Jake’s mind flashed back to the previous basketball season, when Ruckert had almost made varsity as a sophomore and Coach had asked Jake to take him under his wing. Hadn’t Jake promised to help Ruckert any way he could?
Now it was time to make good on that promise. Jake snagged the bottle and shut the locker. Ruckert might be a punk, but if Jake could save him from going down a dangerous path, he’d do it in a heartbeat.
He was going to flush them right there in the locker room. He really was. But Kolt came in just then, so Jake tucked the bottle away in his bag. Better to take care of it at home. But when he got home, Luke and his mom were ready for dinner, and by the time dinner was over, it made more sense to flush them after everybody else had gone to bed. Just to be safe.
That night, Jake sat in his room and spread his math homework across his desk to get his mind off the bottle in his bag. He used to be so good at math, and now here he was, retaking the second semester of junior math in summer school. He used to love it, because back then, it made sense. Even algebra had been okay in seventh grade, when it was a matter of solving one equation for one variable. For 7x + 3 = 59, Jake didn’t even have to write anything down to tell you that x = 8. But then there were two variables, which meant you needed two equations to solve it, and the more things you didn’t know, the harder it was to learn any of them.
Now he didn’t even know where to start. He looked up, and there was Daphne in his favorite picture from last season, her hair a little messy from the game but her smile bright. Daphne was the only reason he’d passed math sophomore year. He could call her. She’d be here in a heartbeat, and she’d know exactly how to do every one of these problems.
But he couldn’t let her see him struggling like this. Not when she was so strong, so smart. Even after a year and a half, there were still moments when he worried she’d wake up and realize how much better she could do.
He shook it off and got back to work, solving for the first variable, and then somehow it circled back around to where his first answer couldn’t possibly be correct. Square root of a negative number, and he wasn’t looking for imaginary solutions here. He wasn’t sure what that really meant, but it struck him as a metaphor anyway. Too bad those were helpful in English, not math.
The lead on his pencil snapped, so he sharpened it and tried again. The eraser only made things worse, so he started a new page, and then another, and then another, finally filling the last sheet in his notebook and even the cardboard cover on the back, trying to find this one damn answer.
Paper. He needed more paper. He checked his desk drawers, dumped out his backpack. How could there not be any paper? He sprawled belly-down on the floor and scooped an armload of junk from under his bed: wrappers, used tissues, random socks, and, halle-freaking-lujah, a notebook.
But no. It wasn’t a notebook. The cover was blue and faded, but the writing on the front was his own: The Book of Luke and Jake.
It must have been buried there since before his injury. And even worse, he’d totally forgotten about it. He opened it and read the first page:
November 4
Hey Luke,
I saw you looking through Dad’s old stuff today. I know you saw me too, but it’s okay that you walked away. I’m not sure I wanted to talk either.
But sometimes I do, and I don’t know how to start. Sometimes I want to tell somebody how mad I am at Dad for the things he did. Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if things had been different. If he had been different. Sometimes I want to remember the good parts, partly because I need to know that there WERE good parts, since half of what’s in me came from him.
I’m not sure if that’s true, though. I think you have changed me and shaped me more than he ever will. You’re the kind of person I want to be: honest, kind, good. And I’m hoping we can shape each other. (Which reminds me, let’s work on your ball handling, especially with your left hand, okay?)
So why am I writing all this in a notebook instead of saying it to your face? Because sometimes that’s too hard. I think we both felt that today. So anytime you have something to say to me—whether it’s heavy or funny or one of your awesome science facts—you can write it in here. And I will always write back.
Deal?
Jake
Jake flipped through the notebook, lost in the good memories and jokes and things to look forward to: holidays and game days and even just letting Luke tag along for kicked-back summer days mowing the lawn and shooting hoops at Coach B’s. Had there really been a time when he saw so much good in his past, present, and future? He wouldn’t have believed it if the evidence wasn’t staring back at him in his own handwriting.
A Jake joke
Patient: Doctor, I have a real short-term memory problem.
Doctor: How long has this been going on?
Patient: How long has WHAT been going on?
Kolt was right. Jake had changed. Of course, he already knew that, but he’d thought he’d been hiding it so well.
Luke had changed over the years too, but in all the right ways and always staying true to himself: totally obsessed with science and sports and weaving them into poems that showed the truest, deepest parts of himself. He’d turned into a good little ballplayer too.
Jake flipped to Luke’s last entry.
Science Facts and Sports Stats
by Luke
Orcas stay with their families
their whole lives.
They only leave their siblings
for a few hours at a time.
Ever.
No moving out,
only moving together.
There are over sixty sets of brothers
who have played in the NBA.
Not always at the same time,
usually not on the same team.
But just to know
your brother is out there,
hustling like you,
hurting like you,
dreaming like you—
that has to feel pretty good.
I know we can’t be like orcas
(I don’t even like seafood),
but maybe we can be
like those brothers.
Maybe even when you leave for ASU,
we can still
somehow
be hustling,
hurting,
dreaming,
moving
together.
Jake felt sick. He didn’t remember reading this at all. But he must have, because there was a sketch of two orcas next to it in his signature thick black lines. Why hadn’t he written back if he’d read it? How long had Luke been waiting for an answer? He looked at the date at the top of the entry.
Since the day he had made the verbal agreement with ASU. The day he’d promised to leave Luke.
A memory came to him, of leaning on his elbows over the back of the sofa, spouting sports facts and searching for the right thing to say as his dad watched a ball game. When a scrappy, brown-haired point guard had gone for the steal, Jake had remembered something he hoped would impress his dad.
“John Stockton has the NBA steals record—3,265. Almost 600 more than the next guy. Can you believe that?”
His dad hadn’t even looked away from the screen. “Stop kicking, Jake. You break the couch, and I’ll break your nose.”
Jake hadn’t even realized he was kicking the base of the sofa. His dad wouldn’t really break his nose. He wasn’t like that. But Jake had stilled his feet anyway. Stared down at them, thinking how unbelievably stupid he was.
Another memory surfaced: standing in the viewing line at his father’s funeral, ten years old and very aware that it was past time for new church shoes. He’d just stepped on the heel to slip out of them when a man knelt down and shook his head. “Leave them on, son.
Your mother needs you to be grown up. You’re the man of the house from now on.” Jake had startled at the words, but as he looked over at Luke and his mom, he realized this stranger with the serious face was right. Now that his dad was gone, he had to be enough for both of them. He had to grow up, starting now, starting with these shoes. When he’d finally taken them off that night, his big toes bruised and small toes blistered, he’d wanted to show the man, to see his eyes light up with pride. But it was enough to cover the blisters with Band-Aids and know he could do this.
The man of the house. Jake had heard these words again through the years, always from well-meaning adults with serious faces. It was his cross to bear, and even though it had grown heavy over the years, there had been a certain pride in bearing it.
But now the words bore a different meaning. The man of the house. Destined, then, to follow in his father’s footsteps. Because isn’t that what he’d become? Hadn’t he made Luke feel all the things he’d felt himself—stupid, unseen, unwanted, less—all because he was too lost in his own troubles to reach out?
Luke passed in the hallway just then, looking down at his own shoes, and Jake felt it like a shot through the gut.
“Hey,” he called, trying to think of anything to ask about. Didn’t Luke have club team tryouts coming up? Or was that what he was coming home from?
Luke came back, but stopped when he was only half visible through the doorway. He looked unsure about being even that close. His hair fell, matted and messy, across his forehead. His jersey hung off one shoulder because he was just so small.
“Want me to help you get ready for tryouts?” Jake asked.
“It’s too late,” Luke said, and the look on his face told Jake exactly how it had gone. “Today was the last day. I didn’t make it.” He took a step toward Jake, and Jake was ready to pull his little brother into a hug. But Luke swept The Book of Luke and Jake straight off Jake’s desk and into the trash can. “It’s too late.”
As Luke shuffled off down the hall, Jake felt a tug from the prescription bottle, heard a voice telling him that Luke was right.
It was too late. He’d become like his father.
Still, something inside him fought.
Jake had never had a drop to drink.
He had never even put anything illegal between his lips.
He worked hard at absolutely everything he did.
He had lettered in three sports; had worked all summer, laying shingles and spreading tar; had fought through summer school alone because he refused to give up.
He was not his father.
But then some monster inside him whispered that pills didn’t make him like his father. They helped him be more than his father ever was. After all, he’d never gotten out of control. All the pills did was keep the edge off.
Jake googled the name of the drug on the bottle, and when it turned out to be a different generic name for the very medication he’d been taking—the one he’d been told to take by his surgeon—it felt like a sign.
But there were only thirty in the bottle, and they wouldn’t last long. Not with football season ahead. He’d have to come up with a plan. He’d have to write Luke back later. Because if he could feed this monster, maybe it would leave him alone long enough that he could get back to normal. He’d be there for his brother’s tryouts next time, and the time after that, and always, from that day forward. Luke would have everything he needed.
So Jake took the notebook from the trash and slid it back under his bed. He put the homework away for tomorrow.
As long as he had enough to get him through until he’d really recovered, this would all work out fine.
* * *
—
But the pills ran out before he was ready. After one particularly ass-kicking practice, he went looking for at least some ibuprofen in his mom’s medicine cabinet and found a bottle of Norcos left over from her dental work. They weren’t nearly as good as the oxys, but they did something. His knee still wasn’t as strong as it had been, and it still hurt after any workout whatsoever. When the Norcos were gone and Jake called the doctor to see about just one more refill on the oxys, Dr. Morris didn’t even make him come back in. All it took was a fax to green-light the refill to the pharmacy.
Jake knew you could get pills without a doctor. He promised himself he’d never buy from anyone, but once you’re looking for it, you notice the guys coming out of bathrooms with the shady expressions and their hands in their pockets a little too casually. You start to hear hints of who’s got something for sale.
It’s just that it’s so much safer knowing where the next one’s coming from.
That’s all.
No, that’s everything.
So maybe you find ways to let them know you’re interested.
After that, they find you.
“Three hours,” I tell Jake. “Those kids waited three hours for superstar Jake Foster, because you promised you’d be there.”
I came straight from the gym, where hundreds of kids in Junior Warriors T-shirts were heartbroken when their hero never showed.
“I’m sick,” he says, barely glancing away from the TV screen. “Can’t you tell?”
“Okay, well, if you’re sick, why didn’t you text me so I could let somebody know? So I could let those kids down easy instead of promising them you were on your way?”
“Why didn’t you tell them they had something much better? Superstar Daphne Sharp, who has as good a chance at a state championship but is actually passing all her classes. Who can actually afford to put gas in her car.”
I’m not taking the bait. This isn’t a pity party for the all-star. “It was your face on the posters, Jake. And those kids have been talking about your rim-wrecker dunk since last year.”
“Well, this year has been all about the knee wreckers, but I’m glad everybody’s making my injuries about them. That sounds about right. I can’t even do that dunk anymore. Tell the kids that. Tell them if they come down wrong on one rebound or have one little accident, they could ruin everything.”
I grab the trash can and start picking up fast-food wrappers and wadded-up tissues. “What is your problem, Jake? This isn’t you.”
Jake yanks an empty soda can from my hand before I can put it in the trash. “You know what, Daphne? This is me. I’ve spent my whole life trying to be the person everybody else wants me to be, and it’s exhausting. I’m done. This is who I am, and clearly it’s not good enough for you.”
“I didn’t say that.”
He looks at me, his face hard. “I’m saying it. I think maybe we should break up.”
The words take my breath away, like an elbow to the sternum. He stares at me a second longer, then turns his attention back to the TV.
I slam the trash can onto the coffee table and hit the power button on the remote. Even when the TV is off, he stares at it, his face as blank as the screen. Who the hell does he think he is, breaking up with me after I’ve spent the last six months nursing him through injuries and surgeries? After all the homework I’ve reminded him about and walked him through and, okay, even a couple of times let him copy? After all the crap I’ve put up with from my dad for dating him in the first place, after defending him for the last two years?
Stunned as I am, hurt as I am, my own words come back to me. This isn’t you.
I sit on the coffee table and grab him by the jaw, turning his face so he has to look me in the eyes, willing myself to be strong so I won’t fall apart. “I’m giving you one chance to take it back, Jake. Because you’re wrong. I know who you are.” I take a breath, drawing in memories from the feel of his skin against my fingertips.
“You’re the guy who has mowed Coach B’s lawn for the last six years and gets paid in raspberry lemonade. Who led the team in every category as a junior because he basically lived in the gym. Who let those kids liter
ally stand on your shoulders so they could dunk.”
“Yeah, I was that guy,” he admits, and there’s something about the way he says it that cracks my heart open.
“You were, and you will be again. I don’t know what’s going on with you right now, but you’re still the guy I fell in love with. The guy that’s going to make me cheer for Arizona State next year, even though I grew up Arizona all the way.”
His jaw tightens, and I know I’m onto something. I keep pushing, hoping to snap him out of whatever this is.
“Do you think a Division I program will put up with a player who skips out on commitments? Because I can tell you right now, they won’t.”
“You’re right. Congratulations, Daphne. You’re always right.” The way he spits the words at me, I know I’ve missed something.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I mean, they called this morning. Made some assistant do the dirty work. They wish me well, but my play has ‘lacked consistency’ this year, so they’ve decided to ‘go in another direction.’ ”
There’s a sudden sick feeling inside of me. I didn’t see this coming. They’re not wrong; Jake’s been inconsistent this year—on the court, at school, in life. But that just means there have been days when he’s been human mixed in with the days when he’s been brilliant.
I start to tell him this, but he cuts me off.
“It’s over, Daphne. I’m done.”
“It’s their loss,” I insist. “Can you imagine how many other schools will be lining up to sign you once they find out?”
“I mean, I’m done. We’re done. I think we should break up.”
The wave of sickness crests, and I sink to the couch. This can’t be happening. I think of my dad, try to be as strong as he was when my mom walked away, and I cover Jake’s hands with mine, knowing mine aren’t nearly big enough.
“I know you’re hurting,” I say, trying to steady the tremor in my voice, “and I don’t blame you. I know what it feels like to want to lick your wounds by yourself.”
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