Boy21

by Quick, Matthew

  He sticks a candle deep into each cupcake so that the wicks stick out where the flames would exit each space shuttle.

  He uses a lighter to ignite the wicks and then says, “STS-120. T minus ten seconds. Eight seconds. T minus five. Four. Three. Two. One. And liftoff of Discovery—opening harmony to the heavens and opening new gateways for international science.”

  Boy21 starts singing “Happy Birthday.” His eyes look wild, crazy, manic.

  “Happy birthday, dear Boy21. Happy birthday to you,” he sings, and then blows out the candles.

  He hands me one of the cupcakes and says, “I got you a vanilla and me chocolate,” and then takes a big bite out of his cupcake.

  I wonder if the vanilla and chocolate comment was a joke. He’s not laughing, so I say, “Happy birthday. If I had known—”

  “One day short of completing my fifteenth trip around the sun, my father doesn’t drive me to my high school,” Boy21 says in this really serious voice. “In fact, we drive in the opposite direction. When I ask where we’re going, he just smiles and laughs. We end up at the airport and when we check in, I realize we’re headed to Florida. So I say, ‘Dad, are you delivering on your promise?’ When he winks at me, my heart starts pounding, because I know exactly where we’re going. We land in Florida and hit a hotel. He doesn’t even have to confirm it for me, because I know we are about to fulfill his lifelong dream and mine.”

  The wind blows and the few dry, brittle leaves still hanging on to the trees rattle. I shiver a little.

  “The next day we drive to the viewing spot and I can see it—space shuttle Discovery. It stands huge on the tower, and only a small body of water separates us. We wait for what seems like forever for it to take off, wondering if there will be complications. But it takes off twenty minutes before noon and there is this awesome noise when the rockets are ignited—and then these massive clouds explode from the bottom of the ship and billow out forever and ever along the horizon and then it rises real slow… pushed upward by what looks like a bright cone of orange lava, and a long tower of clouds forms in its wake. It may have been the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I remember my father putting his arm around me as we stood and watched. When it was over neither of us said anything for a long time. We just stood there smiling. It was the best birthday I’ve ever had. The best day of my life.”

  When Boy21 finishes his story, I don’t know what to say. So this is why he freaked out on the physics field trip.

  “Eat your cupcake,” he says.

  I eat the whole thing in just a few bites. Vanilla. Rich. Moist. So sweet it makes my teeth ache.

  We sit in silence for a long time.

  “You want to see that launch?” Boy21 asks.

  “How?”

  “YouTube,” he says while pulling a laptop out of his bag. “I downloaded it before I came.”

  We watch the short video. Boy21 was quoting verbatim whoever was announcing the launch on the YouTube clip—all the talk about harmony for the heavens and gateways. I wonder how many times he’s watched this video.

  “Your dad,” I say. “He was interested in outer space?”

  “Fascinated by it. He used to read endless books. Was a big Star Trek fan. He loved the final frontier. We had several high-powered telescopes too. Still do, in storage out west.”

  Boy21 looks into my eyes and I start to feel as though he’s making a decision. It’s weird. This is the most he’s ever said about his past. I feel as though he’s already let down his guard far more than he had intended. But then his facial expression changes and he’s gone again, just like that.

  “My father sent me a telepathic birthday card today. He says he has a present for me, but due to an unforeseen meteor shower in a galaxy that you Earthlings don’t even know exists yet, he anticipates being a few Earth days later than he had originally planned, regarding the pickup. So it looks like you and I will be spending some more time together, Earthling known as Finley.”

  Part of me wants to call him on the charade and put some direct questions to him, especially after all he’s revealed tonight. He came here uninvited. He freely offered up the story about his father. He obviously wants to talk about all this stuff. But for some reason I don’t ask him anything. Maybe it’s just my nature to remain mute when I am unsure, which is always, but I feel like I should be asking questions—that conversation would help—and yet, I realize he’s probably talking to me because I don’t ask questions and just let him exist as he wishes to exist. I don’t mind him being Boy21, but I sort of like Russell too.

  Instead of talking we simply lie on our backs and look up at the sky, even though it’s cloudy and we can’t even see the moon.

  When his grandfather pulls up to my house, Boy21 says, “Thanks for eating cupcakes with me, Earthling.”

  I walk him through my room, down the steps, and out the door.

  Just before he gets into the car, Boy21 turns around and says, “I wish you and I could travel through the cosmos together, Finley. You have that calming presence. Happy birthday to me—and thanks.”

  “See ya, man,” I say, and then he’s gone.

  18

  I’M IN MY ROOM TRYING TO READ The Merchant of Venice for English class, which is proving to be pretty hard, when something hits my bedroom window. The splat remains of a snowball are sliding down the glass. I open up the window and cold air rushes into my room just before I get blasted in the face with another snowball.

  “Snowball fight!” Erin yells from across the street.

  I throw on my jacket and shoes and race downstairs.

  “Where’s the fire?” Dad says as I pass him in the living room.

  Erin drills me in the chest just as soon as I exit through the door.

  The flakes are falling huge and fast and the whole neighborhood is coated in white. Something pretty magical happens whenever it snows around here. The neighborhood gets very quiet and all the trash, broken glass, and graffiti are hidden under the white, at least for a little while. It seems too early for snow, which makes this night even more beautiful—like an unexpected present.

  While I scoop up some snow and pack it, Erin hits me three times, which is when I realize that she has stockpiled snowballs. Once I have one packed, I charge Erin and take aim. She ducks and I miss, so I decide to tackle her, but not too hard, because there isn’t all that much snow on the ground. She doesn’t put up much of a fight at first, but then she tries to wrestle me, so I grab her wrists and pin her arms with my elbows, and we kiss.

  Our mouths are the warmest things in the world right now.

  “Isn’t it amazing?” she says as the snow falls past my ears and lands all around her head.

  “It is.”

  “Let’s sit on the roof and watch it fall all night.”

  “Okay.”

  We see two headlights approaching, which seems weird because most people around here are afraid to drive in the snow.

  We stand, and I recognize the Ford truck as Coach’s.

  “Why is Coach here?” Erin asks.

  “Dunno.”

  Coach pulls up slowly, rolls down his window, and says, “Finley, take a ride around the block with me?”

  I look at Erin and shrug.

  “I’ll go hit Pop with a snowball,” Erin says. She actually picks one up from her pile and then jogs to my home. I wonder if she’ll really throw it at the old man, which she could get away with, because Pop loves Erin as much as I do.

  I get into the truck and the heat streaming from the vents burns my fingers when I try to warm my hands.

  Coach doesn’t drive around the block. He says, “How’s Russ doing?”

  “Fine.”

  “Have you talked to him about playing basketball?”

  “Yep,” I lie. Ever since his birthday he’s been extra quiet, and I get the sense that he doesn’t really want to talk about basketball or anything else, so I let him be. But Coach doesn’t want to hear that.

  “What does he
say?”

  “Nothing really.”

  “Nothing?”

  “No.”

  “What does he say about basketball?”

  “I don’t think he wants to play basketball.”

  “Russ said that, or you think it?”

  “He’s not really stable.”

  “Are you a psychiatrist now, Finley?”

  Coach has never talked to me like this before. There’s sarcasm in his voice and I can tell he’s annoyed with me, which makes me angry, because I have walked to school with Boy21 every day, eaten every school lunch with him, and allowed him to be my shadow for more than two months now. And tonight I was having a nice private moment with Erin before Coach interrupted us.

  “No, sir,” I say.

  “I expect you to make sure Russ gets his physical tomorrow after school in the nurse’s office and that he shows up to the team meeting on Friday. Understood?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When you see the boy play, you’ll understand why this is so important. Trust me.”

  “Okay.”

  Coach reaches through the darkness and squeezes my shoulder. “Thank you, Finley. This is about more than basketball. More than the team. Russ likes you. You’re helping him.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, because it sure doesn’t seem like I’m helping Russ, and he really isn’t getting better, as far as I can tell.

  “Tell your family I said hello,” Coach says.

  I nod and then run through the falling snow toward the house.

  Erin’s watching the Sixers game with Dad, and Pop’s shirt is all wet, which lets me know that she really threw a snowball at the old man.

  “This is one feisty broad,” Pop says to me.

  Dad laughs. “She ran in here and blasted Pop in the chest!”

  “If I had legs…”

  “Sure,” Erin says, “the old no-legs excuse.”

  There aren’t many people who could get away with talking this way to Pop, but Erin’s special to us. She’s put her time in. She’s family.

  “Come on, Finley,” Erin says.

  And then we’re on the roof again, watching Bellmont turn white—one snowflake at a time.

  “What did Coach want?” Erin asks.

  “He thinks I should encourage Russ to play basketball,” I say.

  “Cool,” Erin says as she climbs on top of me.

  By morning almost all the snow has melted, so no snow day.

  As we walk to school Erin says, “Russ, you interested in playing basketball?”

  “Don’t know,” Russ says.

  I glance at his face and he’s sucking his lips in between his teeth. He catches my eye and it’s almost like he’s asking for permission. I know I’m supposed to encourage him to play, but for some reason I don’t.

  “Physicals are after school today in the nurse’s office,” Erin says. “Best get one just in case. You can go with Finley.”

  Russ nods.

  I don’t say anything.

  We both pass our physicals later that afternoon, but we don’t talk about basketball.

  On the day of the preseason meeting, Mr. Allen calls to let us know that Russ will be out sick. This is the first day of school he has missed, and I wonder if it has anything to do with the meeting.

  After school our team meets in the lunchroom and Coach quickly hands out permission forms and a practice schedule that begins the day after Thanksgiving. Just tucking the papers into my backpack gives me a rush, because this moment is the first official basketball experience of the year.

  After the meeting, as my teammates hustle off to football practice, Coach says, “Finley, can we talk?”

  I stay behind and, once we’re alone, Coach says, “What’s Russ been saying to you about basketball?”

  This again? Why won’t Coach lay off it?

  “We got our physicals,” I say.

  “That’s good. But the boy refused to come to school today—the day of the basketball meeting. His grandparents told me he’s talking about outer space again, saying his parents are coming to get him in a spaceship.”

  I watch the janitor empty the trash cans on the other side of the cafeteria.

  “Did you tell him that he should play ball? Have you been encouraging him, Finley?”

  “He doesn’t want to talk about basketball,” I say. “We don’t talk about much at all.”

  Coach sighs and gets this disgusted look on his face. “Listen. Just make sure he’s at the first practice. Let’s just see how he reacts to being part of the team, running drills, getting back to normal for him. He needs the routine. Even if he never plays in a game. Just being part of something can help. You, of all people, should know that.”

  I have to admit, I’m getting a little pissed at Coach. Why isn’t he hassling Terrell or Wes or any of the other starters, asking them to help Boy21? Why is this my mission alone? I just want to play basketball.

  “I know you won’t let me down,” Coach says, and then lightly slaps my right cheek twice.

  19

  THANKSGIVING DAY has us wearing gloves, scarves, and hats.

  Erin, Boy21, and I sip hot chocolate as we watch our football team lose their final game of the season on their home field.

  People around here like football, but the atmosphere is underwhelming compared to the basketball games. It’s Thanksgiving, so it’s a little more lively than usual, but not much. Bellmont just isn’t a football town.

  Our marching band’s halftime show’s pretty awesome, though. They do a Michael Jackson tribute that ends with an amazing rendition of “Thriller,” complete with zombie dance moves.

  Boy21 sits with us in the smaller, mostly white section of the stadium, which makes him stick out a little, but no one says anything.

  It’s not like our stadium is segregated intentionally, but Bellmont citizens generally sit with the people they look most like, and that’s the way it’s always been.

  The three of us cheer when our team does something good, but we don’t say much else. The whole time I want to ask Boy21 if he’ll be trying out for the basketball team tomorrow, but I also don’t want to ask.

  When Terrell throws a fourth-quarter interception, the Bellmont football team ends up finishing 2–6 for the season, so they don’t make the playoffs. None of my basketball teammates were injured, so I consider football season to be a complete success and I know that Coach agrees.

  As we exit the stands, we run into Mrs. Patterson, Bellmont’s number one basketball fan and Terrell’s mother, who is wearing a leopard-print hat and a leather jacket that sort of looks like a bathrobe. She’s very stylish. When she sees me, she yells, “White Rabbit! Come on over here, boy.”

  I walk over to Mrs. Patterson and she gives me a big hug and then kisses both my cheeks. To her friends—who are all wearing Bellmont football jerseys over their coats and are the moms of non–basketball players—Mrs. Patterson says, “Did you know this here Pat McManus’s boy? Time for the real season now. Basketball! This young man’s gon’ feed my son the rock all winter long and I’m gon’ cheer White Rabbit and my Terrell on to the state championship. Ain’t that right, White Rabbit?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Look how he quiet and respectful, just like his father was in high school,” a large woman with dark purple hair extensions says. All of the other women laugh and smile and say, “Mmm-hmm!”

  “Okay, White Rabbit,” Terrell’s mom says, nodding a respectful but curt hello at Erin, who is standing with Boy21 ten feet away. “You run off with your girlfriend and your tall silent shadow. Go on now.”

  We find Coach hanging out with the other Bellmont faculty members in the parking lot drinking beer from paper cups and pretending that we students don’t know what’s in the cups. He tells me that he’ll see me in the morning—which is when basketball season officially begins—wishes Erin luck, and then says he’ll drive Boy21 home, because that’s where he’s having his Thanksgiving dinner, with the Allens
.

  Finally alone, Erin and I walk back to our neighborhood holding hands.

  The few trees left around here have shed their leaves, but because no one in our neighborhood bothers to rake, we crunch our way down the sidewalks.

  “You know,” Erin says, “maybe we could stay together this basketball season. Maybe we don’t have to break up?”

  I don’t say anything.

  Erin and I have this conversation every year.

  She argues that our schedules will keep us so busy that it won’t even matter if we are together or not, but I believe that during basketball season, a romantic relationship is a distraction, and there’s no way I can simply be friends with Erin. If I see her at lunch or before school or at my locker every day, I’ll get horny, and I won’t be able to focus one hundred percent on the season. I love Erin as much as I love basketball, which is a conflict of interest. And if we kiss on my roof or hold hands—these things will most definitely take my mind off my goals. With schoolwork and Pop to take care of already, I can’t mentally afford to have a girlfriend during basketball season.

  I love making out with Erin, and holding her hand, and the peachy smell of her hair after she showers—almost as much as I love the sweaty leather smell of a gym in winter, being part of a team, and working out with the guys. And while having a girlfriend and being on a team aren’t mutually exclusive, both fill a need—maybe the same need. Basketball and Erin make the rest of the world go away—focus me, make me forget, and get the endorphins flowing. It’s best to be addicted to one or the other. This will be the fourth season Erin and I have taken a break, and we’ve always gotten back together in the past, so why do I have this strange dreadful feeling tonight?

  When it’s clear that I’m not going to argue with her, Erin says, “Don’t you worry that I’ll start dating someone else?”

  I laugh because I know she’s kidding.