This Way Home

by Wes Moore

  Also by Wes Moore

  Discovering Wes Moore

  Also by Shawn Goodman

  Something Like Hope

  Kindness for Weakness

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2015 by Wes Moore

  Jacket photograph © 2014 by Getty Images

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  randomhouseteens.com

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Moore, Wes.

  This way home / Wes Moore with Shawn Goodman.—First edition.

  pages cm

  Summary: Elijah, seventeen, has always been sure of just one thing—basketball—and believes it will be his way out of West Baltimore, but when gang violence knocks him down, helping a veteran repair his rickety home helps Elijah see what really matters.

  ISBN 978-0-385-74169-9 (hc)—ISBN 978-0-375-99019-9 (glb)—ISBN 978-0-375-98671-0 (ebook)

  [1. Basketball—Fiction. 2. Gangs—Fiction. 3. Best friends—Fiction. 4. Friendship—Fiction. 5. Conduct of life—Fiction. 6. Veterans—Fiction. 7. African Americans—Fiction. 8. Baltimore (Md.)—Fiction.] I. Goodman, Shawn. II. Title.

  PZ7.1.M668Thi 2015

  [Fic]—dc23

  2014032608

  eBook ISBN 9780375986710

  Cover design by Ray Shappell

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Wes Moore

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Maryland Public Secondary Schools State Championship: Fourth Quarter

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Wes’s Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  ELIJAH STOOD TALL at the top of the key, thinking, watching, waiting for something to happen. The other team had played a nearly perfect game, but several players were beginning to tire and show weakness. A point guard lagged half a step behind, breathing through his mouth, sucking in air in desperate gasps. And the power forward, the one with shoulders as broad as a house, slouched like a tired kid at the end of a long day.

  “Now,” said Coach Walters in his big, final-seconds voice. “Do it now.”

  But Elijah would not be rushed. There was time, and he knew what to do. He dribbled slowly, languidly, until he made eye contact with Michael, the center, who was also one of his oldest and closest friends. Michael responded immediately, stomping his tree-trunk legs on the varnished maple planks, two hundred and fifty pounds screeching to a halt and obliterating his opponent’s momentum in a perfect, albeit somewhat violent, pick.

  Elijah’s coach paced the sidelines, booming instructions over the noise of the crowd. Something about running the number-three offense, which would put Elijah in the middle of the lane and likely draw double or even triple coverage. No, his team didn’t need number three. They needed to get the ball into the hands of Dylan, a hyperkinetic wisp of a kid who could cram three or four moves into the time it took other players, even really good players, to bring off one. Dylan, Elijah’s other best friend, who could pull the most difficult pass out of thin air with his skinny rubber-band arms and legs.

  Elijah passed the ball and made his move toward the goal.

  One step.

  Two steps.

  He turned his head in time to see Dylan pluck the ball from the air. The skinny boy brought it down and hooked it around his back, a beauty of a pass that was crisp and perfectly timed. Elijah received it midstride and felt his whole body set free, spinning and gliding around players, all rhythm and balance and movement as he made his inexorable way toward the hoop. He launched off his right foot into the air, arm outstretched. Body climbing. The ball practically glued to his palm, ready to be slammed home in an epic final play….

  Elijah’s teammates lifted him off his feet.

  “How’s it feel to be state champs?” yelled one of them.

  “Not as good as I thought it would,” said Elijah, even though he knew it was not the correct thing to say. Winning State had been his team’s goal for three years, and you were supposed to be happy when you reached your goal. Actually, you were supposed to go wild and jump on each other and say things like “I can’t believe it. This is the best day of my life.”

  You weren’t supposed to say what he’d said.

  But the noise in the gym blasted hard off the walls and the floor, leaving little chance of his words reaching anyone. Instead, the waves of his teammates’ excitement rolled over Elijah. Shouts, bear hugs, and affectionate slaps on the back. He continued to force a smile and allowed himself one last chance to scan the bleachers for the man in the photo he kept under his bed—his father, who, predictably, had not come to watch him play.

  Why would you even think he would?

  Coach Walters pulled Elijah away from the rest of the team. His expression was unreadable. “We need to talk.”

  “I know,” said Elijah. “I should have run the play you called for. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry?” Coach Walters laughed. “You did exactly the right thing. I’m proud to be your coach, even if what you’re doing out there to win isn’t coming from me.”

  Elijah started to explain, but his coach held up a hand. “We need to talk about college. Finding the right school and getting you on their radar for a scholarship.”

  “I’ve gotten a few letters,” said Elijah.

  “Well, after tonight you’re going to be
getting a lot more.” Coach Walters put a hand on Elijah’s shoulder. “Now go over there and give your mother a hug. Celebrate with your teammates. We’ll talk tomorrow; I’ve got a couple of ideas.”

  But Elijah was already formulating his own idea. He knew his father was still out there somewhere. Maybe far away, in a different state. Maybe he hadn’t even heard that his son was going to play in the state championship. But if there were a bigger tournament, something so big and famous that it would be televised nationally, like on ESPN, and Elijah’s team made it to the finals…he would come.

  FROM THE VANTAGE point of an old, splintered bench, Elijah focused his attention on the far court action, which was looking radically different from the safe, organized competition of his high school games. A meaty guy with prison tattoos carried the ball like a battering ram to the hoop. Elijah winced as the guy plowed over a kid from the opposing team and nearly knocked him out of his Jordans. The kid groaned as he wiped at his bloody knees; of course, no one called a foul.

  “Hey,” said Dylan, who was dressed in ridiculously oversized shorts and a T-shirt.

  “Hey yourself,” said Elijah, his eyes still fixed on the game. The guy with the tats had just dunked over the head of the other team’s equally beefy center.

  “Damn,” said Dylan. “Is that guy playing in Hoops?”

  “Yep,” said Elijah. “And you’re going to be guarding him.”

  “He looks like he just got out of prison,” said Dylan. “And you know what he was in for?”

  “Tell me,” said Elijah.

  “For killing the last skinny white boy who was stupid enough to guard him. Not everyone’s like you, you know.”

  “Meaning?” said Elijah.

  “Meaning I’m not six-four and carved out of steel. I don’t wanna be that dude’s next parole violation. No way.”

  Elijah laughed and held a fake microphone in front of his friend’s face. “Strong words, Dylan. Anything else you’d like to say to your fans out there before you and your teammates become the first seventeen-year-olds to win the adult division of the biggest three-on-three tournament in the state?”

  Dylan grabbed the imaginary mike and tapped it. “Is this thing on? Okay. I’m saying I just want to play ball and be a lover. You know what I mean? That’s my message to the young people of the world. That’s what I want to be known for, basketball and…”

  “Sexual potency?” offered Elijah, returning the invisible microphone to his friend.

  “Exactly. What you said.”

  Elijah threw an arm around the smaller boy’s shoulders. “If that guy does kill you, make sure to draw the foul, okay? Coach Walters says we’ve got a real chance, but every point has got to count.”

  Dylan squirmed out from under Elijah’s arm and tried, unsuccessfully, to get his bigger, stronger friend into a headlock. Eventually they settled down to resume watching the game.

  “But seriously,” said Elijah. “What do you think about these guys? In case we do end up playing them.”

  “That dude over there’s got no left,” said Dylan.

  “And that one?” Elijah pointed at the guy with the prison tattoos, who had abandoned the game in favor of shoving one of his opponents. “Your ex-con friend.”

  “Ha!” said Dylan. “He’s got a bad temper. Guys like him lose their focus when they get frustrated.”

  “Then tell me how you’re going to frustrate him in the tournament.”

  “I’m not,” said Dylan. “I’m gonna be home sick, watching you guys play on TV.” He coughed for effect. “I feel a cold coming on.”

  Elijah shook his head. “You’re going to be right here doing your thing and getting inside his head with those fast, skinny legs and crazy dribbling skills. You’re going to make him run with you, which, of course, he can’t because he’s too big and stupid and bulked up. And then all we have to do is sit back and watch him self-destruct.”

  “Whatever.” But Dylan smiled, because he understood. He got up off the bench and grabbed his ball. Then his pale, thin legs scissored expertly while he dribbled quick and low between them, the ball caroming off an invisible midpoint at exactly the right moment.

  “That’s right,” said Elijah appreciatively. “You’re like a hyperactive metronome. Be the metronome.”

  “The what?” said Dylan, not missing a beat with his dribbling.

  “Never mind.” Elijah lunged low, but Dylan carried the ball a fraction of a second longer than usual and then pivoted away. He moved with uncanny speed onto an empty court, where they began their unique interpretation of practice, which consisted of endless variations of passing drills and set plays, and three dozen suicide sprints. When they finally stopped, sweat-soaked and exhausted, the sky had changed from dusk to full-on dark; everyone else had gone home.

  Dylan pointed toward his mother’s car. “You want a ride? My moms said she’ll take us to McDonald’s for milk shakes.”

  “No, thanks,” said Elijah. “I’m going to get a run in.”

  “Why?” Dylan stuffed his ball into his duffel bag.

  “Got to get strong,” said Elijah.

  “But you’re already strong,” said Dylan. “I mean, not as strong as me, but you know…”

  Elijah nodded, holding his fist out for a bump. “Thank your mother for me.”

  Once he was alone, he shook out his legs and then leaned against the chain-link fence to stretch. His calves and quads were sore, but the good kind of sore, the kind that meant he’d worked hard and pushed himself. The kind that meant he was getting stronger. He scanned the parking lot, which was empty except for a lone figure, arms crossed over his chest as he stood next to a black Mercedes with gleaming, oversized rims. The guy wore a dark hoodie that hid his face.

  Elijah shouldered his pack and started jogging, past the overflowing trash cans and broken playground equipment. Past the padlocked bathrooms, and bicycle racks shackled with rusted, cannibalized frames, their seats and wheels and derailleurs long since stripped away and sold. He tried not to look back at the car but couldn’t help it; the figure was still there staring intently. Now nodding to him. So who the hell was he? A mysterious ballplayer with a nice car and nowhere to go? A drug dealer? Gang recruiter?

  Something worked loose from Elijah’s memory, a piece of a conversation he’d overheard in school about a new gang that was trying to out-murder the other gangs. He hadn’t paid attention at the time because he lived where the neighborhoods were still safe and good, just east of the park known as the Battlegrounds. But now he wished he could remember something useful about what he’d overheard, at least the gang’s name. What did they call themselves? Blood something. Blood Street Nation, that was it. Christ, he thought. Some name.

  Elijah returned the nod and then broke into a loose, easy stride in the direction of his home. He didn’t look back again.

  THE RUN HOME from the Battlegrounds was one of Elijah’s secret pleasures. He wouldn’t have admitted it, but the freshly painted houses and well-tended lawns made him feel inexplicably happy. He loved the big inviting porches with wicker furniture, and toys scattered everywhere: yellow plastic Wiffle bats, skateboards, and toy guns. And the trees, some of which were a hundred years old, anchored by strong, invisible roots. It was like his neighborhood had wrapped itself around its families, promising a lifetime of good things, like backyard barbecues and graduation parties.

  Elijah knew it wasn’t as perfect as it seemed; if you scratched the surface, you’d find plenty of bad things. Alcoholic parents. Money problems. Divorce. The same as anywhere else. But it still felt good to jog by and see real families: mothers pushing strollers or weeding flower gardens, fathers tossing footballs with their sons or washing their shiny new cars. He tried to extract similar scenes from his own past, but there were none; his father had left when he was two years old, and try as he might, he couldn’t remember the sound of the man’s voice or even what he looked like. As for a new car, they had enough money for rent and bills but not much
else.

  “I’d rather live in a nice neighborhood and take the bus than live someplace dangerous and have a car,” his mother always said.

  Elijah quickened his pace, focusing on his breathing, his fast-moving, elongated shadow keeping pace with the beat of his heart. He wished he could remember just one thing about his father, a favorite shirt or the kind of aftershave he’d worn. Or, better yet, the feeling of his small boy’s hand held by his father’s, which he imagined as larger, callused from work, but gentle, too. But he remembered nothing, and slowly, the bitterness found its way in and threatened to overtake him. Because his father’s absence was as real and unyielding as the pavement under his feet, and it never stopped hurting. He gained even more speed, trying desperately not to care.

  —

  ELIJAH BROKE HIS stride on Grider Street as the red-and-blue strobes of a police cruiser flashed across his T-shirt. A loose crowd gathered around a perimeter of yellow crime-scene tape: young couples with baby strollers; a cluster of old men wearing snap brim caps and feathered fedoras; teenage girls snapping pictures with fake-jewel-encrusted cell phones; and, finally, a group of women, one of whom clutched a fist of balled-up tissues to her face, her makeup running in lurid streaks.