Boy21

by Quick, Matthew

  “The latter, I think,” I say.

  “What you mean the ladder?” Mike says. “You gon’ climb a damn tree or somethin’?”

  “So he’s just all talk?” Terrell says.

  “I don’t really know.”

  “Coach ask you to help him, right?” Mike says.

  “Yep.”

  “So you go and be his friend even though he gon’ end up takin’ your position?” Mike says.

  “Right.”

  “That’s White Rabbit for you,” Terrell says.

  “You good people,” Mike says, and then he takes a drag off his joint. “I like you, White Rabbit. You got what the old people call character.”

  “Russ is crazy as a mofo, but he makes us a better team,” Terrell says.

  “I’m’a drive you home,” Mike says. “You all right.”

  I don’t want to let Mike drive me home because he’s high, but there’s nothing I can do about it, so I just sit quietly in the backseat. When one of the most feared drug dealers in the neighborhood wants to drive you home, you let him drive you home. I know he’s strapped. There are probably several guns in the car, and who knows what’s in the trunk.

  We pull up to my house, and just before I get out, Mike says, “You need any paper, White Rabbit?”

  “Money,” Terrell says when I don’t answer.

  I shake my head no.

  “Let us know if your family ever needs paper,” Mike says. “You can always work for us. We like to employ people with character.”

  I nod once, even though I never want to be a drug runner, and then get out as fast as I can.

  When Mike and Terrell drive away I go inside and find my grandfather drinking a beer.

  My dad’s already at work, so it’ll be just Pop and me tonight.

  “You feel like shit, don’t you?” Pop says.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t. Your father’s always telling you that you can outwork talent, but I got a news flash for you, Finley. You could work as hard as you humanly can for the rest of your life and you’ll never be as good as what we saw tonight.” He takes a swill from his bottle and says, “I fancy a bath. You game?”

  I nod and push Pop into the bathroom, where I strip the old man and lift him into the tub.

  As I hold the detachable showerhead for Pop, he washes his hair, and I watch the suds run down his neck and over Grandmom’s green rosary beads. Pop won’t even take them off to bathe. When he finishes, he tells me to turn off the water and when I do he says, “Coach will work you into the games. Don’t worry. It’ll work out.”

  I’m wondering what Boy21 is thinking right now. Did he enjoy playing tonight? Did it make him feel better? Does basketball help him the way it helps me? And, if so, does he need the starting position more than I do?

  “I love watching you play ball, Finley. Best part of my days lately—makes me feel like I still have legs, even—but life’s more than games. This Russ, he’s special. Anyone can see that. And it’s hard to be special, Finley. You understand what I’m saying?”

  I don’t understand what Pop is saying, but I nod anyway.

  “You’re special too, Finley. You don’t always get to pick the role you’re going to play in life, but it’s good to play whatever role you got the best way you can,” Pop says. “And I know I’m a damn hypocrite for saying that tonight, but that don’t make what I said a lie. We’ve both had hard lives so far. No favors done for either of us.”

  I can’t think of anything to say, especially since I’m not special at all, so I just get Pop out of the tub and into bed.

  I lie awake all night thinking about what has happened and what it all means.

  28

  THE NEXT DAY, JUST AS SOON AS his grandfather drives out of sight, Boy21 reaches into his over-the-shoulder bag and pulls out a brown robe made from bath towels safety-pinned together. He slips his head and arms through the holes.

  On his chest he has spelled the word SPACE with red fabric that looks like it was once a T-shirt.

  He then ties a sparkly gold cape around his neck. The cape looks store-bought and expensive, as it has a silver clasp and the material is much heavier than what might be used to make a cheap Halloween costume.

  I just stare at Boy21 when he puts on a motorcycle helmet that he has spray-painted silver. He’s glued a golden eagle to the top of the helmet—the kind of eagle you might see at the end of a flag post in a classroom.

  I wonder why he hid the robe and cape when his grandfather must have seen the helmet, but I don’t ask, of course.

  “No more Russ Washington,” he says. “It’s Boy21 everywhere I go now. The time to leave Earth is soon. No point in lying about everything now. They’ve all seen my extraterrestrial powers anyway.”

  I give him a look that says, You sure about this?

  Boy21 ignores my look and says, “And after practice I’d like you to listen to a special CD that will explain everything. I’m going to ask Wes to join us as well. Will you listen to the recruiting CD with me?”

  I nod.

  What type of CD could explain everything?

  I want to know. But I also realize that Boy21 is losing it—or is he?

  Students mob us as we approach the high school. They want to know why Boy21’s wearing what he’s wearing, where exactly in outer space he came from, and how many points he’ll score in the next game.

  The best-looking girls blink a lot, say, “Hey, Boy21,” blow him kisses, and even reach up to touch his silver helmet in a sexy way.

  It’s almost unbelievable, especially if you don’t know how popular basketball is in Bellmont.

  More and more people crowd around us, but Boy21 just keeps moving forward with this very eerie smile on his face.

  Who knew that acting like a total freak would make you popular?

  Or is it just because he’s an extraordinary basketball player?

  As everyone continues to press in around us and yell questions, I start to feel invisible because no one says a word to me, even though they obviously know Boy21 and I are tight. No one ever said much to me before, but now that Boy21 has appeared, it makes me realize that maybe he has something I don’t. Not only athletic ability, but also star power, no pun intended.

  When we finally arrive at the high-school steps, he stops and says, “I will score many, many points in the next game—definitely more than forty, guaranteed. And I come from a place that you don’t even know exists. I will be returning to that outer-space place shortly, and anything else you might learn about me will come through my Bellmont Earthling tour guide, Finley, who will also serve as my Earthly documentarian.”

  Most of the students surrounding us laugh as if Boy21 is joking, but I can see Erin twenty people deep in the crowd, and she’s biting down on her lip.

  “Finley,” Boy21 says, “please tell the masses all they need to know about Boy21.”

  Everyone turns and looks at me, but, of course, I don’t speak—because I’m a minimal speaker, yes, but what would I say, even if I were a blabbermouth?

  “No fair!”

  “White Rabbit never says anything!”

  “How do you run basketball like that?”

  “We wanna know what you playin’ at!”

  “What’s up with that spaceman outfit? You in the Black Eyed Peas now?”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Boy21 from the cosmos!” Russ says, and then he turns so quickly that his sparkly gold cape flies up into the air.

  I march after him into the building.

  The questions continue all day.

  Boy21 just smiles and smiles and repeats the same standard lines about coming from the cosmos to learn about emotions.

  The less he says to our classmates, the more popular he seems to become. Everyone wants to know his secret, and that’s his power—just having one.

  The local papers don’t run any information about Boy21 except the number of points he scored in the game, and his assists an
d rebounds. The editors were probably too scared to report what Russ actually told them, but I wonder how long it’ll be before his real story comes out and he’ll have to face the truth about his past.

  Our teachers don’t ask Russ about his costume, which leads me to believe that they were instructed not to, because he looks absolutely ridiculous—like an insane person dressed up for Halloween or the Mummers Parade or something even crazier.

  I worry about lunch, when we’ll see the rest of the team without the close supervision of teachers, but we’re called down to guidance and separated just before it’s time to eat.

  Boy21’s instructed to head into Mrs. Joyce’s office, and I’m directed to Mr. Gore’s.

  Mr. Gore’s Jheri curl is extra shiny today.

  “I had a lunch sent up,” he says when I sit down in front of his desk. “Go ahead and eat.”

  I look at the hot turkey sandwich.

  White bread.

  Tan-yellow gravy.

  It looks good.

  I’m hungry, so I eat.

  “Have you figured out yet why Coach picked you to help Russ?” Mr. Gore says.

  I shake my head no.

  Mr. Gore smiles broadly—too broadly, as if every single one of his teeth is calling me a liar.

  He touches his fingertips together and keeps tapping the tops of his palms so it looks like a spider is doing push-ups on a mirror.

  “Tell me something, Finley.” Mr. Gore looks deeply into my eyes, until I look down at my food. “How did your grandfather lose his legs?”

  I hate it when Mr. Gore asks me irrelevant questions—especially this one in particular.

  I feel my face burn like it always does whenever I’m in his office. I hate this feeling I get when I’m forced to listen to his pointless, stupid questions.

  “Don’t you think it kind of odd—your not knowing the answer to that one? Have you never thought to ask him how he lost his legs? All these years, it’s never crossed your mind to ask?”

  My hands are balled into tight fists. He’s trying to make me upset so I’ll talk, and I don’t like it.

  “What happened to your mother?” Mr. Gore asks.

  I’m starting to get really annoyed with this line of questioning, especially since guidance has a student who says he’s from outer space in the next room.

  What is the point of these questions?

  I’m sweating now.

  Don’t lose it, I tell myself. Do something productive to take your mind off of what’s happening.

  I work on consuming my hot turkey sandwich. I take huge bites and enjoy the feeling of swallowing. My stomach begins to feel full. I savor the taste of meat and gravy and doughy bread.

  “Finley?” Mr. Gore says. “Are you listening to me?”

  I nod without making eye contact.

  “So what do you think we should do about Russ?” he asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  How should I know?

  “How’re you doing?” he asks.

  “Fine.”

  “Are you upset about losing your starting position?”

  I shrug.

  “It’s okay to be upset.”

  I quickly eat the mashed potatoes and drink the milk.

  I want out of here.

  “Do you want to know how Mr. and Mrs. Allen were murdered?” Mr. Gore asks, which surprises me.

  “No.”

  I don’t want to know that.

  Why the hell would I want to know that?

  “Can I leave?” I ask.

  “It’s okay to feel upset, Finley. This is a lot for you to process. It’s more than most young people could deal with. I just want you to know that I’m here to listen, should you ever feel like talking about Russell—or yourself. I’m a resource for you. A safe ear.”

  “Thanks,” I say, but I’m already walking toward the door.

  When I exit, Mr. Gore all but yells, “It might help Russell if you told him about your mother.”

  I don’t want to think about what he’s implying, so I just leave Mr. Gore’s office and take a seat in the hallway outside the guidance department offices.

  I clench my fists and then stretch out my fingers as wide as they will go.

  I repeat that process over and over again until I calm down a little.

  Boy21 comes out a few minutes later, but he doesn’t say anything to me.

  He looks unfazed.

  He’s still wearing his brown robe, gold cape, and silver helmet.

  I follow him down the hallway to our lockers. The hall monitor hassles us, but Boy21 remembered to get a pass, so we’re okay.

  We trade in our morning books for our afternoon books and then Boy21 says, “They don’t want me to wear my outer-space clothes. They say it disrupts the school day. Do you agree?”

  “No,” I say, which surprises me and makes Boy21 smile.

  I didn’t like my conversation with Mr. Gore, and that makes me apt to disagree with anything guidance has to say.

  “Maybe I can get my parents to beam down another outer-space cape for you, Finley,” Boy21 says. “Would you like that?”

  “Very much so,” I say and then smile.

  We finish our day, and then we attend practice.

  Boy21 takes off his space clothes and puts on a practice uniform so that he looks simply terrestrial instead of extraterrestrial.

  When no one on the team brings up outer space or anything Russ said last night, I figure Coach must’ve talked to all the other team members and instructed them to stay mum.

  Boy21 invites Wes to listen to the CD with us after practice, saying it’s a little like N.E.R.D., because it’s related to outer space, and Wes agrees, although he quickly changes the subject by saying, “I need to work on my free throws.”

  So we shoot some free throws until Coach shows up and runs us through a regular practice.

  I run with the second team, and that relegation stings a little, although I try to rise to the challenge of playing against our best players and I’m able to lose myself in sweat, aching muscles, and the repetition of the drills.

  “Looking good today, Finley,” Coach says more than once, which makes me feel a little better.

  After we grab our gear in the locker room, Boy21, Wes, and I hop into Mr. Allen’s Cadillac.

  “You want me to drop you boys off at home?” Mr. Allen says.

  “They’re coming over to listen to an important CD,” Boy21 says.

  “They are?” Mr. Allen looks at us in the rearview mirror. Brown eyes. Gray eyebrows. “What CD?”

  “It’s something for school,” Boy21 lies. “Mostly about science.”

  “Okay, then,” Mr. Allen says.

  When we arrive at the Allens’ home, Mrs. Allen insists that we each shower up, put on our school clothes, and sit down to dinner. “I didn’t know you were coming, but we’ll make do,” she says, which is nice, so we all grab quick showers and then eat a chicken salad dinner.

  Wes is very polite and carries the conversation as the Allens ask us about basketball and school.

  “We’re reading Le Petit Prince in French class,” Wes says. “You might like that one, Russ, come to think of it, because it’s about a boy from another planet.”

  Russ says, “I’d like to read that.”

  Mrs. Allen gives Wes a hard look—I guess she doesn’t want us to encourage the space fixation—and Mr. Allen says, “Basketball is going well?”

  “Fine,” Wes says. “We have a good team this year. Coach thinks we can go deep into the postseason.”

  “That so?” Mr. Allen says. “Any new defenses? A press perhaps?”

  Wes tells Mr. Allen all about our playbook—both what we have used already in games and what we haven’t. They talk hoops for a long time while the rest of us listen.

  With Wes around, I feel like I can be myself and remain quiet. The Allens never ask me a direct question, and Wes is very talkative by nature, so it’s an easy dinner.

  A few times I cat
ch Mr. and Mrs. Allen staring at Russ’s space robe and cape. There’s a sadness in their eyes. Boy21 doesn’t wear the helmet to dinner.

  “We will go to my room now,” Boy21 says when we finish dinner, “and listen to that CD for school.”

  “Okay,” Mrs. Allen says. “Study hard.”

  “Excellent meal, ma’am,” Wes says.

  I nod in agreement.

  And then we follow Boy21 up into his room, where the walls and ceiling are now entirely covered with glow-in-the-dark stars, which seem to pulse energy. It’s a little bit eerie and disorienting but also kind of beautiful, in an odd way.

  “Sit on the bed,” Boy21 says when he closes his bedroom door.

  We sit and then Russ begins to pace.

  “So,” Wes says, “let’s hear this CD.”

  “Can you guys keep a secret?” Boy21 asks.

  “Sure,” Wes says.

  “You know it,” I say.

  “I used to do this thing with my dad,” Boy21 says—he’s still pacing. “And I’ve never told anyone about it before.”

  “What thing?” Wes says, and then he glances at me nervously, which makes me wonder if Wes somehow found out that Russ’s parents were murdered.

  “Back home in California, he used to drive me out to where there are no houses or lights, so that we could see lots of stars. We used to drive to this place on the coast. A little cliff that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. We’d park and walk along the edge until we couldn’t see the road anymore—so that car lights wouldn’t break the mood.”

  Boy21’s pacing slows a little.

  “We’d throw down a blanket to lie on and put the CD player between our heads, and while we stargazed Dad would play this music.”

  He holds up the CD.

  The cover features a black man wearing a crazy pharaoh-looking outer-space outfit and a long cape. Behind him are stars and what looks like Saturn, maybe—a planet with a ring around it.

  “It’s called Space Is the Place and it’s the sound track to a movie that my father says is pretty bad, although I’ve never seen it. It’s by the jazz musician Sun Ra and his Intergalactic Solar Arkestra. Sun Ra claimed that his music could transport people to outer space. I was hoping that maybe we could pretend we were looking up at the stars and listen to the CD together. See what happens. Just like Dad and I used to do.”