Dough Boys

by Paula Chase

  Rollie loved it. Even in the cold he loved it. Pickup ball always cleared his mind. After every game he’d go home with a new beat he wanted to tap out on the drums. He didn’t know why the two were connected, but they were.

  He successfully shot a jumper, scoring three, then raced back down the court ready to steal the ball like it was his alone. Simp had the ball. His little brother, Dre, was already waiting under the basket, crouched like he would tackle whoever crossed his territory. It made Rollie smile. Dre was eleven, the youngest of the rest of them, but when he played he meant business.

  Aight, you want play with the big boys . . . let’s go, Rollie thought.

  He barreled toward him, swiveled so his back was to Dre, and boxed him out, determined to take the ball from Simp. They were tied up. If Simp scored, game was over. If Rollie got the ball back and scored, game was over.

  Dre bucked up against Rollie, unafraid. Rollie had to go up on his toes to stop from tipping forward. In that instant, Dre darted around him, swiped the ball from Simp, and was down the court before anybody could defend him.

  “Yo, your boy got the quickness,” Cappy said to Simp. His breathing was ragged.

  Simp beamed. The single platinum cap on his front tooth gleamed. “He got a little something going.”

  Rollie took the opportunity to race past them, rebound Dre’s shot, and take it in for an easy layup. He laid the ball on the ground and pronounced matter-of-factly, “Game.”

  “Man, Cappy, you messed me up. I had this game,” Simp said. But he didn’t seem upset, for real. He put his hand out to Rollie and they gripped fingers then pounded each other on the back. “Good game, son.”

  Rollie felt like putting his hand to his ear and asking for the crowd to roar. It was so good running up and down the court. The sounds of the game pushed him even harder, like basketball was its own mixtape. But he took his friends’ congratulations in stride, murmuring thanks as each of them gripped his hand.

  “I catch y’all later. I got homework,” Chris said, peeling off with only a good-bye nod. Chris was cool with Rollie but still an outsider to everybody else. Him and Dre were the only two playing that weren’t already on the Marauders team. In the beginning, everybody played him harder to see if he could take it—elbowing too much, shoving to see if he’d shove back. Once he’d proven he could give it as good as they gave it, it settled in like a normal game. But Rollie wasn’t surprised Chris wasn’t interested in another. He was most comfortable making up rhymes and song lyrics.

  If this had been ’Rauders practice with all the drills, sprints, and yelling by their coach, Rollie would have felt the same way. But he was up for another game.

  After everybody grabbed their sweatshirts, Rollie, Simp, Cappy, and Dre stood huddled mid-court talking.

  “Man, I ain’t gonna lie. Shawty had me out here ready pass out,” Cappy said. “I know you trying out for ’Rauders come April. You got the goods, son.”

  Cappy gave Dre a congratulatory pound as if he’d won. He was the Marauders second string point guard, backing up Rollie, and had a bad habit of always trying to impress Simp. It annoyed Rollie. It was like Cappy was always trying to be him.

  But Dre’s teeth shone so bright he looked like he’d swallowed a light bulb. Rollie felt bad for denying him the compliment.

  “Yeah, I want to,” Dre said, looking to his older brother for approval.

  Simp smacked him lightly in the back of the head. “He all right. I guess he ’Rauders material.”

  “Can we run another game?” Dre asked. “I was ready catch up to you and Rollie.”

  “You thought it was,” Simp said, scowling. He picked the ball up and tossed it, hard, at Dre. “Let’s go.”

  Like that, the game was back on.

  That was the thing about street ball, you ran with the pack or walked off the court. Rollie fell into the rhythm. Sweat glistened on his face and his hot head steamed in the cold air. In no time, him Simp and Dre were tied up. It was game point. He didn’t usually talk trash, but the occasion seemed to call for it.

  “Everybody that’s ready for this tail whipping, say yeah,” Rollie said, his smile teasing.

  He bounced the ball on his left, then his right, taking the time to catch his breath.

  “Oh, yeah,” a voice from the sidelines hollered. “That’s what I’m talking ’bout. The rec center closed but look at my boys out here balling like they know what’s up.”

  Rollie froze inside.

  It was their coach. Rollie knew Simp and Cappy were probably thinking the same thing—anything they were planning to do before had to be stepped up. He saw it in the eager way Simp crouched lower, hunger in his eyes like the ball was his first meal of the day; the way Cappy straightened up gulping air to keep his chest from heaving. Even Dre seemed to eye the ball more intently, his limbs twitching ready for the reach in.

  When their coach was around, “ball so hard” wasn’t a suggestion; it was a demand.

  Coach Tez was about five foot four, only two inches taller than Rollie. His arms were toned, but he wasn’t muscular at all. He had light brown eyes that always felt like they were staring into your brain. He kept his hair in a complicated style of freshly done cornrows—usually zigzags, loops, and circles. One time he’d even got the team’s name spelled out in the small, neat braids. On the outside he looked like an ordinary pretty boy, not like somebody that could command an operation of hustlers.

  But Rollie knew better. He didn’t know for sure how big Tez’s crew was (and didn’t want to know if he was being real), but they held down the Cove and another hood, Monarch’s Way. Streets claimed Tez was trying to take over Del Rio Crossings. Rollie figured if Tez wanted the Crossings, he could take it. But it was probably just a rumor to keep the two neighborhoods beefing.

  Tez wasn’t no joke, though. If he fixed you with a look and talked in a voice that never raised unless he was coaching, you listened. Rollie liked it better when he yelled. When he didn’t, some sort of punishment followed. Having him appear for a pickup game could only mean two things: one, he wanted to be entertained as they battled one another to win or, two . . . dough boy business.

  Rollie wasn’t in much of a mood for either.

  Of all the times, why had he picked that moment to trash talk? Now if he made the shot and won, Tez would be pleased. Which was fine, Rollie guessed. Lately, he wasn’t sure which he feared more—Tez praising him or scolding him. Working hard had a way of turning on you, with Tez. But Rollie went for it.

  He took a breath, pounded the ball hard on the court to get the blood running back to his fingers, then juked right as Simp reached in. He was clear to the basket. He took the jumper, certain it would go in, when Dre leaped up like he had springs in his shoes and snatched the ball out of the air.

  Rollie was still staring at the spot Dre had been when the scurrying of everybody’s feet and Tez’s exclamation of “Yooo, look at little dude!” reached his ears. Him and his crew, Rock Jensen and the ’Rauders assistant coach, Monty, exchanged dap. They all clapped it up like they were at a real game. Tez waved them to the sideline. Everybody jogged over. Rollie lagged behind a step.

  If Tez hadn’t been there, losing wouldn’t have mattered. It was just a game.

  Except when Tez shows up, he thought, shame heating his face.

  He snatched his skullie off the ground and smashed it down onto his head, wanting to disappear into it.

  They all stood around Tez as he talked about hustle and heart. He dapped Dre up three times, congratulating him for outrunning dudes who “should have been faster and stronger” than him. They all felt the dig and kept their eyes respectfully downcast.

  Rollie pretended he was learning. Pretended that he was listening and that next time Tez saw him on the court, in practice, he would do better. He tried to make his nods as solemn as Simp’s, his eyes as wide with admiration as Cappy’s, his smile as grateful as Dre’s. He was doing the motions, but he didn’t feel any of it.

&nb
sp; All he had wanted to do was play some basketball tonight. Play some ball, then go home and air drum whatever beat rolled around in his head, so that when he got to his TAG session he could play it and maybe even get Mr. B to record it, so he wouldn’t lose it.

  That’s all he wanted.

  He didn’t feel like being coached. Or schooled.

  He didn’t want any knowledge dropped about winning big and hustling hard.

  And he definitely didn’t feel like hearing Tez weave in and out of talking basketball and hustling like the two were one. Because at some point, the talk would come to that. It always did.

  But he was trapped. Everybody around him was all “yes, Coach” so he parroted it, speaking up when they did. The sounds of the court slowly died in his head. Whatever beat had been building disappeared and was replaced with the firm, preaching of their “coach.”

  The next day Tez’s words still rang in Rollie’s ears. But not for long if he could help it. The second he began beating on the drums, he could forget. And if he couldn’t forget, he could at least drown it out. Sticks up, hovering over the drums, he waited on Mr. Benson’s signal.

  Mr. B always looked homeless in his khakis and oversized sweaters. A hair pick, the real old-school kind with a fist at the end, swam in the middle of his uneven choppy bush. The clenched jet-black fingers of the pick bobbed in his sea of coarse silverish hair. And his beard couldn’t decide what color to be. Most of the week it was splotched with patches of gray, then by Monday it was black again.

  On the streets Mr. B would have been an easy mark. But inside the music room, he played drums like a beast and zoned out anytime somebody got the beat “just right.” Watching him jam to somebody’s groove made Rollie feel like drumming was air and Mr. B was breathing in every note. Watching somebody enjoy his playing filled Rollie’s chest so much he thought he would float to the ceiling. He kept his eye on his teacher, ready to set it off.

  Mr. B stood in the middle of the room, one hand up in the air, the other on the mouse of the laptop. Once the hand came down, his left finger would tap the button and the dull click of the metronome software would start.

  Keep beat with it or die, Rollie told himself, hands already sweating from gripping the drumstick.

  It wasn’t that serious, but it felt like it. In group sessions, some people hated timing drills. Anytime Mr. B yelled out “You’re a beat behind” or “You’re too far ahead,” there was always at least one person who argued the software’s click was wrong. Not Rollie. He had three beats in his head at all times, so once Mr. B set the metronome, he was ready. Every now and then the ’nome won. But most times he got a “Good job, Roland.”

  Getting that “good job” was the best part of his day sometimes. Better than sinking a three in basketball. Better than getting a good grade in science, his worst subject. Better than anything. And he didn’t care if that was corny.

  One time he had thought being in the talented and gifted program would make him seem soft. Like some band geek. Sure enough, the auditions over the summer drew every nerdy marching band drummer within twenty miles of Del Rio Bay. Part of Rollie knew he could play just as good as any of those cats. But another part of him wasn’t so sure. Then he’d made it into the program, met other dudes who felt like the instrument they played was a part of their body and Mr. B, who talked about music like it was a religion. Now Rollie wasn’t sure how he ever got through a whole day without talking nonstop about beats, kick, rim shots, and riding.

  Mr. B’s hands came down in a flash.

  Rollie waited—one, two, three—on the fourth beat he kicked into gear.

  Boom boom chickah chickahboom chick

  Boom boom chickah chickahboom chick

  His foot hit the bass drum while his right hand, crossed over his left, flicked at the cymbal making the sound he wanted. He kept time with the ’nome, letting it tell him when to flick vs. kick.

  He loved the boom of the bass drum. Even Mr. B called it the sound of the party starting. Depending on where you were, either you were gonna tap your foot or shake your butt.

  The beat rose through Rollie’s feet and into his arms as he stung the cymbal, firm enough to get the ting he wanted but not so hard that it rattled out of control. He boomed, tinged, and tatted until Mr. B’s hand shot up. Rollie breathed hard and ragged, energy coursing through his limbs.

  Mr. B beamed at him. “You’re definitely getting better. You’re not forcing it as much. That’s the secret.” He sat down on top of the only other real furniture in the room, a steel-gray desk, head nodding like Rollie’s beat still played inside it. He glanced into a folder. “Are you still playing at church?”

  Rollie gulped back his racing heart. “I play once a month on youth Sunday.” He admitted almost apologetically, “I don’t think my grandmother gonna ever let me stop doing that.”

  “So, you have school, TAG, the church band.” The folder smacked closed. Mr. B’s eyes studied him. “Anything else?”

  Rollie’s senses spun like a compass out of control. He’d spent the last four months juggling TAG and balling for the Marauders. Coach Tez was already losing patience with him coming to practices late. He didn’t need somebody else questioning his loyalty. His answer was slow and reluctant. “I play basketball. You know, for a select league squad.”

  “I could have guessed that,” Mr. B said. “You live in Pirates Cove, right? I balled there when I was your age.” He seemed amused at Rollie’s pop-eyed surprise. “I wasn’t great. But I grew up in Del Rio Crossings, so we used to come over there and ball. It wasn’t an organized team or anything. Just guys getting together to hoop and claim which hood had the baddest players.” He folded his arms and frowned. “It wasn’t as territorial between the hoods back then.”

  The turf war between the Cove and the Crossings was bad. And it wasn’t over no street ball game, either. If Mr. B was from there, he probably knew that.

  Rollie automatically looked down at the one newish-looking thing on his teacher, a pair of well-polished burgundy loafers with shiny pennies in them. Mr. B hadn’t been on the streets in a long time, probably. So maybe he didn’t know.

  As if reading his mind, Mr. B chuckled. “Surprised I’m from the Crossings?”

  “A little,” Rollie admitted. “You come off like a band geek, that’s all.”

  “I probably did back then, too. I never had the same cool as the guys that played ball.” His chin lifted in defiance. “I still knew how to play a little, though. So, which one you love more? Balling or music?”

  Rollie’s drumstick drooped and sent a gentle ting waving. He clamped the cymbal between his fingers. One thing that probably hadn’t changed since forever was how quick stuff got back to the hood. If Mr. B still had people in Del Rio Crossings, it could happen easy. He didn’t want to be real and answer “Music,” then have Coach Martinez question his loyalty to the Cove or the Marauders.

  Mr. B was at the platform beside Rollie’s drums in a few steps. “It’s okay if you like ’em both. Or if you don’t know. If you play ball half as good as you drum, then it’s probably hard to pick between two things you love.”

  Rollie took the sucker’s way out, nodding and letting his teacher believe what he wanted. The thing was, he didn’t love playing for the Marauders anymore. When it had been just basketball he did. Even when it was basketball and a couple random favors for Tez, he still liked it. But it wasn’t neither of those anymore. It had grown into a job that Rollie hadn’t applied for.

  The knowledge of his secret dealings burrowed deep into his head, hiding. He laid the drumsticks down and forced his hands to lie still on his lap. They itched to play more so he wouldn’t have to talk about Tez or balling.

  “You taught yourself how to drum. So did I, and I recognize raw talent,” Mr B. said. He tapped absently on the rim of the bass drum. “Since you’re in TAG, I’m gonna assume you love music enough to put in the work to get better. Am I right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Rollie said.


  “Good.” Mr. B pulled a folded paper out of his back pocket and held it inches from Rollie. “There’s something I want you to consider. If you decide to do it, I want to help you get ready for it. If you don’t” —he showed his palms— “no harm, no foul. So only say yes after you think about it.”

  Rollie watched the slip of paper come near him then jerk away.

  “Probably silly for me to share this and expect you to keep it a secret.” Mr. B’s smile said he knew it was pointless. “I’m going to say it anyway: keep this to yourself. The Rowdy Boys are looking for a drummer.” He chuckled. “Based on the look on your face, you’ve heard of them.”

  “They’re the only go-go band from Del Rio Bay to get a record deal,” Rollie said. He cleared the rasp of awe out of his throat. “Everybody know ’em.”

  “Yep, well, that record deal is a little on hold right now,” Mr. B said. “The drummer left the group and they’re trying to keep it quiet, hoping they find a new one before the record company washes their hands of the whole mess.”

  Rollie managed to rip his eyes away from the paper. His mouth dropped open. “You want me to audition?”

  Arms folded, Mr. B looked Rollie up and down like it was the first time he’d thought about it before confirming, “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m proposing.” He put his hand up, stopping a nonexistent interruption. “You need to understand it’s a long shot. You been drumming for what, six years?”

  “Yes, sir. Since I was seven,” Rollie said, still unbelieving. He’d seen every TRB video and not just the ones that went viral once people caught on that there was a local boy band on the come up. He’d even been the first to click through and comment on “Jam That Jelly.” He still remembered his post: Swaggy.

  B-Roam, the lead vocalist and hype man, had thumbed up the comment.

  He went back to the video all the time to see how many people had jocked the comment and liked it. It was up to five hundred. His brain could barely compute being inside one of those videos, jamming inside B-Roam’s family room or wherever they shot them. There really wasn’t any “used to” about it. He still low-key stalked their videos when they dropped. They had signed a deal a year ago. Everybody, including him, had been waiting for a single to hit the radio. Now he knew why it hadn’t.