“Yeah, fast,” Sean says.
“Mohammed,” Coach Kalland says. He motions for the other kid to get out on the court. Very long and skinny Mohammed smiles wide and jogs to the right wing. I run back over there, and Coach Kalland bounces me the ball.
I head fake Mohammed. He smiles. I give him another shake.
“I already saw that move. Don’t you got nothing else?”
Before, I didn’t, but now Hakeem “the Dream” and Lawrence Rivers have permanently moved into my feet.
I begin dribbling, turn, and back Mohammed down into the post.
“What are you doing?” Coach Kalland asks, like he’s speaking to himself.
I pivot on my left foot, ball fake. Mohammed leaps into the air. I step underneath his arm and leap up hard, jam the ball in the hoop.
The little boys on the baseline go crazy, shouting.
“Cliff!” Coach Kalland cries. “Coach Cliff!”
I stand there staring, not sure what’s happening.
Coach Kalland reaches into his pocket and pulls out a whistle. He blows it loud and everyone in the gym stops what they are doing and turns to him. “Coach Cliff, Adam Reed is coming over to you. He’s got no use for us,” he shouts.
“No! I do! I don’t have to play like Lawrence Rivers!” I say.
Coach Kalland looks at me and shakes his head. He laughs. He says, “Boy, that move wasn’t any D-III Lawrence Rivers move. That was straight-up D-I, okay?”
“Okay?” I say.
“Now go talk to Coach Cliff. Thanks for stopping by.”
Practiced skills are powerful. I learned just a little of the craft from Carli’s dad, just a little from studying Hakeem “the Dream.”
I don’t do too much in the rest of the tryout but watch other boys get schooled by Devin and a smaller point guard. I do play defense on one kid, and he can’t score on me. Coach Cliff thanks him and takes him off the court. He does not make the team.
Oh, I love being on the court even if I’m not playing. I love watching passing lanes develop. I think about how I’d defend, how I’d use that gap. Everything makes sense to me with basketball. I love the squeaking shoes and the sound of the balls being dribbled on wood.
Man, I just want to play.
But I’ve already done my job. My skills have placed me on the top AAU team in Minnesota.
“Congratulations, son,” Coach Cliff tells me. “I thought you might be ready for the bigs.”
“Welcome to the show,” says an old, heavy man who wears big rings, a University of Minnesota shirt, and a Fury baseball cap.
The only place in the world where I am welcomed is on a basketball court.
TWENTY
MORE SKILLS
Carli drives very fast down Highway 169. Maybe I didn’t notice that she is a bad driver before because I was nervous for the tryout? Now I am afraid. In Poland, I saw a fiery crash happen close, near my grandpa’s farm. This might be my first memory. Bodies being pulled out of a burning car. Carli zigs and zags through traffic on the highway. She sings. She messes with radio stations. She chatters about a girl from a town we pass who Carli hates and would like to stuff a basketball down her throat. I hold on for my dear life.
After a while she says, “You’re from Poland, right? That’s what my dad said.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Was your dad a basketball player? Was he big, too?” she asks.
“He played soccer. Goalie. Those guys are tall, I guess.”
“Was he good at soccer?” she asked.
The picture I have of him, he stands in a goal and gives the camera the finger. I don’t know if he was good. I shrug.
Carli looks over at me and makes a big show of rolling her eyes. “Dude, why don’t you talk?”
“Uh,” I say, watching the road. “I talk.”
“Not much,” she says.
“Don’t have anything to say, maybe?” I reply.
“That’s bad,” she says.
“Why?”
“People like people who talk.”
“What people?” I ask.
“Do you know any jokes? That’s what I do when I don’t have anything to say.”
The idea that Carli Anderson would find herself without words makes me laugh. “You always talk.”
“Yeah, but I never have anything to actually say! Have you noticed? I’m just making jokes, dude, because it would be pretty boring to sit around staring at the wall saying nothing all the time, like you do! I mean, aren’t you bored right now?”
I don’t tell her I’m afraid for my life because of her driving. “No. I am thinking about basketball. My mind is occupied with this task.”
“Your what? Your mind is occupied with this task?” She laughs. “See, that’s a weird thing to say. You can be funny!”
“Yeah,” I say. “Okay. I’m funny because my English isn’t good. But I’m not making a joke, so . . .”
“So who cares if you sound funny? Just say what you’re going to say and laugh if people laugh. You’re not going to get better at English by staring off into space.”
“Uh,” I say. “But I don’t want to get laughed at. Nobody should laugh.”
Carli is quiet for a moment. Then she says, “Okay. This is going to sound weird. I mean, I know you’re right. Nobody should laugh. But I also know you have no friends and you don’t even talk to your own teammates at school and you’re about to crash a new team of dudes who have played together for years, so it’s not like they’re going to want to accept you.”
“They don’t have to accept. I’ll just play.”
“Maybe you haven’t noticed, but basketball is a team game. If Khalil and Devin don’t want you to have the ball, you’re not going to get the ball, so you better learn to talk.”
“Really?”
“You’re an awesome player who belongs with them, right? Mr. Doig wouldn’t bring you in if you weren’t good enough. So say your weird things in English, dude. Learn a couple jokes, maybe? Don’t let it go like it did with Caleb and Greg at our school. They thought you were a stuck-up ass for half the season. They had no idea you were just weird.”
“Okay. Maybe,” I say.
I am processing so much information. Caleb Olson and Greg Day thought I was an ass? Then they thought I was weird?
Just then she passes another car on a curve, and I feel like we are on two wheels and I might scream like Margery when Regan hit her in the eye with a tennis ball. We make it around without flipping into the ditch.
I catch my breath. “Who is Mr. Doig?”
“The old man in the University of Minnesota turtleneck. He’s short. Has a round belly?”
“Big golden rings and a pointy nose?” I ask.
“Yup. He’s the man. He and his rich pals fund all the Fury teams. He heads the Fury board of directors. He hires the coaches and helps pick all the players. I’m sure he was at the game in Marshall with Coach Cliff.”
“I didn’t see nobody at that game.”
“Anybody!” Carli shouts at me. “Learn real English, fool!”
Carli is laughing, so I try not to be mad at her. I feel my face go red, though.
“Anyway, Mr. Doig loves to help poor kids.” She stops talking for a moment and blinks. “As long as they kick ass in basketball. That’s his version of charity.”
“Wait. Am I poor?” I ask. If he thinks I’m poor now, he doesn’t know the meaning of poor. Warsaw with my dad and no food was poor.
“I don’t mean all the kids on the Fury are poor, just lots of them. I’m not poor. Devin isn’t.”
Right then a large truck lays on its horn. It is close behind us. Carli screams, pulls into the slow traffic lane, slows way down and laughs and says holy shit and hoots, then talks a million words every second, all the way home.
I am thankful for many things. One, that Carli slowed down and we didn’t die. Two, that she has so much information, so many good things for me to think about. Three, that she drops the subject of my pr
oblem with talking.
Also, her whole SUV smells like honey. I don’t want to get out when she pulls in front of my house.
TWENTY-ONE
GREAT JOKES
Over the next days I look up many jokes on Renata’s computer, because Carli is correct. I am boring, and I make people uncomfortable everywhere I go. I am also Polish, and Polish people are known for good humor and for always talking, so what’s my problem? I will learn jokes like I learned to play in the post.
I’m not sure I get American jokes, though. On Tuesday Barry’s car door has been put back on his car, so he comes to breakfast with me and Renata. While Stan Getz plays in the background and Barry eats his ham and egg sandwich, I break out this joke: “What’s the difference between a piano and a fish?” I ask.
He scrunches up his face and blinks behind his big glasses. “What do you mean?” he asks.
“You can tune a piano, but you can’t tuna fish,” I say.
“What?” Barry asks.
“Is that a joke?” Renata asks.
Maybe it’s not a good joke, I think.
On Wednesday night, Renata and I go to Professor Mike’s house, because he has decided to try a Polish recipe. He fries pierogi. When they are made right, they are great. But these don’t smell right. He has filled them with mushroom and cabbage, and that is something that would be very fine in a pierogi, but they don’t have the same flavor of sweet cabbage pierogi my mom made on Grandpa’s farm.
The girls are happy, because they like Chinese food.
“This tastes like Panda Express at Mall of America,” Margery says.
She is right. Panda Express is not Polish.
While I chew and swallow big chunks so I don’t have to taste too much, Professor Mike says, “Adam, what was your last name in Poland?”
I look over to Renata. She flinches.
“Sobieski?” I say.
Professor Mike has not noticed Renata. He nods. “Oh, isn’t that a famous name in Poland? I feel like I know that name.”
“It’s a famous king’s name,” Renata says quietly. She is a scholar of Slavic literature and history, so she knows a lot about my country. That’s what she was doing when she found me, researching at Warsaw University.
“King?” Regan says.
I nod. “Warrior king. He rode in on horses and saved Vienna from the Ottomans,” I say.
“That. Is. Awesome,” Margery says.
“You should go back to Sobieski as your name!” Regan says.
I swallow. It’s strange to hear my old name. “My mom is Renata now,” I say. “Renata Reed.”
There is a moment of silence that is awkward. I think about Carli. I bust out this joke: “What did the ghost say to the bee?”
“What?” Renata asks. “Is this another joke?”
“Boo bee,” I say.
“What?” Margery says.
“You know, like boobies?” I point at my chest.
“Ha-ha, ha-ha-ha!” Regan cries. She loves my joke. Regan is now my favorite person next to Barry and Carli.
The next morning, Thursday, I stop Barry from talking about his bad mom, Tiffany, and how he has no money to pay for tae kwon do lessons and how he owes Bob for three months of tae kwon do already, even though Bob told him not to worry about it, he has to worry about it, and so he has to work all weekend, but has no money for gas, so how can he drive to work? This is the joke I use to ease his troubles: “What do you call a cow with no arms and no legs? Ground beef.”
“Ha-ha,” Barry says. “Good one.”
“Cows don’t have arms, Adam,” Renata says. Then she gives Barry two twenty-dollar bills. “I know you don’t want to take this, but you need gas money or you can’t earn money.”
Barry looks down at the table. “Thank you,” Barry says. “I’m sorry. But I will pay this all back, okay? I promise.”
“That’s a good joke, though, right?” I ask.
“Don’t worry about it,” Renata says to Barry.
The next morning, I will go to the Fury weekend camp at Minneapolis Academy. Coach Anderson will drive. Carli Anderson will be there, too. Although she can’t play, she will hang with her basketball friends and help to coach the 12U girls’ team.
I am prepared to tell Carli many, many jokes. I am feeling good.
TWENTY-TWO
TO THE CITY
Friday morning, a Lexus SUV pulls in front of our house. Renata follows me out the front door. The corners of her mouth are down-turned. She says, “You are getting too old, Adam.”
“No,” I say.
She stares at me like she’s expecting more.
“I’m just right,” I say. “I’m the age I am.”
She laughs a little, more than when I make my new jokes. We are almost to the Lexus. “I’ve been a good mom to you, right?” she asks.
“Uh,” I say. I stop, because Coach Anderson has gotten out of the car and I don’t want him to hear this odd conversation. “You are my mom. That’s good.”
She nods. “I wish we had gotten you that cell phone.”
I nod.
“You all ready, buddy?” Coach Anderson says.
Renata hugs me. “Kick butt, or whatever you jocks like to say.”
And then I am scared. I’ve never been away from Renata overnight, not since she finally managed to adopt me in Poland nearly five years ago. I did not let myself think about this moment before.
Coach Anderson stands behind the SUV with the back door open. “Throw your bag in here,” he says.
“I call shotgun, dude!” Carli says from up front.
“Shotgun?” I ask.
“Front seat!” she says.
Renata is forgotten.
“I like back seats,” I say, smiling big. I throw my bag in back, then climb into the door behind Carli. She twists and gives me a smile.
“I love camp,” she says. “It’s so fun.”
Coach Anderson climbs in the driver-side door. “Don’t you even think about playing, Carls. You’re here to coach. Your knee is not remotely ready.”
“Whatever. I’m just a baller,” she says.
“Baller,” I repeat.
“My gosh, I hate that word,” Coach Anderson says, but he laughs.
He pulls from the curb, and we roll past the college. Maybe Renata stayed in the cold yard and watched me leave? Maybe she waved? I don’t know.
We drive through a glowing Minnesota morning. Spring snow that fell earlier is almost gone and the ditches turn green. Carli sings terribly with the radio until Coach Anderson says, “Good lord, Carls. Please put a sock in it.”
I don’t want her to put in a sock, because I like her bad music so much.
We drive far past the exit for Chaska High School. Soon we are on a road of many lanes, filled with cars, getting closer to Minneapolis. Finally, after going so close to the airport I thought two airplanes would land on the SUV (I ducked, which made Carli laugh, because if a plane really landed on the car my ducking would not help), we take an exit. Then we turn into a neighborhood with nice big houses that overlook a river as big as the Vistula River in Warsaw. I know this must be the Mississippi. What else? It’s the biggest river in Minnesota. Actually, it’s the biggest river in all of America.
“We could live here, Dad, if you’d get a job at one of the Twin Cities colleges,” Carli says.
“No way. I’m happy where I am,” Coach Anderson says.
“Blah. Northrup,” Carli says. “I want the city, man!”
TWENTY-THREE
YOUNG BLOODY BOY
Two minutes later, we are in the parking lot of a very fancy school. Buildings are made of blond bricks and glass or red bricks with ivy growing up the sides. It reminds me of an old place in my memory, the center I lived in in Warsaw with the nuns after my dad dumped me off. I have a hard time leaving my seat.
Carli Anderson puts on her backpack, and slides from the front. “You coming?” she asks.
I sit.
Coach Anderso
n leans back in the SUV. “Ready, buddy?” he asks.
“Adam?” Carli says.
“Yeah. Okay.” I open the door and climb from the SUV. I gather my bag from the back seat and pull it over my shoulder.
Carli leans on the SUV. “They’re a bunch of ballers, just like me and you,” she says quietly. “Don’t worry.”
But I’m not worried about basketball. Basketball is a dream come true. The rest of life is the nightmare.
Carli smiles big. “Time for me to go be a girl,” she says. She turns and walks slowly away, stiff on her leg.
“You coach. You don’t play,” Coach Anderson shouts after her.
I am sad the boys and girls aren’t together.
Coach Anderson heads toward another building. I follow him to the redbrick boys’ dormitory.
In the lobby area, two ladies sit behind a folding table. They have a stack of folders piled up and a paper with a list of names in front of them.
“This is Adam Reed,” Coach Anderson says, before I have a chance to say my name.
“Yes, Reed,” I say.
“What team?” one woman asks, looking down her list.
“17U,” I say.
“You’ll be on the third floor,” the other woman says, a nice smile spreading across her face. “Do you have your permissions and your Conduct Contract?”
I unzip my bag and pull out the permission slips Renata signed and also a long contract that lists all kinds of bad behavior on it that I promise not to do. I can’t take drugs or smoke cigarettes or drink liquor or beer or get arrested by the police. I don’t want to do any of those things, so I am okay. I hand the papers to her.
Then the first woman says, “Oh no.”
“Oh no?” Coach Anderson asks.
“Adam’s on floor one. You’re with a 14U boy for some reason,” she says.
“Wonder why?” Coach asks.
“Don’t much matter. You’ll be with your team plenty, Mr. Reed.”
They give me a towel (I brought my own), sheet, and pillow (I have my own), a folder with a map, rules, offensive diagrams, and a schedule. They give me a little envelope with the key to my room.
Coach Anderson then says bye to me. I go to find the room and my fourteen-or-under roommate. His name is Jesse, the lady at the desk tells me.
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