And if by some miracle I am able to go away to college, I’d do it only if I could pay my own way, like through a scholarship. I won’t take a dime from my old man. He’s not gonna buy his way out of the guilt he should feel for leaving us by paying for my college. He’s not getting off that easy. One thing, though, keeps racing through my mind, over and over again. When I was yelling at Dad and I said the thing about going away to college, he said, “That’s what you should do.” I can’t believe he meant that, about my leaving. He has to know that with him gone, I’m left without any options. He has to know that I can’t just leave like he did. I mean, how could I? He knows I’m not like him, so what he said was just crap, made him sound good, when he knows it’s never going to happen.
Still, my only hope of escape, my only chance of ever getting away, comes down to one thing and one thing only: how good I can be on the basketball court.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
We play Kennedy tonight. We’re all sitting in the locker room waiting for Coach to give us his big pep talk, like we need help getting ready to play. If we win tonight, we’ve got an automatic bid to the state tournament. If you can’t get up for this game, you have no pulse.
I should be tense, should have some kind of adrenaline edge by now, but I feel completely calm and relaxed. In last week’s game I led all scorers and we killed Butler High School. They aren’t that strong a team, but we beat them by more than thirty points and they’re not that bad.
I’ve been playing really loose for several weeks now, playing like I’m in some kind of trance. Ever since that day at shoot-around, when I couldn’t miss and almost lifted off the ground, I’ve been “on.” I’ve had great practices, and I haven’t had a single bad game.
An hour or so from now, once we’ve won this game, I’ll be the best player on the best team in our league. I’m not thinking about my dad, or my brother, or anybody or anything except winning. I’m calm and focused and ready.
I walk into the kitchen and Cindy and Mom are sitting there waiting for me. They’re all smiles.
“Congratulations, honey,” Mom says, and gives me a hug.
The phone rings, and I’m bugged at anybody for calling right now, interrupting this moment. So I grab it.
It’s one of Cindy’s friends, Ally Williamson. She asks for Cindy. She doesn’t even congratulate me on our game.
I tell her, “Cindy—oh, didn’t you hear?”
Cindy tries to grab the phone and yells, “MOM!”
I say, “She was in an accident today—a road-rage thing with a heavyweight boxer. Sorry.” I hang up.
Mom, laughing, yells, “PAUL!”
I say, “It was a telemarketer.”
They both buy it, so we all sit quiet for a second until I break the silence. “Well, we’re going to state.”
We beat Kennedy High School, our archrival, by six points. I led all scorers with twenty-four and missed a triple double by only two rebounds (fourteen assists and eight boards).
I repeat, “Did you hear me, we’re going to state!”
Mom says, “I know, I know.” She smiles and pauses a second, then says, “And guess what? We ladies are going to be there, en masse, to support you guys.”
I’m confused. I ask, “Ladies?”
Mom says, “Your sister and I and some of Cindy’s girl friends.”
“You’re coming to the tournament?”
Cindy says, “We’re comin’.”
I ask, “What about Shawn?”
Like I said before, the tournament is way over on the other side of the state this year.
Mom answers, “Respite care has already arranged for Shawn. Vonda will come and take care of him. We’re coming to your game, Paul—get used to it.”
I can’t stop from asking, “Vonda? You’re kidding me, right?”
Vonda has taken care of Shawn before. She’s this enormous, bizarre woman, thighs the size of utility poles and a hairdo that reminds you of the Bride of Frankenstein. I don’t like the idea of anybody taking care of Shawn but Mom or Cindy or me. What if he gets really bad? What if—
Mom interrupts my thoughts. “Shawn will be fine. Vonda will stay all weekend if necessary—”
“Oh, you can count on that. It’ll definitely be ‘necessary.’ Once we make it to the final game—”
Cindy interrupts. “Overconfidence?”
I look at her and say, very matter-of-fact, “I get why you’d want to be there—you want to see the greatest butt-kicking high school dream team of all time—”
Cindy, laughing, interrupts. “Oh God, here he goes—”
The phone rings, and Cindy grabs it before I can.
“Hi, Ally,” she says.
I start moving toward the stairs. I hear Cindy in the background say, “An accident? NO! MOM!”
I laugh.
Mom, looking at me, says, “Keep it up and I’ll send you over to your father’s.”
I stare at Mom. I can’t believe she’d say something like that tonight. I can’t believe that on such a great night, she’d remind me of him. I say, “Now you’re thinking, Mom.”
She looks guilty. Maybe she feels bad for saying such a dumb-ass thing. But I’m not into rescuing her. I say, “I’m outa here.”
I take off up the stairs.
Nothing is going to ruin this night for me. We’re playing in the tournament. Nothing can take that away, not even worrying about leaving my brother or being reminded that the famous butt munch Sydney McDaniel is my old man.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
In the bottom drawer of my chest of drawers, hidden under a bunch of old T-shirts and socks, are letters from six universities and colleges. Every place I’ve applied I’ve got at least the possibility of a scholarship, but no word from Georgetown. They’ve had more time than anyone else, but still no word. They haven’t said no, but they haven’t said yes either—they haven’t said anything!
It’s not exactly late, yet, to be hearing back from colleges. Most places don’t think about high school recruits until the season finishes up. But I’m still nervous.
I glance at some of the letters I’ve gotten from other schools. I take out the one from Gonzaga, over in Spokane where the tourney is being played.
This one came just a couple days ago.
Dear Paul McDaniel,
As Assistant Athletic Director for the Gonzaga University Bulldogs Athletic Department, I’d like to thank you for your interest in our university’s programs, specifically our basketball program....
Blah, blah, blah.
… an outstanding education … your transcripts from high school appear excellent … a unique learning environment …
Blah, blah, blah.
… we would like to meet with you about Gonzaga University as the right place to pursue both your academic and athletic goals …
Blah, blah, blah.
Actually, Gonzaga is my second pick, right after Georgetown.
I shove the letters back into my drawer, cover them with clothes, and grab my basketball to go out and shoot for a little while.
When I hit the bottom of the stairs, I turn the corner and notice Shawn sitting in his wheelchair by the window. He’s quiet now, not “ahhhhing” or anything, just sitting there. I walk over to him. It’s almost like he’s watching the view. The sky is mostly blue with some puffy clouds. Puget Sound is dark blue in some places, where the clouds block the sun, and real sparkly in other spots, where the sun has broken through the clouds and shines on the water. It’s like the dark places are depressing to look at, cold and black, but the sunny spots look like diamonds.
I look back down at Shawn. His eyes are open. His lips are a little apart and his chest rises and falls slowly with his breathing.
I wonder if he’s getting any of this view action. I wonder if he sees the water and if he thinks about the different ways the water looks with the sun or without the sun. I wonder if he notices the difference in how his own skin feels when the sun shines on him or when it go
es behind the clouds.
It’s stupid of me to think he does. It’s funny though—I’ve heard Mom say that Shawn’s brain on fancy, high-tech machines like CAT scans and MRIs looks normal. I mean, there’s no reason that you can see, on any of the medical tests, why Shawn should be so retarded. Of course, probably these tests don’t show very much about the inside workings of the brain—Shawn’s gray matter is probably all screwed up. It has to be, otherwise there’s no way he’d be so out of it.
I look closely into his eyes. There’s a kind of glassy expression there. You never get the feeling that he’s looking back at you, even when you put your face in front of his, a couple inches away, like I’m doing right now.
“Hey, Shawn,” I say.
Nothing.
“How you doin’, buddy?”
Nothing.
“Can you see me?”
Nothing.
I stand next to Shawn for a while, looking out at the clouds and the water. Before long I notice that his breathing has changed and I look down at him; he’s sound asleep.
I gently run my hand over his hair the way Mom always does. It feels so soft.
“Paul,” I hear Mom whisper softly from behind me. I jerk my hand away from Shawn; it’s almost like I’m embarrassed that she’s caught me being nice to him.
I turn and face her.
She says gently, “It’s okay to love your brother.”
I don’t know what to say.
She hesitates a second. “It’s also okay to hate the way he is; sometimes I hate it too.”
“I don’t hate him,” I answer quickly, feeling my face turn red.
“Of course you don’t, honey,” Mom says, her voice steady. “I know you don’t hate Shawn, but it’s okay to hate how he is sometimes.”
Mom’s wearing her jogging gear, and she looks about ten years younger than she really is. How can she be so good to Shawn? How can she be so good to all of us? My mom’s the most amazing person I know. It’s like the only rule she’s ever had for me is to pretend that everything’s fine with Shawn. And now she’s saying it’s not a rule anymore.
“I …” I hesitate. “I hate that I don’t have a brother who knows he’s my brother. I hate that Shawn doesn’t know I exist because he can’t know anything. Most of all I hate how bad I feel not to love him more.”
For a second I’m worried that what I’ve said will hurt Mom’s feelings.
But she quickly says, “I hate those feelings too, darling. I feel the same things.”
I’m shocked. “You?”
Mom says quietly, “I’m not immune to feeling sad, Paul. I feel heartbroken about your brother sometimes too. I do the best I can, but it’s hard. I feel it, Paul, and so does your father.”
My ears burn when she brings up Dad. “Come on! He left us!” I say. “He just ran away and—”
“No,” Mom interrupts. “I sent him away, Paul. I made him leave.”
No one has ever said this before. I always just assumed that Dad ran out on us. I don’t know what to say. I stare at her. Finally I mutter, “You told him to leave because he didn’t care, right? Because he hated Shawn and he didn’t care about him?”
Mom walks over to me. She puts her arm around my shoulders. “You’re so strong,” she says softly. “So strong and brave and you try so hard.”
It feels good for Mom to hug me. She says I’m strong, but she’s a thousand times stronger than me.
She says, “Your dad left when I told him to go. He couldn’t help me care for Shawn the way I needed help. That was my fault as much as his. I needed to take care of Shawn in my own way. Your dad needed me too, but I couldn’t give him what he needed; I couldn’t take care of Shawn and your father at the same time.”
I say, “You’re just making excuses for him. You’re just letting him run away from what he was supposed to do.”
Mom pauses. I look at her face and see an expression I’ve never seen before—a kind of sadness, but not just sadness; there’s something else there too—a look of acceptance. She stares into my eyes.
“Your dad didn’t abandon us. He’s done everything he can do to support us—”
I try to interrupt. “But he left!”
Mom says, “Yes, he left, Paul, because I sent him away. He didn’t have the strength to help with Shawn. Your dad couldn’t handle the heartbreak—every time he looked at your brother, he wept. He couldn’t get over it. And now, Paul, you need to face what you have to do.”
“What do you mean?”
Mom pulls me closer to her and kisses my cheek. “You have to lead your life for yourself. Don’t let your brother’s condition stop you from going after your dreams—otherwise you won’t be able to love him. What your brother needs from you, what all of us need from you, is to be everything you can in life—college, athletics, wherever your dreams lead you, you have to go!”
I ask, “But how will you manage without me? I’m the only guy left around here.”
Mom smiles and hugs me again. “I’ll manage.”
Suddenly Shawn shifts in his wheelchair. Both Mom and I, by instinct and habit, pause and look at him to make sure he’s all right. He moves again and this time makes a little moaning sound, like he’s dreaming. He’s still asleep. When I look at Mom, we both smile at how well he has us trained.
Mom says, “I need you to be strong and happy, to have the fullest life you can have, just like I needed that from your dad. I want you to be okay, I need you all to be okay, so that I can focus on taking care of Shawn—because he needs me the most. But I love you and I want you to be happy and live your own life. Do you understand?”
Of course I understand; she’s saying the thing I’ve wanted somebody to say to me my whole life. Tears come to my eyes, and my throat tightens. Instead of answering, all I can do is nod.
“Good,” Mom says. She pauses a moment. “Oh yeah, and one more thing.”
I clear my throat and manage to mutter, “What?”
Mom smiles, “For your own peace of mind, and to help you handle some of your anger, you need to make peace with your dad. You think it was easy for him to leave. It wasn’t. And it won’t be for you either. You need to talk to him.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Tim Gunther won’t be playing with us for a while. Tim-bo’s not going to be doing anything. He’s in jail.
I haven’t talked to him yet, but he called Cindy from jail and told her what happened. Cindy told me.
Tim came home from school yesterday to find his stepdad pissed off as usual, drunk as usual, and sitting on the living room couch like the giant human turd he is, as usual—no big news flashes there. The thing was, though, Tim couldn’t find his mom. He called for her, and when she didn’t answer, he walked all around through the house, getting more and more worried until he came to the bathroom door, which was locked. Tim yelled for her and his mom finally answered in a real scared-sounding voice.
She wouldn’t open the door for a long time. And Tim’s stepdad was in the background yelling at Tim, “Just leave the bitch alone.”
Finally Tim got her to open the door and come out. She had two black eyes and the front of her blouse was all bloody and she’d been crying. Tim’s stepdad had punched her when she’d refused to give him the keys to his truck.
Tim went back into the living room and beat the crap out of his stepdad.
Cindy wasn’t sure whether Tim used any kind of weapon, but when it was over, Tim was standing and his stepdad wasn’t. Some kids are already saying that Tim’s stepdad has a fractured skull. Of course, some kids also claim that the guy has twenty-three broken ribs, a pretty amazing feat considering that humans have only twenty! Whatever the truth is, the guy was hauled away in an ambulance and Tim in a cop car.
As Cindy told me this, she cried a lot. I didn’t know what to say to her, so I didn’t say much at all. I know she and Tim care about each other, but since neither of them talks to me about that, what could I say? I patted her on the back and told her everyt
hing would be okay, which, of course, is probably bull; I have no idea how everything is going to be.
The whole thing is pretty weird. It’s weird that Tim would finally unload on his butt-streak residue of a stepdad. Although everybody has limits, Tim’s about as mellow as anybody I know. It’s also weird how on that night Tim and I got drunk, Tim said he wasn’t ever getting out of here. If he can’t play in the tournament, in front of college recruiters, his chances of getting a scholarship are almost nil. So maybe he was right. Maybe I was right too; maybe neither of us is getting out. But of all the guys I know, Tim would be the last one I’d ever imagine being stuck here for something like this. I’d be the first.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
We’re done with practices for the rest of the week. No more shoot-arounds, no more scrimmages against one another. It’s down to the wire now. This coming week is the trip to Spokane and the tournament. Losing Tim is bad, but the team has done a good job not getting distracted, and everyone knows that losing him means we’ve got to ratchet our games up a notch. Nobody says something else that we all know too: that without Tim, I’m going to have to be the best I’ve ever been.
No Shoreline High School team has ever won state before. The best anybody ever did was make the semifinals, and that was like a thousand years ago. So the pressure is on. Even I feel it. Before our last game with Kennedy I had a weird kind of calmness, but now, with the tourney approaching, I feel like I’m being stuck with a hundred little needles every time I think about it.
I’m out in front of the house shooting some practice shots by myself. Nothing wants to go in. I’m shooting simple little ten-footers and six-footers and even layins. Every shot I put up rims out.
Cruise Control Page 6