by Jeff Rud
We had reached the corner of Albion and Smith, where we had to go our separate ways. “See you at shootaround.” He smiled.
“Yeah, okay,” I mumbled.
I had completely forgotten about shoot-around, the informal session Coach held every Saturday during the season. It was a day when players showed up, shot a couple of hundred shots and then scrimmaged for two hours. It wasn’t mandatory, but Coach was always there. You just knew that if you wanted to stay in his good books, you’d better be there too.
There was just one problem. Ms. Lawson had scheduled our first weekend rehearsal for tomorrow morning. Until now, I hadn’t really thought about which one of those must-attend events I was going to miss.
chapter nine
Dad usually tried to let Mom sleep in on Saturday mornings. He and I had got into the habit of quietly eating breakfast together and then heading out of the house without disturbing her.
As usual, we didn’t say much to each other as we munched our toast, and Dad finished his coffee. He was on his way to his pickup-hoops game. Dad played a couple of times a week with the same bunch of forty-something guys. They had all played a little in high school and still acted as though they were aiming for the NBA. Most of them could barely get up and down the court twice in a row. I had spent many Saturday mornings in the gym watching Dad and his buddies. Once I was big enough to avoid being steamrolled, I joined in their games. But I had stopped playing with Dad and his friends as basketball at school got more and more serious. I couldn’t afford to get injured now. And besides, I was getting too fast for the old guys.
“Let’s go, Kyle,” Dad said as he grabbed his gym bag and water bottle.
It was now routine for Dad to drop me off at Sainsbury before he went to his pickup game. It only took a few minutes to reach the high school. “How was Coach last night?” Dad asked, already knowing the answer.
“He wasn’t happy,” I replied.
“Well, he couldn’t have been too upset with how you played,” Dad said. “I thought you guarded Eric really well. And Stillman should have got you the ball on that last play.”
I had to agree with Dad. He and I nearly always saw the game the same way— probably because he was my father. But I didn’t tell him that Coach had actually been mad at me—not Stillman—after the game. No sense getting Dad worked up about anything. Saturday was his time to relax.
“Thanks for the ride,” I said, hopping out in the Sainsbury parking lot.
“Have a good practice,” Dad said before pulling away. He was always in a good mood on Saturday mornings. It was the one day he didn’t have to worry about chasing down stories for the Bulletin. He could just play basketball. Sometimes I thought he loved basketball even more than I did.
As I walked toward the gym, I saw Ms. Lawson getting out of her silver Honda Civic. She was carrying a box full of costume accessories and small props, and she seemed in danger of dumping them all over the parking lot. I grabbed her car door and helped steady the load.
“Thank you, Kyle.” She smiled. “It’s nice to see you here so early this morning.”
I nodded. I didn’t know how to tell Ms. Lawson that I wasn’t there for rehearsal. I didn’t say anything as I walked with her into the theater, lugging the large box of hats, scarves, gloves and other bits and pieces.
Ms. Lawson went straight into the prop room behind the stage. “Kyle, have you seen these?” she called out. “They’re absolutely gorgeous!”
I stuck my head into the prop room, where the painted sets for Oliver! were lined up against the wall. They had been created on a series of colorful six-by-ten-foot backdrops. Ms. Lawson was right. They were beautiful. The kids who had worked on the sets had done a fantastic job. One backdrop depicted Fagin’s underworld hideout. Another was a perfect likeness of a pub. My favorite was the London street scene where Dodger—me—would instruct young Oliver in the fine art of pickpocketing.
“They’re awesome,” I acknowledged. “Kind of gets you pumped up for the show.”
Ms. Lawson smiled. “No kidding,” she said. “But we’ve still got some serious work to do.”
There was half an hour until the rehearsal started. “I’m just going to Starbucks to pick up a latte,” Ms. Lawson said cheerily. “Can I get you anything, Kyle?”
I shook my head. As Ms. Lawson headed back to the parking lot, I ducked back outside and made my way to the gym. Luckily, I didn’t run into anybody else from the cast.
Unfortunately, the side trip to the theater had thrown me off-schedule. Even though the Saturday shootaround was “optional,” I noticed Coach Williams glance at me and then again at his watch as I came through the gym doors. By now it was 9:05 AM, and everybody else on the team was already in the gym, chatting, bouncing balls and taking the occasional shot.
“Nice to see you, Dodger,” an unmistakable voice called from the far end of the gym. A few of the other boys snickered at Ben Stillman’s crack. “How come you’re late? Spend the night with Fag-in?”
I felt my face growing red and my ears tingling. Stillman was obviously referring to Lukas Connor. It wasn’t the first time that the idiot had made a stupid remark about Lukas being gay.
I marched toward Stillman, who was at the far free-throw line, standing with the ball on his hip. “What exactly is your problem?” I said, looking directly into his black eyes.
“Just you,” Stillman replied, an irritating smirk forming at one corner of his mouth. “I thought you were supposed to be a basketball player, not one of the funny boys of the drama department.”
Again, Stillman’s remarks drew a few snickers. I was sure Coach Williams could hear what was going on. Why didn’t he step in and stop this jerk?
“You’re a loser, Stillman,” I said, moving toward him. “And if you spent as much time worrying about your free throws as you do worrying about other people’s business, we would have won that game last night.”
“Check the score sheet,” Stillman shot back.
“My mom could score twenty-one too, if every play was run for her,” I replied. “And she wouldn’t have messed up that last play, either.”
Now it was Stillman’s face that went red. He lunged toward me, shoving his right arm into my shoulder. The force knocked me back a step, but it didn’t really hurt.
“Just like I thought, Evans,” Stillman seethed. “You’re just as soft as your little buddies in the theater.”
That was enough for me. I stepped up to Stillman and swung with my right fist. The blow wasn’t as hard as I could hit, but it was close. My fist glanced off the side of Stillman’s right ear. He covered the area with his palm, bending forward in pain.
“Evans!” Coach Williams yelled. “What the heck are you doing!” Oh great, now he steps in!
“Both you guys. In my office. Right now,” the coach barked. “The rest of you scrimmage while I straighten this out.”
Less than two minutes later, Stillman and I sat side by side in wooden chairs, facing the coach across his desk. Coach Williams cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair.
“I don’t know what this is all about...,” he began.
“It’s Evans, Coach,” Stillman replied. “He comes in late and then he just goes off on me.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. I went off on him? He should write fiction.
“Coach, he was riding me, like he always does,” I said. “I’m tired of his crap. He’s got a problem with me. But maybe he should just concentrate on his own game.”
Coach Williams looked at me carefully, then at Stillman, and then back at me. Without even looking at Ben, he said, “Stillman, get back out there. I want to talk to Evans for a few minutes.”
The door closed behind Stillman. Coach Williams sighed.
“Kyle, I have big hopes for you as a basketball player,” he said. I could almost hear the “but” coming in the next sentence before he said it.
“But I’m worried that you’re letting this drama thing get in the way of your co
ncentration, both on the court and off. This is the second time in less than two weeks that you’ve been late to practice. And now I see you punching Stillman. I’m not sure what’s gotten into you.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. What’s gotten into me? Had the coach seen anything that had gone on out there? Had he ever taken a good look at what Ben Stillman was really like? And what did the play have to do with anything? I had been late for one real practice and that happened before I had even thought about trying out for Oliver!
All I could manage out loud was, “Sorry, Coach.”
“I want you to do something—for me and for yourself,” the coach said. “I want you to go home after this practice, and use the rest of the weekend to decide whether you really want to play basketball for Sainsbury. Think about whether you can commit one hundred percent to it.”
“Okay, Coach,” I replied.
My face burned as I left his office. For the rest of the shootaround, I simply went through the motions, avoiding Stillman whenever I could and never looking the coach directly in the eye. I usually loved nothing better than shooting hoops with my friends on a Saturday morning. On this particular Saturday I no longer wanted to be there.It was just after 11:00 AM by the time I returned to the Sainsbury theater. Kids were clustered together in several small groups, running through their lines. Ms. Lawson was moving between them, making suggestions. I had been in the theater only a few seconds when she noticed me.
“Kyle, can I speak to you a minute?” she said. The usual friendly singsong tone in her voice was missing. I gulped.
“Where have you been for the last two hours?” she asked. “I know you were here earlier. But then we called your name for group reading and you were gone.”
“I had basketball shootaround,” I replied sheepishly. “It’s every Saturday. Coach expects us to be there.”
“And you can’t be two places at once. I understand, but you did tell me there wouldn’t be any conflicts,” Ms. Lawson said. The way she spoke didn’t sound like she understood at all. “I’ll talk to Coach Williams about it,” she continued with a sigh. “Maybe there’s a way we can compromise here—each get you for an hour on Saturday morning or something like that.”
I nodded. It sounded like a reasonable solution. But somehow, I didn’t think Coach Williams was going to see it that way.
chapter ten
By Monday morning, I was a little bit calmer about basketball. Mom and Dad had figured out that something was bothering me. We hashed it out over dinner on Sunday night. Neither of them gave me an instant solution to my problems. Mom told me to “try to ignore” Ben Stillman. Dad suggested I have a “heart-to-heart” with Coach Williams. But at least I had been able to talk to somebody about it.
As usual, I headed to school for Monday’s 7:30 AM practice. I wasn’t about to be late. We had an away game against Echo Valley the following Friday. I knew Coach would be even more intense during practice this week. After losing our opener, we couldn’t afford any more slippage.
As I reached the Sainsbury parking lot, I noticed a white police cruiser parked directly in front of the school’s main doors. That was weird. What were the cops doing there on a Monday morning? There was no time to check it out, though, not if I wanted to be on time for practice.
I had been stewing about this practice after my clashes with Ben Stillman and Coach Williams, but the session was routine. In fact, we spent much of the time scrimmaging. Stillman and I actually hooked up for a couple of slick passing plays between the high and low post. The entire team ran crisply through the one-hour session. I could tell Coach was pleased. “Evans, Stillman—now that’s more like it!” He smiled at us as we left the floor. Stillman and I didn’t talk or make any eye contact off the court or in the locker room after practice. That suited me just fine.
My first class was math, which made Monday mornings even more of a drag than they already were. I worked hard enough to maintain a C-plus average in math. Anything lower than a C meant no extracurricular activities. Translation: No basketball. No theater. So, although I detested math, I understood how important it was to survive it.
On my way to Mr. Riley’s room, I spotted Lukas Connor. He was standing outside the theater doors with Brad Schmidt and Ollie Jacobs. “Kyle!” Luke motioned me over, his voice high and excited. “You’re not going to believe this. It’s all ruined. Everything.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“The sets for the play,” Luke replied. “All those backdrops. Somebody trashed all of them. Check it out.”
Luke motioned toward the theater door, which was open. I stepped inside and stared at the stage, where several painted backdrops lay strewn across the wooden floor. All those scenes that the drama kids had spent hours crafting on Friday night were now lying in tatters. Whoever had done this had punched holes through the backdrops and ripped the London street scene completely in half. The pub backdrop had huge ragged scratches across it. But that wasn’t the worst of it.
Across the backdrop that represented Fagin’s hideout were huge letters in black paint. I couldn’t believe what I was reading: Fag-in’s Place.
I turned to look at Lukas. “Who would do something like this?” I said.
“Who knows?” Luke replied, shaking his head slowly. “I do know the cops were here checking it out this morning.”
That explained the police cruiser I had seen at the school on my way to practice. But what was the point of wrecking all this stuff?
“Hello, boys.” Ms. Lawson’s greeting interrupted my thoughts. I turned and glanced at her. Her usual chipper attitude was muted this morning. Instead of a wide warm smile, the edges of her mouth dipped downward. Her brow was wrinkled. She looked as though she hadn’t slept well last night.
“Pretty upsetting, isn’t it?” she said, her shoulders slumping. “I got here first thing this morning to find those scenes lying there like that. Now we’ll have to start all over again. Can I count on you boys to help over the next few mornings?”
Luke, Brad and Ollie all nodded. “I’d like to,” I pitched in, “but I’ve got practice in the mornings.” I felt guilty, like somehow I wasn’t pulling my weight or helping Ms. Lawson when she really needed it. Double-guilty, that is, since I had ducked out of Saturday morning’s rehearsal without telling her first.
“That’s okay, Kyle,” Ms. Lawson reassured me. “I know you’ve got a crazy schedule.”
Lukas and I began walking toward our first class of the day. He had a chemistry lab right beside my early-morning math block. “I just need to get a book from my locker,” he said. “Wait up.”
I stood a few feet behind Luke as he fumbled with the combination lock. The locker door sprang open, and a terrible smell filled the hallway. Inside the locker sat a plastic bag full of something—something brown. On it was taped a note which read To the Sainsbury Drama QUEEN.
I was shocked. First, the smell coming from the plastic bag was almost enough to gag us. But as bad as that was, the note was even worse.
I looked at Luke’s face. Tears were welling up in his eyes. His skin seemed even paler than usual. He was trembling. “What the hell?” he said, slamming the locker door shut. “It’s dog crap,” he said with disgust. “Somebody put dog crap in my locker. What the hell?”
“You’ve got to go to the office,” I said. “You’ve got to report this.”
I felt horrible for Lukas. I’d never really realized that people had such a problem with him. And I didn’t really understand it. What did it matter if he was different? Who was he hurting?
“First I’m going to get rid of it,” Luke said, opening his locker and reaching in for the bag.
“Better not,” I warned. “You should show it to somebody first. It’s evidence. So is the note. Just lock it all up.”
Lukas and I walked to the main office. Mrs. Marsh, the school secretary, looked up as we entered. “What are you boys doing out of class?” she asked suspiciously.
&nb
sp; “Sorry,” Luke said. “But we need to see Mr. Jensen. It’s urgent.”
As Lukas and I explained to the Sainsbury principal what had happened, Mr. Jensen’s brow furrowed above his wire-rimmed glasses.
“I’m sorry this happened to you, Lukas,” he said quietly. “The school has zero tolerance for this sort of thing. Whoever did this will be dealt with severely, I can promise you that. You did the right thing coming to me.” He sighed. “It’s been a bad morning here at Sainsbury. I know you boys are in the cast for Oliver! Did you see what happened to the sets?”
Luke and I looked at each other and nodded. After what we had discovered in his locker, we had almost forgotten about the sets. What was going on at this school, anyway?
After the principal had inspected Luke’s locker in person, he turned to us. “I am going to call the police back and tell them about this incident too,” he said. “In the meantime, you boys should get to class. Try to have a good day, if you can. I’ll take care of this mess.”
Lukas smiled weakly. “I’ll catch you later,” he said, his slender shoulders rolling forward as he walked toward the chemistry room.
“Yeah, later,” I said. “Hey, Luke, I’m sorry, man.”
I watched him open the door to the lab and walk inside. I felt better for having told him I was sorry. But why was I really apologizing?
The principal had provided me with a note explaining to Mr. Riley why I was late for math. I took my spot at the back of the classroom and pulled out my workbook. That was it as far as math went for me that morning, though. All kinds of thoughts were invading my brain.
I had been shocked to see the vandalism of Luke’s locker, but was the note on that bag really so stunning? If I was honest with myself I’d have to say no.
I knew how guys in this school, especially the jock crowd, talked and joked about kids like Lukas. I had heard all the terms—gay, homo, fairy, queer, queen, fag. I had even used them once or twice myself.