Ball Don't Lie

by Matt De La Peña

  This kid here. He pointed at Sticky with his radio. Travis Reichard. It’s his birthday today.

  Well, what a way to bring in a new year.

  They both laughed a little and then one of them asked: So, why’d you do it, Travis?

  Sticky cringed at the sound of his real name. He didn’t look up.

  The other cop put his right thumb through his belt loop and stared down at Sticky. I don’t get it, ace. Why not just get a piñata like normal kids.

  Both cops thought that was pretty funny, too.

  The woman cop walked over and they gave her the scoop.

  It’s your birthday? Dave said while the cops were huddled together, talking.

  The lights spun around the cop car without sound. A flash of bright blue light spinning around methodically. Cars slowed as they passed, stared out at the fellas as they were led from the fence toward one of the cop cars, guided into the backseat. A motorcycle cop rolled onto the scene. He shut off his engine and flipped out his kickstand. Took off his helmet and started walking toward the other cops.

  An old homeless black woman rolled her cart by without looking. She had a black bandana covering her hair, a soiled USC sweatshirt and boots without laces. She kept her head down and hummed to herself as she passed.

  There were muffled voices coming over the cop’s radio. The tinny echo of the rattling cart. The soothing sound of the woman humming as she slowed by. Never once did she look up to see what it was all about.

  Check This Move,

  Sticky said, and Anh-thu turned around to watch. This is for when some dude gets all up on me. Sticky jab-stepped with his right foot, hesitated, and took off baseline. Cupped the ball between his right hand and forearm and spun it in cool off the glass. Just like that, Annie. These fools can’t hold me.

  Too bad nobody’s really guarding you, Anh-thu said, and she went back to reading her book.

  It was Saturday night back in mid-April, and the park Sticky’d pulled Anh-thu into was dark. She had to put her book right up to a yellow floodlight to make out the words.

  But if there was, Sticky said. That’s how I’d do em.

  On their way to some high school party on Second Street, at some guy named Cyrus’s house, Sticky spotted the baskets and veered Anh-thu onto the empty blacktop with pleading eyes. He just couldn’t resist it. Needed to fix. It was his last Saturday of community service, the court-ordered 100 hours he’d been given for the window-breaking incident, and he was hyped. No more ten-hour weekend days cleaning up graffiti. No more orange vest.

  He pulled his beat-up ball out of his backpack and ran his fingers along the grooves. Just a couple quick jumpers, he’d said. But Anh-thu knew better and rolled her eyes. Sticky ripped off his sweatshirt and dribbled over to the nearest hoop. Anh-thu sat with their stuff and pulled out the novel she was reading for English class.

  Over an hour spiraled by and here they were, still holding down the same spots.

  I’ll post this dude up, Sticky said, crab-dribbling with his back to the basket, digging a couple elbows into an imaginary defender’s chest. He spun quick and rose up off two feet. Dunked the ball with two hands and hung on the rim. Too strong, he said, and let himself drop. These fools gotta get in the weight room.

  He picked up his ball and dribbled out to the wing. This ain’t no fair, Annie. These dudes ain’t got no defense. I need someone out here who could at least put on a little defense.

  Anh-thu, without looking up from her book, told him: What happened to you taking me to that big party?

  I am, Sticky said. I just gotta finish off these fools .

  The park had four hoops, all without nets. One of the rims was bent so far it pointed right back down at the blacktop. The old-school wooden backboards were all tagged up with different-style gang markings. Sticky knew how to take care of stuff like that, though. He’d even kept some of the community service solvent thinking he might one day clean up the outside of Lincoln Rec. Figured there shouldn’t be any taggings on a dude’s home away from home.

  Anh-thu looked up at Sticky for a second. Watched him spin in a reverse layup and point at an invisible crowd. She shook her head and reached into her bag for a pack of Starburst. She unwrapped a red one and popped it in her mouth.

  You better get up on me, Sticky said to a new defender. I’ll knock em down all day. He was dribbling around at the top of the key, through his legs and close to the ground. Sizing up. Then he blasted to the basket and dunked the ball with two hands. Too slow, man .

  Sticky kept on like that, talking trash and clowning, no matter who was guarding him. Most of the time he took the ball to the bucket, but sometimes he’d pull up for a deep jumper.

  After a while, Anh-thu got tired of reading in such bad light. She closed her book and slipped it back into her bag. She watched Sticky for a bit and then lay down with her back against the blacktop, balling up Sticky’s sweatshirt and using it as a pillow. There was a slight break in the night clouds and she could see the faint light of a couple stars peeking through.

  It wasn’t long before she closed her eyes and drifted into sleep.

  Jumpers is all about rhythm, Sticky started chanting. Point your feet at the bucket. Elbow at the bucket. Middle finger in the groove, thumb between the 7 and the F, bend knees, and put it up. He spied the writing on his ball to check his fingering and lofted up a shot from the free-throw line.

  Ball went straight through.

  He retrieved his rock and marched back out to the free-throw line. Middle finger in the groove, thumb between the 7 and the F, bend knees, and put it up.

  Ball went straight through.

  Retrieved his rock and marched back out to the free-throw line. Middle finger in the groove, thumb between the 7 and the F, bend knees, and put it up.

  Ball went straight through.

  Once he started getting in a rhythm like this, he could go on for hours without missing. Like a robot.

  Cabs started to fill up along Wilshire. They crept along the curb outside Renee’s waiting to gobble up the first group of people who waved or gave a loud whistle.

  Middle finger in the groove, thumb between the 7 and the F, bend knees, and put it up.

  Ball went straight through.

  Anh-thu looked like a little girl lying on the concrete. Her fingers linked on her stomach, feet crossed. Breaths long and deep. The dull yellow glow highlighting her pretty face.

  Middle finger in the groove, thumb between the 7 and the F, bend knees, and put it up.

  Ball went straight through.

  Deep thumping from a nearby club filled the black night with bass. A black-and-white flipped on its siren, screamed past Fifth, Sixth and Seventh, and headed south down Lincoln. Another black-and-white flew after without a siren, for backup.

  Eventually Sticky stopped chanting and shot with his mouth shut. The sprinklers came on in the grass field beside the courts, making the cool air smell like rain. In the distance he could hear two women yelling at each other outside a bar.

  Sticky lofted another shot up and the ball went straight through.

  There were the faint sounds of the faraway sirens, a few honking cabs and the hollow tap of rubber on blacktop as Sticky dribbled back out to the free-throw line for another shot.

  Sticky and Anh-thu

  made six months just before school let out for summer. Sticky was already seventeen, but Anh-thu was still two months away from her sixteenth birthday.

  Sticky rolled into Midnight Liquor on Rose with his backpack strapped tight. Slipped two bottles of black-label champagne in beside his books and took a pack of Hostess Cup Cakes to the counter.

  This it? the old man said, looking Sticky up and down.

  This is it, Sticky said, looking right back at him.

  The old man bagged the Cup Cakes and dumped the change in Sticky’s palm.

  Sticky took the back way to Paradise Park, the place he and Anh-thu had agreed to meet. He was a shade early, but he didn’t mind. It was a Frid
ay night and the school year was coming to a close. The air was warm. The sky was just starting to change colors. June bugs were starting to show up, flying around all loud and clinging to everybody’s screen door.

  Earlier in the day, Sticky had pulled a letter out of the mail that informed him he’d been invited to some prestigious summer basketball camp. “Only the top players in the country will attend,” the letter read. Every college coach would be up in the stands, scribbling things down in notebooks. Kentucky. UCLA. Duke and Indiana. Sticky’s heart picked up its pace every time he thought about it. This was his chance. This was his dream. Two more weeks yawning in the back of a classroom, scanning sports page box scores, and then he could spend all-day-every-day at Lincoln Rec working on his game.

  Sticky unwrapped his cupcakes on the way, took giant bites. Left uneven tooth marks in chocolate icing. He kept a running head count of all the BMWs that cruised by. Tried to picture what model he’d hook up if he was getting paid. What color. How fast he’d drive late at night when the roads were empty. As he walked, he made sure to step over every line. Sometimes he had to take a triple jumper’s stride, sometimes he had to shorten up. But never on lines, and the whole time in his head keeping a BMW count.

  The closer Sticky got to the park, the bigger the houses got. Dark green lawns, baskets set up over garages, wind chimes. Shiny cars pulled into sloping driveways. There were kids out front chasing each other around with spurting hoses. Laughing. A dad holding his baby on his shoulders. Somebody’s mom snipping red and white roses out of a perfectly manicured flower bed, laying them side by side on a spread-out towel. Little kids racing around on tricycles and older kids playing Wiffle ball in the street. All of them watched Sticky out of the corner of their eyes as he took another bite of cupcake and stutter-stepped to avoid a line.

  In the park, he watched couples stroll by holding hands as he tossed chocolate crumbs to the pigeons waddling around at his feet. He watched the birds dart in for the grab and then back off quick. Watched them set their little dinners on the cement path and then pick pick pick.

  He had his best gear on, the blue collar shirt he swiped from the Foot Locker Outlet in Venice, a pair of ironed jeans. His newest hoop shoes. It was a weird deal to think about, having an anniversary with a girl. Six whole months. But Anh-thu made him feel happy.

  When he made it to their spot he found Anh-thu already hanging out on a bench. Her long black hair falling down her back. White tank top. Short khaki skirt and flip-flops. Always flip-flops. She was reading a book.

  He snuck up from behind and touched his hands lightly on her shoulders. Kissed her hair.

  Anh-thu turned around, smiling. She closed her book and set it down. Grabbed Sticky’s face and kissed him on the lips. I can’t believe you’re on time, she said.

  The sun was drifting below the rooftops. Dark colors trapped in clouds. A slight breeze played tree leaves quiet. Anh-thu reached down and picked up her book. She stuck it in her bag and pulled out some nicely folded blue tissue paper, handed it over. Happy anniversary, Sticks.

  Sticky ripped the paper apart and let it fall to the grass, held out a brown bead necklace. I made it myself last week, Anh-thu said.

  Sticky held the necklace up to his eyes to check it good. He wrapped it around his neck and hooked the clasp. This thing’s smooth, he said.

  Six months, she said. That’s a big deal.

  Sticky pushed his backpack over to Anh-thu, told her: Go ahead. See what’s in there.

  She unzipped the pack and reached in her hand. She grinned as she pulled out one of the bottles. Wow, Sticks, champagne. Two bottles .

  Sticky took the first bottle and tried to figure out how to open it. A half year we been together, he said. We gotta celebrate. He pushed hard on the cork and it shot off. A few of the suds ran down the neck of the bottle and onto his hand. There’s some glasses in there too . He wiped his hand on his pants.

  Anh-thu reached in and pulled out two cream-colored coffee mugs. You just thought of everything, didn’t you? she said. I bet you think you’re being pretty romantic, don’t you?

  I’m like that one cat. The one you’re always talkin about you read in English class.

  Romeo?

  Yeah, I’m like him. Sticky poured the champagne slow, first in Anh-thu’s mug and then in his own.

  I guess you’re some kind of modern-day version, Anh-thu said. How’d you get this champagne anyway?

  Sticky smelled inside his mug. He pulled back and smelled again. Pulled back and smelled again. He shrugged his shoulders. Then he smelled the mug again.

  You stole it, didn’t you? Why do I even have to ask? Anh-thu took a sip, said: Watch, someday you’re gonna get caught and then what?

  Ain’t nobody can catch me, girl.

  Oh, yeah?

  Trust me, Annie, Sticky said. I know what I’m doing.

  I just don’t want anything to happen to you, Sticky. That’s all. They looked at each other and Sticky laughed. They both put their mugs to their lips.

  As the sun slowly dipped below the neighborhood, the automatic park lights clicked on and started buzzing. They took a few minutes to come to life. At this exact moment, a strange thing happened—most of the nice middle-class couples instinctively headed back to their safe houses and cars, while packs of street zombies seemingly came out of the bushes to take their place. But that’s the way it is in a place like Paradise Park. Sunlight fades and the whole face of the park changes. One well-off couple gets up to go, two shopping cart women come out from hiding and stretch out their stiff arms and legs.

  It’s like two completely different worlds exist in L.A.: one that operates under the sun and another that slinks out under the shadows of the moon.

  Sticky tipped back and emptied his first mugful. When Anh-thu followed his lead, he picked up the bottle and poured them both full again. He shook out the last couple drops over her mug.

  Let’s play a game, Anh-thu said. She held her mug up to her face and looked closely at the chipped rim. Took a sip. Let’s play five questions. We each get to ask five questions about anything, and the other person has to tell the truth no matter what.

  Sticky shrugged his shoulders.

  You go first, Anh-thu said. No, wait, I’ll go first. She took a sip and stared at the ground. I know. What in the whole world makes you the most happy?

  What do you mean? Sticky said. Like anything?

  Yeah, what makes you feel the most happy inside?

  You do.

  You can’t say me, silly. Anh-thu reached out and pushed Sticky’s shoulder. Besides, that’s something we already know.

  Sticky ran a finger along a skinny crack on the outside of his mug. He took a sip. I know what it is, he said.

  What?

  Sometimes I get on this streak playin ball. I make like five, six straight buckets and I get this feelin inside. I’m, like, locked in or something. I feel like I could make any shot I try. Falling away from twenty-three feet, driving in on a big man, off the glass, left-handed, whatever. It’s crazy. It’s like I’m doin magic or somethin. And everybody on the sideline gets all louder every time I hit another one. And I get this feeling all through my body. My skin gets hot. Yeah, it’s like magic. Like I could just cast a spell and make anything happen. And I get all this energy in my chest when it’s like that. Cause I feel so alive.

  Sticky stopped talking and tossed a stick against a tree. He took a quick sip of his champagne. I don’t know. Sometimes I wish I could just keep on playin when I got it like that. I wish I didn’t never have to stop.

  Anh-thu stared at Sticky but didn’t say anything.

  Sticky looked at her, then quickly put his eyes on the grass. Anyways, he said, and he reached up to scratch his head.

  She took his face and made him look her in the eyes, said: I swear to God, Sticks, I know you’re gonna make it to college playing ball. You can see it in your eyes when you talk.

  We gotta break out bottle number two, Sticky said,
reaching into his pack. He pulled the bottle out and shot off the cork. He peeked into Anh-thu’s mug and it was still half full. You gotta finish this off, Annie. You drinkin like you ain’t never drank before.

  She took the mug and gunned the rest in one motion, handed it back to Sticky with a sour face. Better?

  Sticky poured both mugs full again.

  OK, now you ask me one, Anh-thu said.

  Sticky watched a homeless guy digging through the trash for cans. What makes you the most sad? he said, turning back to Anh-thu. You know, when you think about it.

  Anh-thu took a long sip with both hands on her mug. That’s easy, she said. She took one of her hands off the mug and started playing with the tips of her hair. It’s my mom. I think every time I think about her I get sort of sad. I mean, especially for my dad. He was always so nice to her and then she just leaves. She pulled her hair behind her ear and stared into her drink. She took a sip.

  Sticky picked up another stick and tossed it against a tree. He took a sip.

  But it’s weird, Anh-thu continued. Why should I even worry about something that’s completely out of my control? I mean, I was only six when she left. How could I have really even known her, right? But still, I have this picture of her in my drawer. Under my pajamas. I mean, I could just throw the thing away and try harder to forget about her. But, you know, for whatever reason I know I won’t do that.

  That ain’t right, Sticky said, touching his knee against hers.

  Anh-thu smiled at Sticky. I know one thing, though, she said. I’m gonna be such a better mom when I have kids. She brought the mug to her lips, let the cool champagne run onto her tongue and then down her throat. What about your real mom, Sticks? You still haven’t told me about her.

  Sticky shifted his weight on the bench. He reached down and picked up another stick, twirled it around in his fingers.

  That’s my second question. And remember the rules, you have to answer.

  Sticky twirled the stick faster and then switched hands. I ain’t playin this game no more, he said.

  Come on, Sticky. We’ve been together six months now, why won’t you ever talk about your mom? I mean, I’m your girlfriend. I want to know everything—