back, which meant I needed to move my boxes behind the sofa in the front room, which is where I’d be sleeping.
“Okay,” I said, and disconnected. I sat up and looked out the window. I was glad that Antonio was leaving the hospital. But I felt disappointed, too, as if a vacuum cleaner had reached inside me and sucked out my heart.
A couple of blocks later my cell rang again. “Yeah?” I said, certain it was Curtis with another request.
But it wasn’t.
“Am I speaking with Lazarus Weathers?”
“Yes.”
“This is Richard Bellamy with the San Francisco Giants.”
The bus lurched to a stop. The door hissed open, and a bunch of guys got on, punching one another and laughing loudly. I leaned way forward, so that my head was nearly touching the ground. “Yes, s-sir,” I said.