by Randy Ribay
“Do you really think he’d be comfortable?” she asks.
“More comfortable than he’d be sleeping in his car,” I say.
“Nasir, Wallace is . . .” My dad searches for the right word as he picks up the cutting board and uses his knife to scrape sliced pieces of raw chicken into the frying pan. The oil sizzles and starts popping again. “He’s independent. I’m sure he doesn’t want to be under someone else’s roof, following their rules.”
I don’t say anything, because I know he’s right. Wallace told me as much himself. Still, I know it’s not as simple as Wallace finding a job and getting a place, so I hate feeling like there’s nothing I can do but watch his life fall apart. I feel like I’m in one of those movies where I can see the future coming from miles away but I can’t do a damn thing about it.
“I’m glad you want to help,” my mom says. “You have a good heart. Your dad and I will take a look at our budget. Maybe we can find enough to help them put a deposit on a place.”
But I know from experience her maybe is basically a no, and my heart feels a long way from good. Anger courses through me. Anger at Wallace’s landlord. Anger at his shitty parents. Anger at my own parents, my own small house. Anger at Bunny, St. Sebastian’s, and the unfairness of this world that tells us to help each other but thrives on us not helping each other.
“Whatever,” I say, and turn away. I start setting the table, slamming the plates and silverware down hard enough to express my frustration but not hard enough to get yelled at.
“I’m all for helping others,” my dad says a couple minutes later, adding some spices to the chicken, “but people also have to help themselves to a certain extent. Wallace’s grandma isn’t in any state to be holding down a job, but Wallace sure is. So why isn’t he working?”
“He goes to school,” I say.
“And what’s to stop him from getting something part-time? He’s over eighteen. He should be contributing instead of living off her Social Security checks. The woman took him in and raised him like her own. Least he could do is help out with rent. When I was his age, I’d catch the bus after my last class and put in five or six hours bagging groceries a few nights a week.”
“I don’t have a job,” I point out.
“Your job is to be a student. Me and your mom work hard to make sure that’s all you have to worry about right now, and you’re doing good at it.”
“It’s not fair for Wallace.”
“No, it’s not. But that’s the hand he was dealt.” He takes a sip from his beer and shakes the pan.
“So then shouldn’t we do more for people in situations like that?”
My dad takes a deep breath. “Sometimes you think you’re helping someone when you’re doing the exact opposite. Sometimes the best thing to do is let them figure it out on their own. Now, dinner will be ready in a few minutes. Go wash up.”
“So Wallace can’t stay with us?” I ask, just to make him say it aloud.
“No,” he says.
My mom stares at me like she wants to say something, but she doesn’t. I turn and head upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. Instead of washing my hands, I sit on the floor in my room with the lights off like a little kid.
9
Bunny
After practice on Thursday, Coach Baum makes us stay for film. We’re in the classroom off the gym, the one where he teaches his health class. The lights are off, and the St. Mary’s vs. Bishop Jackson game from last night is projected onto the whiteboard, the sound muted. Bishop won, 47–46 in OT, so we’ve got them tomorrow.
During the season, we beat them 68–36. They’ve got a decent squad of shooters but no height. Eric is taller than most of their guys, and he’s our point guard. Based on what we’re seeing in the film, their players didn’t magically grow a foot taller, so me and Drew shouldn’t have any problems in the paint.
Coach stands up there narrating and analyzing both teams’ plays. Every now and then, he pauses it, steps in front of the projector so the images are over top of him, and draws X’s and O’s and lines on the board to illustrate some point. To my left, Drew’s passed out, but with his face propped in his hand, so it’s not as obvious. To my right, Eric’s eyes are on his phone, which he’s holding under the desk.
I’m sitting up straight and paying attention. Just because you crushed a team once doesn’t mean they’re going to roll over the next time you see them. Never underestimate anybody. They come back hungrier each time, since they’ve got nothing to lose.
Coach gradually notices the team’s attention drifting, so he stops talking. “Hey!” he shouts, and slaps the board, making everyone jump. But it works. Everyone sits up and puts their eyes on Coach. “Why is Bunny the only one paying attention?”
Now everyone’s eyes shift to me. I look down at my hands and sink low in my seat.
“Eric,” Coach says.
“Yes, sir?”
“Answer my question.”
“What question?”
Coach takes a deep breath. “Why. Is. Bunny. The only one. Paying attention.”
“Oh,” Eric says, glancing at me one more time. “I don’t know. Maybe he got more sleep than the rest of us last night?”
Coach glares at the team with a look of disgust on his face, daring someone to laugh. I can sense a few of the guys holding it in. After a few seconds that feel like forever, he shakes his head and says, “Incorrect. Bunny is the only one paying attention because he wants to win. So maybe you should pay attention and learn from him so we can put another banner up on that wall.”
With that, Coach continues with dissecting the game tape. Everyone seems to be paying attention now, but I feel like all their eyes are on me still. My mind’s floating away as I imagine what they must be thinking. Every time Coach calls me out like that—and he does it a lot—it makes me feel more out of place here, more different than I already do.
And since I’m only a sophomore, I’m in the calm before the storm. Not being arrogant, but recruiters already have their eyes on me—lots of people made that clear at every AAU game I played last summer. As soon as they can, schools will be talking to me left and right. I know that’ll make some of the guys resent me even more.
10
Nasir
It’s a strange sight: Wallace in the library. After school. On a Friday.
As for me, I’d rather be at Word Up, but that’s not really an option these days.
I mark my page. “You lost?”
Wallace gazes around like he might be and then takes the seat across the table from me smelling for all the world like he just smoked up. Great, he and his grandma are about to get evicted, and this is how he deals with it.
The only other students in here are a group of nerdy kids sitting at a table in the far corner playing some game that involves rolling a lot of weird-shaped dice over and over again.
“That’s some big-ass book you’re reading, cuz,” Wallace says. He pushes the book up so he can read the cover. “Landlord–Tenant Laws.” He raises an eyebrow.
“I know you said you didn’t even want to stay in that apartment, but here.” I turn the book so he can see, and point to the second paragraph. “Read this. The book’s a few years old, but most of these probably still apply.”
He pushes it away. “Man, I’m not trying to read outside of class.”
I spin it back around and start reading the passage aloud. I stop a couple sentences in because Wallace is doing that thing where he lets his eyelids droop and head bob forward like he’s falling asleep.
“Wallace.”
He fake jolts awake. “Did I nod off? Sorry about that, man. I’m real tired, and that was boring as fuck.”
The librarian shushes us as if there were anyone in here actually studying.
Sorry, I mouth to her, and then start to pack up my stuff. To Wallace I say, “I’m only trying to help.”
He leans way back in his chair, balancing himself by propping his foot against one of th
e table legs. “I told you, I’m cool, cuz. You don’t have to worry about me, all right?”
“Do you have any money saved up?”
He chuckles.
“Maybe you should look for a job,” I say.
“Nah, I was planning on dropping by Bunny’s game. You down? It’s an early one.”
I zip up my bag. “Not even a little. Why do you want to go?”
“I got some action on Bishop, so I wouldn’t mind seeing how it turns out.”
“You bet against Bunny?”
He nods.
“With who?”
He lets his chair drop back to the floor with a loud thud. “Some white kids from St. S.”
“How do you know anyone over at St. S?” I ask.
“Man, you know I know everyone all over everywhere.”
“How much?” I ask.
“A hundred,” Wallace answers.
“You bet a hundred dollars against Bunny? I’m no fan of his right now, but that’s a dumb-ass bet.” I stand up, return the book to its shelf, and then head for the exit. I stop at the door. “Where’d you get that much money from?”
He shrugs.
“You don’t have it, do you?”
He grins, pushes the crossbar on the door a little too hard, and I follow him out into the quiet hallway, which is littered with those black plastic bags from the corner store, crumpled-up worksheets, and candy wrappers.
“What happens when St. S wins?” I ask. “Because you know they’re going to. You’re going to lose that bet and won’t have the money to pay up.”
“What are their preppy asses going to do about it? Come to the city and shake me down?” He laughs. “But they gave me real nice odds, so if St. S loses and I win that bet, I’m going to have to carry my money in some of those sacks with the dollar signs on them.”
Wallace is always trying to get me to wager on things like if he can throw a piece of trash into the garbage can from the other side of the room. I’ll take him up on some of those small bets, but I’ve never been into it beyond that. He may not try in school, but he has a good handle on numbers. After a Sixers game or something, he won’t read the article about it, but he’ll study the stats for a while. Then he’s got some connections with people who give him odds and take his bets when he has the cash to make any.
“Anyway, you can check the score online. Why would you need me to go to the game with you?”
“So I can collect my winnings. And if St. Sebastian’s loses, I can take some video of your boy crying. Put that shit up on WorldStar.”
“He’s not my boy.”
“Fine. If you don’t want to hit up the game with me, then want to see this movie after?”
“What movie?”
“I forget what it’s called. That scary one.”
“No way.”
“Why not?” he asks. “You afraid?”
“Nah, it’s a waste of money. Those horror movies are always terrible.”
“So?” he says. “What else you have going on tonight?”
“I’ve got plans.”
“What? Are you going to make a bubble bath and light some candles, read that boring-ass book aloud to your balls?”
I shake my head. “All out of candles.”
Wallace starts rapping some lines from some track I don’t recognize and acting like he’s running a football. Every now and then, he pretends I’m the defense and pulls a spin move around me. I keep on walking.
We eventually make our way outside, where it’s cold as hell. I zip up my coat, slip on my gloves and hat, and turtle my head as much as possible. Wallace does none of this, like he doesn’t feel the cold at all, but he does stop acting like he’s running for the end zone as we walk down the stone steps away from Whitman.
“Real rap, man,” he says, his voice more serious than before, “this ain’t right.”
“True,” I say. “It’s almost March. Shouldn’t be below freezing anymore.”
“Nah, not that.” He spits. “I’m talking about Bunny transferring and shit. He should be here. The odds should be in our favor. Not theirs.”
We reach the bottom of the steps and turn right along Park Street. “Yeah, I feel you. But it is what it is. There’s nothing to do about it.”
He thinks for a moment. “You think so, huh?”
I laugh, but Wallace doesn’t. Instead, he digs his hands into his pockets, lowers his head, and gets real quiet like he does on those days after he comes back from visiting his dad at County. I feel like I should say something, continue the conversation a bit so can he can work through what’s eating him and return to his clowning self. But I don’t want to talk about Bunny, and I don’t know how to tell him my parents aren’t willing to let him stay with us. So I let the silence build until it’s like a third person walking between us.
We don’t say a word the rest of the way to Nisha, who’s parked pretty far down the street. She’s an old beat-up Buick Electra, the kind of ride you’d expect someone with a wide collar and bell-bottoms to be driving. He slides in behind the wheel, but when I go to pull the door handle, it’s locked. I knock on the glass with my gloved hand, and from within, Wallace mouths, What?
“It’s locked,” I say.
What? he mouths again. Then he cups his ear, shaking his head and gesturing like he can’t hear me.
I wait for the joke to end. A few cars pass. A muscular dude puffing on a cigarette as he walks a Chihuahua on the opposite side of the street glances at me. A flock of birds flies across the sky, making me think about how they should’ve stayed in the south a little bit longer.
Finally, Wallace leans over and rolls down the passenger-side window—and like I said, it’s an old car, so he actually has to turn some crank. “Oh, you want a ride home?” he asks.
I try the door again, but it’s still locked. I reach through the open window to unlock it myself, but he slaps my hand away and holds out his palm. “Two dollars.”
“Ha. Ha.”
But he doesn’t put his hand down.
He’s running this joke a little past funny, but I play along if only to see him slide back to his regular self. I dig a couple of singles out of my wallet and slap them into his palm. He grins, unlocks the door, and pushes it open. I throw some broken Chewbacca action figure he has on the front seat for some reason into the back along with my bookbag and take a seat on the ice-cold, cracked upholstery. I wait for him to laugh and hand the money back, but he starts the engine, turns up the radio, and pulls away from the curb.
“I’ll go see that movie with you tonight if you promise to start looking for a job this weekend,” I say after we’ve driven a couple of blocks.
“Deal,” he says.
I don’t call him out on the two bucks, because I’m thinking about how he might be living in Nisha come next month.
11
Bunny
As everyone expected, we crush Bishop Jackson. 60–41, to be exact. We were ahead by thirty going into the fourth, so Coach Baum sat me for most of it to rest up for the sectional semifinals on Sunday.
After the game, Drew tries to convince me to go with him and the rest of the team to some senior’s house party, but that’s not my scene, and I don’t really hang with anyone from St. S like that. Instead, me and Keyona head to the movies.
It’s Friday night, so the place is packed with kids from the city and the suburbs. We all stay separate, divided by the color of our skin like the civil rights movement never happened. I wonder if I’m the only person who thinks that’s messed up. Never used to. But when you’re suddenly one of six Black kids in a school of about a thousand, you start to feel some type of way about these things.
But what can you do?
I recount the money Jess gave me to take Keyona out and do the math. After the tickets, I’m pretty sure I’ve got enough to buy her some popcorn and a soda, but I’m still kind of nervous. Sometimes things cost more than you think.
I shuffle forward with the line and then glan
ce toward the restrooms. Keyona’s standing in a line that goes out the door. She notices me looking and flashes her smile, showing that small gap between her two front teeth that I love. I start thinking about this and everything else about her, and I start cheesing. I’m not even the type of dude who smiles like that for no reason.
But a moment later, her line moves forward. She winks and then disappears through the door. My smile fades.
“Sir, can I help you?” the kid behind the register asks.
“Huh?” I say, noticing that I’m at the front of my own line. “Oh, sorry.”
I tell him what I want and eye the total, sweating that I’ll have to tell him I changed my mind about something. But I have enough to cover it.
While I’m waiting for the food, some tall white kid comes over. “Hey, you’re Bunny Thompson, right?”
I nod, keeping my eyes on the menu board.
“Awesome,” he says. “Man, I wish I had my copy of ESPN magazine for you to sign.”
I scratch the back of my head, not knowing what to say. He’s talking about the issue that came out last April, which ranked the top fifty high school basketball players in the country. For some reason, they put me at forty-eight. Not that impressive of a spot, but since I was only a freshman at the time, people started paying real close attention to me after that.
He starts patting down his pockets. A moment later he pulls out a pen and his ticket stub, and holds them out to me. “Mind signing this?”
I feel other people start to turn and look, probably wondering if I’m someone legit famous. My face warms up. I shift my weight to the other foot. “Sure,” I say. I know it’s dumb, but if I said no, I’d look like a jerk. I quickly scribble my fifth-grader-looking signature and make a mental note to practice it later so it looks more professional.