Ball Don't Lie
Page 18
Sticky stares down at that third stone. He refuses to look up. He’s hearing what Dante’s saying, about people giving him back, about the stuff he does over and over, but he doesn’t want to think about it. That’s the last thing he wants to think about. The only thing he wants to think about right now is hurrying home and getting ready. Picking out some gear to wear and catching the bus. Getting the bracelet and the bear and meeting up with Anh-thu. He only wants to think about the next thing he has to do. The next hour. The next day maybe. But all this other stuff, what Dante is talking about, this is exactly the kind of thing he’s tried to put out of his mind all his life.
Dallas nods his head, staring at the three stones. He looks up at Dante, glances at Sticky and then looks down at the stones again.
Dante turns Sticky’s face back to his, digs into his chest with crazy eyes and tells him: You the nigger, too, boy.
Sticky jerks his chin out of Dante’s grasp and goes back to the third stone. He concentrates on the way it looks. How it’s small and chipped on the side facing him. How it’s caked with dirt and a couple blades of dead grass. He realizes that his phones are unplugged from his tape deck and he reaches down to connect them back up. When they don’t snap back in with the perfect pop, he goes to do it over again but stops himself short. He goes back to that third stone, stares at it. The chip on the side. The brown blades of grass. He battles the urge to pull the plug back out and snap it in right. He fights with everything he has to leave it alone. To leave it the way it is.
And we supposed to worry about rules? Dante says. What rules? The ones set up to keep us way back here?
Sticky shifts in his chair and looks up at Dante, he opens his mouth to say something but decides to keep it put away. He shifts in his chair again and then finally breaks down: he unplugs the phones and plugs them back in. He unplugs and plugs back in.
Unplugs and plugs back in.
Unplugs and plugs back in.
Unplugs and plugs back in.
Dallas sits back in his chair, watching Sticky. He folds his arms up and shakes his head.
Sticky unplugs and plugs back in.
Unplugs and plugs back in.
Unplugs and plugs back in.
Dante picks up all three stones and tosses them against the gym wall. He picks up his bag, zips it closed and fingers the edge of the zipper. I ain’t gotta do that stuff now, he says. I played ball overseas and made some money. I invested. I’m successful now. But when I was comin up, man, I’m gonna tell you right now: I did what I had to do .
When the popping sound finally sounds perfect, Sticky stops unplugging and hangs his head.
All three of them remain quiet for the next few minutes. There’s only the hum of the hundreds of cars starting and stopping on the nearby highway. Dante stares at Sticky, pulls in a few deep breaths to slow himself down. He shakes his head at all this stuff he’s just said. Maybe he shouldn’t have done it. Maybe he shouldn’t have launched into all that. It wasn’t the time or place. And he doesn’t want Sticky to rob anybody. Definitely doesn’t want that. He just wants him to see the world for what it is. For how it works. Because even though Sticky’s white and he’s black, there are obvious similarities: the passion for playing ball, the grace with the rock, the way every move on the court comes from some inherent instinct. He looks at Sticky and he knows basketball is all he has. A game. A sport. He knows there’s nobody looking out for him. Nobody talking to him about life or waiting for him to come home at night. Sticky’s completely alone. Just like he was when he was a kid. Sometimes just looking at Sticky brings back painful things about his own past. Things he thought he’d long since put away.
The stones are gone, but Sticky’s still staring at the ground where they were. Where Dante had put them. Everything he has just heard, all the words and phrases out of Dante’s mouth, all the important things he was meant to learn, rattle around in his head. But all of it messes up when he tries to come up with meaning. He knows he can’t rob anybody. He knows that’s something he wouldn’t be able to do. But he wishes he could. He wishes he could bum rush some business dude and bring the wallet back to Dante for proof. Because even though what Dante has said is not the kind of stuff he wants to think about, he knows Dante said it because he cares. And the fact that Dante cares about him is incredibly important. There may not be anything more important. There’s a low whistle in Sticky’s ear now. And it’s sore. Really sore. He can’t stop touching his fingers against the part that hurts worst. The cartilage just above the earlobe. He flips daydream channels to the way it would go down if he could do it: putting a knife to some rich dude’s neck, snatching his wallet, shoving him down to the pavement and taking off running.
It’s the truth, Dallas says, staring at the ground. He nods his head and wipes a hand down his face, It’s the truth what he’s sayin.
Dante and Sticky look at Dallas.
Dallas brings his eyes up and stares at Sticky. He scratches his head and chuckles a little to himself, says: That’s my pops, man.
Who? Sticky says.
Crazy Ray, Dallas says. From the gym. That’s my daddy.
Sticky returns Dallas’s stare but doesn’t say anything more.
Dante nods his head and looks at the side of Dallas’s face. I know it is, he says.
Wong and Rolando,
two of Sticky’s foster bros, are at the TV playing Madden. Wong is fifteen and Korean; he walks around the neighborhood all day in thick army fatigues, clutching a water gun and pretending it’s the real thing. Rolando is fourteen and black, but he looks like he’s twenty and Samoan. One of his eyes is set a little lower than the other, and there’s a two-nickel gap between his front two teeth, but nobody ever mentions these things. Both stop arguing when Sticky walks through the door.
Hey, Stick, Wong says.
Sticky gives him a what’s up with his head.
Yo, you been ballin? Rolando says.
Yup.
Wong pauses the game and walks over to the kitchen counter, grabs a letter and hands it over. This came for you today, he says. I think it’s for college.
Sticky peeps the return address: UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA TROJANS. He rips it open and reads the words: it says one of their scouts saw him play against Dominguez Hills. Says they liked his skills. Says they wanted to contact him early to let him know they’re extremely interested in recruiting him. Says if he fills out the enclosed questionnaire and sends it back, that they’ll be in touch real soon about having him as a guest at one of their home games next season. It’s signed by the head coach.
Sticky folds the letter up and shoves it back in the envelope. Coach Reynolds told him the letters might start rolling in soon. Do work in the play-offs and college coaches will track you down. He said by the time Sticky’s a senior it will be like a circus. Calls at all hours of the night. Coaches knocking on his door. Letters from prestigious alumni and offers to host him on recruiting trips. But all that was just talk. It was nothing like this. Nothing like having that first letter from a college right there in your hands.
What they said? Rolando says. They gonna give you a scholarship or what?
That’s what they want, Sticky says, and he tosses the letter in his bag like it’s no big deal. But I’m waitin to see what UCLA says. And all them Big Ten schools. The ACC.
I’d go to Duke, Rolando says. All the best basketball players go to Duke.
Yeah, Duke’s all right, Sticky says.
Hey, what happened to your face? Wong says.
Nothin, Sticky says. Just playin ball.
Rolando starts the game back up while Wong is still standing by Sticky. He maneuvers his linebacker through Wong’s offensive line and crushes his quarterback. That’s right, boy! he yells. Fifteen-yard loss.
Wong sprints back around the table and grabs his joystick, finds his quarterback lying motionless on the turf. What the hell you doin? he yells. I wasn’t ready.
You the one ain’t been playin by the ru
les, Rolando says, laughing.
I am playing by the rules, Wong says. You just mad cause I’m beating your ass three games in a row.
Rolando throws his joystick to the side and tackles Wong. They wrestle around on the dirty rug, laughing and talking trash. Knocking things over with erratic arms and legs.
Sticky cruises into the bathroom and shuts the door. When he flips the light on, roaches scurry back into corners of the room. Underneath the cracked linoleum or behind somebody’s tossed-to-the-side towel. He turns the shower on and rips off his gear. Sets everything on top of the cracked toilet seat. He steps in with a foot and when it doesn’t feel right, steps back out. He thinks about what Dante just said. Reaches in to touch the cool water with his hand and wonders if everybody knows. If everybody sees it. And if so, do they look at him like he’s some kind of freak?
I ain’t doin that no more, he says under his breath, and he steps back in the shower. And even though it feels all messed up the way he went in, he stays put. Even though just standing there feels completely wrong, totally unbalanced, he won’t let himself move. He clenches up his fists and fights the urge to do it over. Grabs for the soap and forces his head under the water. But it’s only a couple seconds before he gives in and backs everything up. He puts the soap down and steps a drenched foot back out of the shower. He drops his head as he steps in and out again, tells himself he’s gonna fix this about himself. Starting tomorrow he’s gonna practice at doing things regular. Doing things like a normal person. But for now he lets himself do what he’s gotta do. He steps a foot in the shower and then steps back out. Tomorrow he’s gonna start fresh. Change his ways. Be more normal.
He steps a foot in the shower and steps back out.
Steps in, steps out.
Steps in, steps out.
Steps in, steps out.
It’s a shade past seven when Sticky finally finishes his shower. He hops out and stands in front of the mirror toweling off. Moves his face in close to get a good look at his cut. It’s still open a little, but it’s not that bad. Definitely doesn’t need stitches like Fat Chuck said. He fingers the lumps on the back of his head. Listens to the hollow fuzz filling his sore and bright red ear.
While brushing his teeth, Sticky stares at his face as a whole. His eyes, ears, lips, cheeks, chin. His color. He looks at the way everything comes together. Anh-thu says he has a beautiful face. She says a lot of the girls think that about him. But why? he wonders. He imagines Dante looking at this face when he was talking about the stones. Telling him how nobody wants him. This face. Telling him how everybody keeps giving him back. Dropping him back off cause he’s nothing. This face. These dark eyes. These cheekbones. These lips. At some point in their life, he thinks, maybe everybody looks at their face like this. Wishes they could change one or two things. But has anybody ever experienced this situation? Feeling that none of it makes sense? Cause he’s looking closely at his face, closer than he ever has before, and he doesn’t recognize himself. He doesn’t see himself in himself. This isn’t the Sticky he’s always imagined in his head. It’s a picture of somebody else. A mask. Something off a TV show. He doesn’t know this face. It’s a complete stranger. And the whole thing freaks him out to the point that he has to look away.
He finishes brushing his teeth by staring at a big hole in the wall. Thinking of nothing. He stares at the hole he always stares at instead of looking in the mirror. An ex–foster brother made it a while back. He locked himself in the bathroom one night for almost two hours and clawed at his own skin. Ripped down the moldy shower curtain. Put a fist through the wall. The cops had to break the door down to finally get him out. It was Sticky’s first week in the house, and he didn’t ask any questions. Nobody offered up any info on their own, either. Not even a few days later, after the kid was shipped back to wherever he came from and a new kid was brought in to take his place.
Sticky walks into the hall and pulls out his bag full of gear from the closet. He always keeps his clothes stuffed in a bag now. Georgia offered him a couple shelves in one of the bedrooms, but Sticky told her he wanted to stick with the bag. Call it superstition or reverse psychology or whatever you want, but he’s always ready for the next time somebody tells him it’s time to move again.
He pulls out some boxers and socks, the fresh retro Nike Airs he swiped last week from a shoe shop in Culver City. He pulls out some baggy jeans and a wife-beater and then puts everything on in a particular order: first the drawers and the jeans, second the wife-beater, third the socks. He goes to one knee and pulls on the left Nike first, makes loose laces look perfect, and then does the same deal with the right. He grabs his bag and rolls into his brothers’ bedroom, pulls open a drawer and snatches Rolando’s favorite shirt. Light blue button-up with a collar. He sticks the shirt in his bag on top of his ball and his letter and then zips up.
Out in the living room, Wong and Rolando are still battling on the video-game football field. And little Julia has come back from class. She’s sitting on the far end of the couch reading the funny pages. Julia started out as a temporary in the house. Way back before Sticky arrived. A temporary is a kid who’s scheduled to stay in the system only a couple months or so on paper, until a mom or dad can get a handle on things financially or a group of counselors working the case give the go-ahead. But like so many other temporaries, Julia’s two months has turned into two years and now nobody mentions her real parents anymore. Including Julia. But Sticky has spotted her a couple times, writing long letters in the middle of the night on the back of old home-work assignments.
Julia spends her summer days in a science class for eighth graders, even though she’s only eleven.
What up, Jules? Sticky says, and pats the top of her shiny black hair.
When she turns around her face lights up. Sticky, she says, all long and drawn out, and slugs him in the arm.
You have fun in class today? Sticky says.
Yeah, she says. I learned how astronauts use this stuff called polymers in space that they grow food in, Julia says. It absorbs four hundred and eight times more water than dirt.
Say what? Sticky says as he cruises into the kitchen. They can grow stuff up in space?
Wong stands up and leans into his long pass downfield. Rolando speed-taps his Run button to catch up. When the receiver drops the pass, they both yell out at the same time: Ahhhhh!
Rolando shoves Wong. You can’t mess with my DB’s, man.
You just lucky, Wong says.
Julia follows Sticky into the kitchen and leans against the overflowing trash. They can grow all kinds of food up there, she says. They gotta eat somethin, you know.
Sticky opens the cupboard and reaches in for the big bag of granola. He digs his hand in and grabs a fistful. You just like Annie, he says, chomping through a mouthful and swallowing, reaching into the bag for more. She’s always learnin about stuff like that. He opens the drawer next to him and sifts through the silverware. Grabs hold of an old steak knife and flips it around in his fingers. He gives a quick peek over his shoulder and when he sees Julia’s not paying attention, he slips it into his pocket on the sly.
Julia reaches her hand in the granola and takes out a handful of her own. She crunches through a mouthful and swallows, looks up at Sticky and smiles little kid teeth.
I don’t know why, Sticky says, but I just can’t listen that good when I’m sittin in a classroom. He palms his hand on Julia’s head and shakes it around. But you and Annie got it totally different. You all actually like learnin that stuff.
When we gonna go shoot baskets? Julia says as she digs her hand in for more granola.
I can’t tonight, Jules, Sticky says. It’s Annie’s birthday .
It’s Annie’s birthday?
Yeah. I’m about to go meet her right now. Sticky puts the granola away and scoops up his bag.
I wish I could tell her happy birthday, Julia says.
Maybe she’ll swing by this weekend, Sticky says. And then you could tell her.
OK, I’ll tell her. I promise. Sticky picks up his bag. I gotta break, Jules. We’ll shoot some hoops tomorrow, all right?
Julia leans forward and hugs Sticky. She wraps her skinny arms around him and squeezes tight. Bye, Sticky, she says.
Sticky goes stiff in her arms. He’s never been good at hugs. Even with Anh-thu. The feel of somebody’s body next to his is always awkward. When she lets go he pats her on the head a couple times.
Outside, the sun is finally losing its grip on the day. It sits low in the sky like a giant orange ball, resting just above some stores on a patch of clouds. As Sticky walks down his street he stares at it, amazed at how big it seems. It’s as if you could just reach out and snatch it in your hand, start dribbling it around the block or spin it on your finger. The air’s cooled down a bit, too. The pleasant breeze smells like salt and seaweed and the exhaust of cars all mixed up.
Sticky cruises a couple blocks and sits down on his bus-stop bench next to a black lady dressed in a Ralphs uniform. He sets his bag down. She looks over at him and shakes her head, glances down at her watch and tells him: Number three bus was supposed to be here ten minutes ago.
Yeah? Sticky says.
Yeah, the lady says. This damn bus driver is ten minutes late every single day. Like clockwork. But don’t go tryin to work your schedule around him bein ten minutes late, now. Nah, you try to coordinate your schedule and that’s the one day he comes on time. Trust me.
Sticky laughs with her a little and fumbles with the zipper on his bag. He reaches past Rolando’s shirt and his ball and pulls out the letter from USC. The lady says something else, about how hot it was today or how her air-conditioning unit doesn’t pump out any cool air anymore, and Sticky nods his head at her. Two cars almost smack into each other in the nearby intersection during a yellow light. They both slam their horns and flip each other off. They drive around each other, cursing out of rolled-down windows, and then continue on their way. A group of Mexicans walks by with shovels on their shoulders, shirts soaked with sweat. Dirt-covered work boots. They laugh and say things back and forth in Spanish.