Courage

by Barbara Binns

  Maybe she can even help bring back the old Lamont.

  Chapter

  Twenty

  WEEKS PASS, AND I SETTLE into a practice routine with the Rays. March becomes April. Every time the Rays have weight day I stand at the free weights beside Sammy and try outlifting him. And I fail. Lamont has major muscles. Dontae and Sammy do too, and both of them are younger than I am. Every morning I stare at my arms in the mirror and try to make a muscle. Come on, body. Something. Anything.

  Nothing.

  I am stronger. After almost a month with the club, I can lift more and run farther on the treadmill. My arms and legs remain skinny sticks. I look like a little boy who belongs with the ten- and eleven-year-old group.

  “You are a little boy,” Harmony says when I complain to her.

  “My coach told me divers need muscles.” I forget my coach is also her uncle until she frowns.

  “He says a lot of stuff,” she mutters. She seems to forget herself, sometimes. There are days when she doesn’t talk to him or even look in his direction. He ignores her the same way.

  “I’m supposed to listen to him.”

  “You want his approval?” she asks. When I nod, she continues, “Uncle Bill is not a god. Look, T, you have two choices. Keep working out and wait for Mother Nature, or do something to speed things up.”

  “Like what?” I’d do anything.

  “Some people take things to help them build muscle fast.”

  I’ve given up candy for protein bars. They taste like yuck, but Coach Mung made the suggestion, so yeah, I’m doing it. But I don’t think that’s what Harmony is talking about.

  “Steroids?” Some kids were tossed from the high school football team last year. We had a big lecture in health class. That stuff does more than grow muscles fast. It can mess up your brain and your whole body. “I’ll keep waiting,” I say just as Sammy comes to join us. I can see his muscles jump when he lifts. Mine will do the same someday soon.

  Meanwhile, I continue with my cardio, weights, and dry-land training.

  Dry-land training happens twice a week, when the coach sends half of the diving team to the gymnastics center instead of the pool. I spend a lot of time practicing my pike and tuck positions. A tuck involves grabbing my legs and hugging them close to my body. It looks easy, but I have trouble even when I’m just sitting on the rug. I finally understand what Mung is all about when he yells, “Posture,” or sends me to do calisthenics and work on flexibility. Those positions are more difficult than straight dives, so they score higher in competition. Someday I’ll make those positions look easy.

  In the gym, the coach has a diving board extended over a pit filled with pieces of foam. Sammy takes a harness hanging from the ceiling and fits it around his chest. I work as his partner, grabbing the end of a rope clipped to his harness. When he takes off from the edge of the board, my job is to yank on the rope to provide extra lift so he can practice a two-and-a-half somersault with a twist.

  When it’s my turn, I try to make my body spin and twist too. There’s so much to know and remember. The world spins confusingly around me, and I do a face-plant on the foam. I don’t have to worry about my wipeouts hurting, but that doesn’t change them into good dives.

  Mung appears, taking the end of the rope from Sammy. My next attempt is worse, knowing who is watching me.

  “You’re late kicking out of the dive,” he says as I claw my way out of the foam. “Stop being afraid and really reach for the water.”

  I try a lay-up next, a plain-vanilla dive, as Sammy would say. I succeed in forgetting who is at the end of the rope and critiquing my every move. This time, when I climb from the pit, Coach Mung takes my upper arm and squeezes tight until I yelp. I can’t help it; his fingers are strong. He shakes his head a little and steps back. “You’ll also need to build yourself up more. Diving requires muscles.”

  “Yes, sir.” Behind Mung, I see Sammy, face twisted, mimicking those last three words. I can’t tell if he’s making fun of our coach or me.

  “You appear to have skills,” Mung says. “And you’re getting the timing.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ve been trying really hard.”

  He looks the same as always. On second thought, he looks smug, happier than usual.

  “What did my brother do to you?” I ask.

  His thin lips draw tight like a stray dog defending a bone. “Not me, my niece. She was only fifteen, still reeling from her parents’ death. She needed . . . Well, she didn’t need a gang member. I had to force her to stay away from your brother.”

  “Yeah, but, if they liked each other—”

  “He used her. Every time he came around, something valuable disappeared. If you were like your brother—”

  “I’m nothing like Lamont.”

  He pauses, then says, “You live in a dangerous part of the city. The violence rate must make every day horrific for you. Your life must move from one tragedy to another.”

  “Uh, not really. Life is life. We get by. Besides, my mother is working to make things better. Maybe living in this part of Chicago is dangerous, but it’s our home.”

  I’m not sure he heard me. “Your mother must be working to get you out of there to someplace safe. But why she would add to your danger by allowing Lamont to share space with you is beyond me.” He looks at me, at the frown on my face. “It’s not about your race. I promise you, I don’t see color. That’s not how I am. You could be blue or green or purple. I wouldn’t care.”

  But I’m not green or purple.

  My skin is brown. I was born this way. And while I want to believe people see me, all of me, I don’t want people thinking my color makes me bad or dumb or unable to face the water in a swimming pool.

  What makes skin color count for so much to people? Hair color is no big deal, even green or purple hair. Eyes are all different parts of the rainbow. No one thinks brown hair makes someone more violent or brown eyes more stupid. Why does brown skin make them think both? My heart is deep inside me, underneath my skin. My brain, inside my head, is the same as anyone else’s.

  Coach then says, “Do you think you’re ready for a little competition? Some of the Rays are having a meet with a couple of other teams. It might be good for you to attend this meet, just to see what things are like. Everyone has to have a first time.”

  Including a first time impressing their coach. He thinks I’m ready, and that means something. I nod, jump, and almost fall back into the foam pit.

  The aroma of jerk chicken fills our apartment when I return from practice. In my hands is a box holding my newest possessions, including a team jacket. Team picture day is two days away, and no, the picture isn’t free. I thought about being a no-show so I wouldn’t be the only member who couldn’t participate until the Hun told me my picture package was paid for. The scholarship is all-inclusive and even covered team clothes. After a few weeks on the team, my spangled jacket, trunks, and new gym bag arrived today.

  “What do you think?” I ask as I enter the kitchen, turning in a circle so they can see me from all sides. Rochelle is sitting at the table playing with her silverware. Mom claps when I lift my arm to show off the shining fabric. Rochelle jumps from her chair to join me. She rubs the side of my jacket and giggles. It is smooth and warm. I will finally look like I belong.

  “You look like a champion,” Mom gushes.

  “Thanks, Mom. I’m not there yet, but I’m getting better with every practice. Mung says I’ve got potential. I have to work on that.” I smile and then take my sister’s hands, and soon we’re dancing in the middle of the room. She makes her own music by humming.

  She finally collapses on the floor and yells, “The end!” Mom applauds. I drop beside my energetic sister. She tired me out. One more minute and I would have had to give up.

  Lamont assumes his usual pose, leaning against one wall with his arms crossed and a sneer on his lips. He never joins in when we play around, doesn’t act like he really wants to be part of the family. At le
ast he hasn’t returned to the pool to embarrass me again. His chin points at my jacket. “Christmas is over. Decorations should be down by now, Short Stack.”

  My smile disappears.

  Rochelle jumps up and runs to him. She squeals when he picks her up and carries her to her chair. He takes a seat beside her and places pieces of chicken from the serving dish onto her plate, even though she can feed herself. I’m no longer her favorite brother. She’s becoming too close to Lamont. Something drops in my stomach as I watch them together during dinner.

  “Coach says I’m doing great,” I tell my mother between bites. “He thinks I’m good enough to compete.”

  “So, Mung’s treating you all right these days?” Lamont asks.

  “Better than you are,” I mutter, but Mom hears me anyway.

  She lifts her head and looks us both over. “What’s going on between you two?”

  “Nothing,” Lamont and I both say. I don’t want a Mom moment. When she starts prying, she doesn’t stop until she gets to everything.

  “I’m attending my first meet soon,” I say, trying to change the subject. “It will be Rays against members of the Chicago Park District team and the North—”

  “—Side Dolphins,” Lamont finishes.

  My jaw drops. “How did you know?”

  He shrugs. “Harmony used to swim on that team.”

  After dinner, I watch my brother and sister on the rug, building something with blocks. When the blocks fall, Rochelle laughs and throws herself into his arms.

  He and I used to be tight like that. I don’t remember much about being four, but I bet he used to do things like that with me. He listened to my stories, bandaged my scrapes, took me to zoos and the circus and ball games, taught me that I should love the White Sox and sneer at the Cubs. I can’t remember ever once hearing him say I bothered him. His eyes used to smile. My big brother used to make me feel safe.

  “What are you thinking?” Lamont asks me.

  I shake my head. “I’m just remembering.” I tug one of Rochelle’s braids before bending down. “Want a ride?”

  “Yeah!” She jumps on my back and I give her a piggyback ride around the living room. I fall on the sofa and pull her onto my lap. She is soft but solid, real and mine.

  Then Lamont comes over, leans close to Rochelle, and asks, “Are you up for spending time with your other brother, Shelly?”

  “Will you read me Ananse the Spider again?” she asks.

  “You bet.”

  She’s a little traitor and likes him better than she likes me.

  “Hey, you wanna play outside?” I ask, to win her away from him.

  “Come on, T, let’s go,” Rochelle says, jumping away from Lamont.

  I smirk and take her hand, and we head over to the park. Unfortunately, Lamont decides to trail along behind. I can’t get away from him, and Rochelle in her bright blue coat runs back and forth between us as we walk.

  “He’s nice,” Rochelle whispers once while she’s with me. “Is he really my brother?”

  All I have to do is say no. A simple untruth and she will be only mine again.

  “Yes, he is our brother,” I tell her.

  She clasps her hands together. “It’s like a story, like the prince coming home.”

  A prince? Seriously, why does everyone put Lamont first?

  A lone cat lifts its head and stares, green eyes bright in its dark fur. We pass an old man sitting on a box at the curb, wearing mismatched shoes and an unbuttoned black coat over a dark blue hoodie. Beside him is a sign propped against a battered shoe box. The sign reads, “Hungry, Need Food, Help.”

  The shoe box is empty.

  Lamont’s steps slow. “Toxic, is that you?” he says, coming to a stop.

  I look closer at the man, see beyond the black hood covering his hair and ears. This is Toxic, or Howard Jones, one of Lamont’s old friends. Lamont began hanging with Toxic after Dad died. He’s only about ten years older than Lamont, but right now his hands tremble, and his dry skin makes him seem ancient. Lamont grabs his hand and shakes it. Toxic’s voice is calm as he says, “I lost my job, haven’t been able to find anything since—not even washing dishes.”

  “Hey, man, I’m sorry.” Lamont now pulls money from his pocket and drops it into the box. “Here. I wish I had more.”

  “I wish you did too.” Toxic coughs when he tries to laugh. “The drugs I used gave me the palsy now. I’m kinda useless. At least I’m outta the gang. We are supposed to be a family, but they don’t want me anymore. I never thought I’d consider being worth nothing to them a good thing.”

  Lamont nods, and we start to walk away. I look at Lamont’s face and see a mix of confusion and sadness. “That could’ve been me,” he mumbles.

  I guess it could have. The idea that anyone might ever consider him worthless must drive the King of the World crazy.

  Chapter

  Twenty-One

  SPRING BREAK IS A WEEK away, but homework is keeping me from thinking too far ahead. Lamont strolls into our room. I turn the volume on my music down, even though I’m only playing Bruno Mars, someone who doesn’t offend my brother’s music taste. I keep my head bent over my book, hoping if I ignore him, he’ll do the same to me. Instead, he stops beside my chair.

  “Sorry,” I whisper, and this time I stop the iTunes app. “I was trying to be quiet.”

  “Try harder,” he mutters, and tosses a white box on the desk in front of me.

  “What’s this?” I ask, my breath catching.

  “I thought you were supposed to be smart. Read the label. You put them over your ears, plug them into the jack of the phone, and I get blessed silence.” These are real, blue-tooth-enabled, high-performance, on-ear headphones, electric blue. The tag says, “High-Quality Sound.”

  The cellophane covering them crinkles in my grip. These are awesome—and expensive. They aren’t like my old earbuds that leak and make music sound tinny.

  “You may thank me now.” My brother adds to his sarcastic voice with a stupid half bow.

  I lift the box and look at it. “Where did you get them?”

  “I don’t suppose you’d believe the box fell off the back of a truck?” He stares at me, and suddenly we’re both shaking our heads at that very old and totally impossible joke. “I didn’t steal them, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ve never done anything that petty.”

  “Never?”

  “How about you let a gift horse lie down and get a little rest, Short Stack?” Lamont says. He walks over to the beds and throws himself on the bottom mattress.

  “People let sleeping dogs lie, numbnut. And my name is T! I hate it when you call me Short Stack!”

  He stiffens. “Whatever. Just use the headphones!”

  I look at the box again. If I wear these, it will be like being at a concert.

  Too good to be true, screams a voice inside my head.

  I want to believe these are legit, but I know something is off, thanks to the twitch in the side of his jaw.

  I toss the box at his chest. “Take them back,” I say. “I don’t want anything from you.”

  “I knew you’d feel that way.”

  “I’m studying,” I say, turning so my back faces him.

  My brother is nothing but a thief. I look at the headphones lying on his bed. I’m never touching anything he tries to hand me, not ever again.

  Finally a week of freedom—Spring Break: no school, just fun. Dontae and I are out enjoying the cool morning under the sun as we head over to the park. The sky is dizzyingly bright. His bike wheels roll on the asphalt street; my feet pound the concrete sidewalk. He actually covers more distance than I do because he is forced to weave his bike around parked cars, sometimes ending up in traffic. Chicago encourages bike riding, supplying Divvy bikes all over the city. But we have no bike lanes painted on our part of the city streets. A river of cars and buses flows down the street. Some roads are so narrow that when cars are parked on both sides it’s difficult for two la
nes of traffic to proceed.

  Dontae has his own bike. I could rent one of the blue Divvy bikes, but instead, I chose to run on the sidewalk while he rides in the street beside me. Cops in our neighborhood give tickets to adults biking on the sidewalk. Technically, he’s still twelve, so he’s allowed to bike on the sidewalk, but try convincing one of the cops who look at us while we pass. It’s like brown skin automatically adds five years to our ages.

  The morning rains have left the day cool, and grass stains are all over my gym shoes. The flowers have begun to grow, and some even bloom.

  A long-haired dog sits on the sidewalk, scratching behind one ear. The man on the other end of the leash is talking on his cell phone in some unknown language. I know a little Spanish and even some French, thanks to the old Haitian storyteller.

  The wind changes, and I get a whiff of the food from a small fish-and-chicken shop. Two women emerge, one holding a bag decorated with a few grease spots. Both have big smiles on their faces. I wish I could follow them. The sauce smells that good.

  “Do you think if we beg they might give us a bite?” I ask.

  “I don’t beg,” Dontae says.

  “Since when? Does this mean I don’t have to give you any more of my fries?”

  Five minutes later, we reach a park. I notice Dontae sweating and breathing a little hard. “Time for a pit stop,” I call.

  “Don’t treat me like a baby,” he snaps when I insist we sit under a tree to rest. I promised Dontae’s mom I’d keep an eye on him—otherwise she wouldn’t have let him go out. He knows it. He just doesn’t like it.

  “I need to chill too.” I’m not winded. All those days on the treadmill training for the Rays make this run easy. The gym teacher is even beginning to notice how I can go faster and farther when we run laps.

  “You’re worse than my mother.” He play punches me in the shoulder but dismounts and comes in for a drink.

  Dontae bends over the fountain, then stops and points across the street at a basketball court. “Yo, what’s that?” He points to a court where Lamont and a skinny white kid are shooting hoops. “I don’t know who that guy is, but I know what he is. Did you catch the tombstone drawn on his jacket?”