by Carl Deuker
“We’ve got your name on our draft board here, Lazarus. If we were to select you, we’d require you to take a drug test right away. Would you be willing to do that?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“And you’d pass it?”
“Yes, sir. I know I would.”
“You’d have to take drug tests regularly after that. All baseball players do.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve n-never t-taken drugs. That’s no p-problem.”
“You’re the Seattle kid who got shot, right? In a drug deal.”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a pause. “All right, Lazarus. Not promising anything, but keep your phone with you.”
My mind raced so fast that I almost missed my stop. When I got inside the apartment, I opened my laptop. Round 36 was over. I told myself that more than a hundred names were still to be called, but that wasn’t true. The Giants were my only chance, and they had just four more picks.
I plugged my phone into the charger and turned the volume to high. I moved the sofa out a little from the wall and shoved my boxes behind it.
Then I checked my laptop.
Round 37 was over. The Giants had picked an outfielder from Hawaii.
The door opened. Mom and Curtis came in with Antonio. His stomach was bandaged, so he walked slowly, but he was able to walk. The swelling on his face had come down.
They’d stopped at Red Mill and bought bacon cheeseburgers and fries. Mom got out paper plates and napkins, and we ate at the kitchen table.
I could barely eat; my stomach was as sour as vinegar. Round 38 had to be over. Maybe even round 39.
“Not hungry?” Mom said, motioning toward my plate.
“I ate a l-lot of food at school,” I answered. “Class p-parties.”
We moved to the front room. Curtis brought up The Terminator, Mom’s favorite movie. He had the volume high so that everyone could laugh at Arnold Schwarzenegger’s accent. I took my cell out of the charger, put it on vibrate, and held it.
“You expecting a call?” Curtis asked.
“No. N-Not really.”
He tilted his head. “So why are—”
The hair on my neck stood straight up—the phone had moved in my hand. I jumped to my feet, ran to the bathroom, slammed the door shut, and flipped it open. The screen read Unknown Number.
I hit accept.
“This is L-Laz Weathers.”
“Hello, Lazarus. This is Rich Bellamy.” He paused. “Welcome to the Giants family.”
He said other things, too. He’d had three long days; he was tired; he’d call again soon, or somebody from the Giants organization would.
I thanked him, and the phone went dead. I went to the front room, grabbed my laptop from behind the sofa, and took it to the kitchen table. I needed to be sure.
“You’re missing the best part,” Mom shouted, and then she did her Arnold imitation. “I’ll be back!”
“G-Give me a m-minute,” I said.
I hit refresh, scrolled down.
Round 40—San Francisco Giants: Lazurus Wethers
They’d spelled my first name wrong, and they’d spelled my last name wrong, but everything was right.
I went into the front room, grabbed the remote from Curtis, and hit pause. Mom groaned. “What are you doing?”
“I’ve got n-news.”
When I told them, Antonio made a fist and shook it in front of his head, saying: “YES! YES! YES! YES! YES! YES!” Mom grabbed me and we danced around the front room. Curtis tapped a plastic fork against his beer and held it high in the air: “To the future Cy Young Award winner, Laz Weathers!”
* * *
That night I hardly slept. The next time I pitched, it would be against professional players, not high school kids. Some of them would be grown men. A wave of panic washed over me. Then I took stock. I was a nineteen-year-old high school graduate, not a kid. I’d pitched my team into the state finals. The San Francisco Giants had drafted me.
I was ready.
Twenty
The next morning, as Curtis drove me to Laurelhurst, he told me he’d be my agent. “You don’t want to represent yourself, and you don’t want to pay somebody when I’ll do it for free. That is, if you trust me.”
“I t-trust you,” I said.
His face lit up. “All right. I’ll research this, find out how much you should get. I promise you, I will not let them walk over you.”
When we reached Laurelhurst, I got out and gave him a wave of thanks.
He leaned toward me. “Hey, Laz,” he said through the open window, “I got a question for you.”
I put my arms on the door and bent down. “What?”
“How would you feel if your mom and I got married?”
I froze for a moment. “I’d be g-good with it.”
“What about Antonio? Do you think he’d be good with it?”
“Yeah, he’d be good with it, too.”
“You sure?”
“You should ch-check with him but—yeah—I’m sure.”
Curtis smiled. “All right. Then I’ve just got to convince your mom.”
* * *
After he drove off, I went up the main stairs into school. My news was right there on my tongue. I wanted to tell Hadley. I wanted to tell Ian. I wanted everybody to know.
And I wanted Coach Vereen to hear.
Every morning I’d seen varsity guys hanging out by the main office or in the halls or in the library. But that morning I didn’t see a single baseball player.
I didn’t get it, and then Trevor Mann, a kid in my art class, gave me a quizzical look. “What are you doing here?” he asked when he saw me looking around.
“Why w-wouldn’t I b-be here?” I said.
“Because the baseball and softball teams are having their end-of-season party at Wild Waves. Didn’t anybody tell you?” He paused, and then laughed. “I guess they kicked you off the team for getting shot.”
I was surprised to feel a smile come to my face. “I g-guess they did.”
As I walked to first period, it felt right not to tell any of the guys about the Giants. To them it wouldn’t be a big deal. Because, really, what had I accomplished? Fortieth round. Headed to some low minor-league team in some low minor-league city. At North Central, that would have been a major accomplishment. But at Laurelhurst—with Ian being a first-round pick and other kids going to Harvard and Stanford—it was nothing. If I’d bubbled over in front of everybody like a can of warm Coke, I’d have made a fool of myself.
Monday would be soon enough.
Or Tuesday.
Or whenever.
* * *
My bus that afternoon had to reroute because of an accident on Aurora. I ended up walking the last mile to the apartment. When I opened the front door, Mom and Curtis were sitting side by side on the sofa. “Finally!” Mom said, getting to her feet. “Antonio, come out here. Curtis and I have some news. Then we’re all going out to celebrate.”
Twenty-One
I told Mom that Suja said we weren’t supposed to dress up for the Senior Ball, but Mom shook her head. “Who ever heard of going to a ball and not dressing up?”
The Saturday afternoon of the dance, she took me to the Children’s Hospital Thrift Shop in Shoreline. For fifteen dollars I got a brand-new gray sports coat. And I mean brand-new—the tags were still attached. She went up and down the racks until she found an almost-new blue dress shirt to go with it. I owned gray pants and black shoes, and Curtis was lending me a tie.
That evening, when I came out to the front room all dressed up, Antonio grinned but kept quiet. Mom wanted pictures of Suja and me. She threatened to come with me to the entrance of Jet City where the shuttle van was picking us up so she could take them herself. To get her to stay home, I had to promise to have somebody take our picture.
I was supposed to be at the entrance to Jet City no later than six thirty. It was just a ten-minute walk, but I left the apartment early. I didn’t want to hold things up.<
br />
Suja and the other girls were standing under the burned-out JET CITY sign when I arrived. She was wearing a low-cut purple dress that looked new. Her hair was done up, and she had on lipstick and eye shadow and earrings and a necklace. She was beautiful, but she didn’t look like the regular Suja, which made me even more nervous. It was the same with the other girls, Tessa and Jackie. I didn’t know either of them well, but they were so dressed up I barely recognized them.
“Who are th-the other g-guys?” I asked Suja, feeling sweat on my forehead and under my arms.
Before she could answer, I spotted Dawit Senai and Tory Nelson, wearing coats and ties, walking toward us.
“Hey! Hey!” Tory called out. “There he is!”
We did a handshake and a quick hug, and I relaxed. Then they talked to the girls a little. More hugs. “Like that dress a lot,” Dawit said, gaping at Tessa.
She shoved him, and he turned to me and grabbed my arm. “Take your pants down and show us where you got shot.”
“I’m not t-taking my p-pants down.”
“Come on,” Dawit said. “We’re all friends. Did the bullet go through, or did it get stuck in your fat thigh?”
Right then the van pulled up.
Suja took a deep breath. “Here we go.”
The driver headed south on Aurora, toward downtown. “I thought we were going to Riley’s for dinner,” I said.
Suja gave me an irritated look. “Laz, I told you I’d changed that. Barbecue just didn’t seem right.”
We ended up at a place called Pasta Bella in Ballard. It looked like nothing from the street, but inside you felt like you were in Italy. Real tablecloths, real napkins, real candles. Opera playing quietly in the background, art prints on the wall. The eating area was narrow, with dark rugs and dark walls, but it didn’t seem gloomy. It took me a minute, but then it came to me.
Romantic.
That’s what it was. It was the first time I’d ever eaten in a romantic restaurant.
The restaurant was so nice that I worried I might not have enough money, but when the menu came, I saw that it wasn’t much more expensive than Riley’s. The waiter said their specialty was vongole. He saw the puzzled look on my face. “Pasta with steamed clams,” he explained, not making me feel stupid.
I’d never thought about eating steamed clams, but the evening was supposed to be different, so I ordered them. They were chewy, and sometimes I got some sand, but they were good.
I don’t remember much of what we talked about, but I liked being close to Suja. I was getting used to her dress and her makeup and her jewelry. She was Suja again, but a special version of Suja.
As we ate, we talked about the coming year and what we were going to do. Everybody knew about Suja’s scholarship to Whitman. She mentioned it, but she wasn’t the kind of person to brag. Tessa wanted to be a dental hygienist. Dawit was going to work with his father for a taxi company and attend a tech school in Kirkland at night. Tory and Jackie were both headed to North Seattle Community College.
“What about you?” Jackie asked.
I swallowed, and then I told them I’d been drafted by the San Francisco Giants.
Tory’s eyes went wide.
“No way!” Dawit said.
Suja grabbed my hand. “You’re going to pitch in the major leagues?”
I shook my head. “N-Not in the m-major l-leagues. In the m-minor leagues. At least t-to b-begin with.”
She grabbed my arm and squeezed it tight. “We all knew you were great! Everybody knows it. I’m so happy for you. You should have told us right away.”
The bill came. We paid up, the waiter wished us a great evening, and we were back in the shuttle van. I’d just assumed that the ball was in the gym at North Central High. “Where’s he g-going?” I whispered to Suja when the driver headed west toward Puget Sound. “N-North Central is the other w-way.”
I got her irritated look again. “You didn’t listen to anything I said, did you?” Then she smiled. “Just wait. You’ll see.”
We ended up at a place called The Canal. When the van pulled to a stop at the entrance, I looked around at the other North Central kids who were arriving. They were all dressed up, guys and girls. Everybody looked great, and I was glad my mom had made me buy a sports coat and put on a tie, glad that I looked great, too.
Once inside, Suja and I walked around the ballroom hand in hand, soaking it all in. The theme of the ball was outer space, and the walls were covered with murals of the solar system and supernovas and rockets taking off. The dance floor, which was really two floors because there were two levels, was so polished that it shone like a brand-new Mercedes. Glitter balls suspended from the ceiling sent rays of light in all directions. In the back were tables with fruit and vegetables and punch.
We stepped onto a deck. The sun was sitting on top of the Olympic Mountains, turning Puget Sound a golden blue. Suja squeezed my hand. “Aren’t you glad you came?”
I smiled, then we went back inside. A deejay took his position on a small stage. Seconds later the music started, and the sound quality was so good it seemed as if a live band was playing.
We danced some; we talked some; we ate some. We got our picture taken by a professional in front of a fake moon, which would make my mom happy. Kids asked me about Laurelhurst and told me they were glad to see me.
I wanted the night to keep going, but at eleven the music stopped, and Mrs. Park, the principal who had canceled the baseball program, took the microphone from the deejay. “This has been a wonderful evening,” she said, and then she went into the standard lecture about not ruining it with drinking or drugs or any other type of irresponsible behavior. “It’s been a great year and a great ball. Let’s keep it great.”
That should have been it, but from out of nowhere Suja appeared on the stage and grabbed the microphone.
“Hey, everybody,” she said, “I’ve got some really amazing news. You guys all remember Laz Weathers, right? He went to Laurelhurst for the last semester, but he’s really a North Central kid.”
“He’s here!” Dawit cried out, pointing at me. Kids cleared out, and seconds later a spotlight blinded me. I wanted to crawl under the floorboards.
“I just found out tonight,” Suja went on, “that the San Francisco whatever-they’re-called baseball team picked Laz to be one of their pitchers next year. He’s the first North Central High kid who has ever been a major-league ballplayer—or at least he probably is.”
I felt my face go red. “N-N-No,” I said to the kids around me, but nobody was paying attention because they were too busy slapping me on the back and wishing me luck, and I was smiling and shaking hands and thanking everybody, and the whole time I knew that yeah, they were clapping for me—but they were clapping for themselves, too, and for North Central High, and for making it through and graduating despite everything that had been thrown at them for eighteen years, and my throat was so tight I couldn’t have said anything to anybody, but I knew Suja was right, that no matter where I end up in this world, I’ll always be a North Central kid.
EPILOGUE
One
When I went back to Laurelhurst on Monday, word had gotten out that the Giants had drafted me. Hadley razzed me about being chosen in the fortieth round. “You’ll get the same bonus money as Ian,” he joked, “only you’ll have three fewer zeroes at the end of your check.” Later, though, he told me that there’d been an argument about who’d make it to the majors first—Ian or Jay or me. “My money was on you,” Hadley told me, “and nobody took the bet.”
Tuesday after school I had a physical for the Giants that included a drug test. That morning during math I broke into a sweat. I remembered that the doctor had given me painkillers when he’d dug the bullet out. Would those drugs still be in my system? I called Mom during lunch. “Nothing to worry about,” she told me. “You peed all that out days ago.”
Laurelhurst’s graduation was Thursday night. I didn’t go. I did stop by the library Wednesday to say g
oodbye to Jesus Ramirez. I hadn’t seen him much recently, but I owed him. He was out of his mind with excitement because he’d just gotten accepted at MIT. “I was on their waitlist, but I never thought I’d get in. You don’t know how good this feels.”
I thought, Yeah, I do, but I just congratulated him and let it go.
On Friday night, Mr. Leach, a lawyer for the Giants who was in town to begin negotiations for Ian’s deal, came by the apartment with a contract for me. I told him that Curtis was my agent. “Smart,” he said, and then he and Curtis sat at the kitchen table. Mom, Antonio, and I went into Antonio’s tiny room and sat on his bed. We left the door open so we could hear, but Curtis was so loud we could have heard everything he said with the door shut. “Laz had nothing to do with drugs or gangs. Nothing. He was saving his dumb brother.” Then Curtis rattled off my stats for the year, which I didn’t even know he had. “Those numbers put him right there with Fergus Hart, and the Twins drafted Hart in the second round. He’ll get—what? A couple million? And all you can offer Laz is a measly four thousand?”
I didn’t hear Mr. Leach’s answer, but I knew what he’d say: that Fergus Hart had been a star pitcher for four years, while I’d been around for three months, and in those three months I’d been investigated by the WIAA, walked out on my team, and been shot in an alley during a drug deal.
They argued back and forth. After twenty minutes Curtis called me out to the kitchen. Mom and Antonio came with me. They were both smiling, as excited as I was, but Curtis had a scowl on his face.
Mr. Leach winked at me. “Laz, the San Francisco Giants are prepared to offer you a standard minor-league contract as well as a signing bonus of nine thousand dollars, assuming that drug test comes back negative.” He paused. “What do you say?”
My heart was trying to explode right through my chest.
“I s-say yes.”
Mr. Leach handed me a pen with the orange and black Giants logo on it. “Sign right there,” he said, pointing, “and then again there.”