Basketball (or Something Like It) (7 page)

No, he didn’t want to get paid. It was like a hobby. He liked being part of the community.

Everyone had a good feeling. The kids liked him right away.

And in a stroke of fortune or misfortune, depending on your point of view, Sam Bernegger’s dad said he could get all the boys leather basketball jackets from a friend of his, wholesale. Jackets with their names on the back. They needed a boost; after all, there was still more than three-quarters of the season to go. What’s eighty-five dollars?

A bargain.

H
ank loved being on the travel team. There was something about everybody being on the same side, wanting the same thing, and fighting the same enemy; something that never happened in school or anywhere else. So in spite of having gone through three coaches already (if you include the two dads who took over for a short time), in spite of the fact that they were zero and five, and that they were nothing but a huge embarrassment to the North Bridge basketball board, Hank loved being on the team.

He wore his team jacket to school. Proudly.

“Hey, Adler, why don’t your jackets just say
loser
on the back.”

Hank put his lunch tray on the table. There were
five crucial minutes or so when the seventh-graders were passing through from recess and sixth-grade lunch began. Hank wished he had taken a minute or so longer at the counter.

Hank turned around, even though he knew better. Even though he knew the owner of that voice was Alex Lyons; Alex, who had been picking on Hank since the beginning of this year, since sixth-graders started riding the middle-school bus. There was no real explanation for it. There had never been an original fight or disagreement. Never once had Hank said anything or done anything to make Alex Lyons decide to pick on him and nobody else.

It was just one of those things. One of those being in the wrong place at the wrong time kind of things.

Hank’s mother never understood. The same way his parents never understood why Hank wasn’t always a starter on the basketball team. They were certain it was all political. Another conspiracy.

“Well, it must have been something,” his mother said. “Can’t you talk to this Alex boy? What’s his last name? I’ll call his mother. I’ll call the bus driver.”

That was the first and
last
time Hank told his mother about Alex Lyons. And some days were better than others. Some days Alex wasn’t in the mood and didn’t say anything when Hank got on the bus or saw
him in school. And some days were like today.

“Your team sucks it up big-time. The rec team is better. And I hear you haven’t made a shot the whole season,” Alex said.

“You got the fancy jacket and all your ass is doing is collecting splinters.”

That was Alex’s friend, Carter Bunnell.

“Why don’t you sell the jacket and take some shooting lessons?” Alex laughed. “Not that it would help. Lo-ser.” He made an L shape and held it up to his forehead.

Hank still had not said anything.

Alex Lyons wasn’t that big. But Carter Bunnell was huge. Huge and majorly ugly. Everyone knew Carter had beat up an eighth-grader at the beginning of this year for picking up his backpack by mistake. Both Carter and Alex played on the seventh-grade travel basketball team.

Carter already had lots of hair under his arms, and Alex was developing acne.

“Why don’t you see if the girl’s team has an opening,” Carter said, walking past.

“Yeah, keeping the score book,” Alex said, and as he walked past he shoved Hank with his shoulder. It was the first time he had actually touched Hank. Hard.

Hank reeled around and pushed Alex in the back.
It happened so fast. The strength of his own reaction surprised Hank. It was an instinct he didn’t know he had.

“Go to hell,” Hank added in, because at this point, why the hell not?

By now more than a few kids in the cafeteria had noticed and started forming a kind of spontaneous circle. For the briefest second Hank was reminded of a picture in his social studies book: cavemen moving in for the big kill, surrounding one poor defenseless buffalo.

“You little turd,” Alex said, and spun back around. Carter immediately stepped up beside him.

So this is it.

This is a fight. Hank’s heart started beating wildly. He was caught between pure fear and an incredible anger that was rising inside of him, as if it had been waiting there every bus ride of every morning all year. Hank felt his mouth go dry instantly. His fingers were tingling and his knees felt like rubber, like after running the mile in gym class. Apparently fear had some side effects.

He could only hope that his anger would give him superhuman powers (he was going to need them), like in that movie from health class that showed how the fight-or-flight part of your brain sends out a message to release lots of adrenaline.

Hank was hoping lots of adrenaline makes you
really,
really strong.

Or that the cafeteria lady (hurry up, please) would come rushing over and break it up.

But instead, something more remarkable happened.

“Leave him alone, asshole.”

It was Jeremy Binder.

A
nabel saw the whole thing. She was sitting with Brigit and Erin, her two best friends. She watched until that new boy, Jeremy, suddenly jumped up and rushed all the way over from the other side of the cafeteria to where Hank Adler was standing. Normally somebody rushing, even somebody running, wouldn’t seem so unusual, but there was something so deliberate about Jeremy’s motion. Anabel thought she could sense a change in the actual atmosphere in the room. And even though she really had never seen it before, Anabel knew something very aggressively boylike was about to happen.

“What’s going on?” Erin said. She was just about to take everything out of her lunch bag.

“Looks like a fight,” Brigit said. “That new boy
just ran over there like he was going to hit somebody.”

“Jeremy Binder,” Anabel said.

“You know him?” Brigit asked.

“He’s on my brother’s basketball team.”

“He’s cute,” Erin said.

“Yeah, and he’s going to be killed,” Brigit added. “That’s Carter and Alex over there. It’s going to be terrible.” She stood up. “Let’s go watch.”

Erin and Anabel didn’t hesitate.

It’s just that there were not many good fights in North Bridge. Not any at all, really. Just the occasional shoving, pushing, name-calling, send everyone to the principal’s office. Last year a kid got in trouble for stealing another kid’s Palm Pilot from the gym lockers. And of course there was a rumor that Carter Bunnell beat up an eighth-grader who had cut in front of him in the lunch line. But Anabel had never talked to anyone who had really
seen
that themselves. Or even knew who the eighth-grader was. Only half the kids believed it happened at all. The other half had a completely different story about a backpack or something like that.

Not that she didn’t think it was possible. Boys do all sorts of weird stuff. Having an older brother at home gave Anabel special insight. Hitting, farting, grabbing, running, burping, kicking, tripping,
cursing, all seemed to be male favorites. Reciting lines from stupid movies was right up there.

But fighting ranked high.

By the time Anabel, Erin, and Brigit made their way into the circle, the fight was over. You could tell nothing had happened. It was a standoff, a name-calling flop fight. At least, that’s what all the kids were saying as they began to wander away.

“Everybody go back and sit down,” Mrs. Ossie, the cafeteria lady said. She had one hand on Carter’s shoulder.

But Anabel saw something else. She saw Jeremy standing next to Hank, right next to him, for no other reason than they were on the same team. Jeremy probably didn’t even know Carter. Or Alex. He probably had no reason in the world to get into a fight with either of them (although something told Anabel that if there
had
been a fight, Jeremy would have won it).

But there he was. No questions asked. Jeremy had come from all the way on the other side of the cafeteria to take Hank’s side. To be
on
his side.

Hank knew it, too. You could see it in the way he was standing.

And when she recognized it, Anabel was suddenly envious.

J
eremy’s back was starting to hurt from sitting slouched down in the chair outside the assistant principal’s office for so long. He was about to sit up, straightening out his back for a little relief, but he looked over at Hank. Hank had his legs out, his hands in his jean pockets, and his butt at the very end of the upholstered chair, too, so Jeremy decided to stay down. He could ignore the aching in his back. It wasn’t worth looking eager or too concerned.

Mr. Bernardino’s door could open any minute.

One of those boys, Alex or Carter, had already been in there and was gone. The other one, Jeremy didn’t know which was which, was still in there. Jeremy had heard the assistant principal call their names, like he knew them already. Pretty well.

Alex and Carter. No tough guys are named Alex and Carter.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

He turned to the sound of Hank’s voice. “Do what?” Jeremy asked.

“I mean, you didn’t have to get in trouble. For me,” Hank explained.

Jeremy didn’t say anything. His back hurt too
much, and Jeremy shifted his legs in and sat up.

Hank immediately did the same. “But thanks,” he said.

They were quiet again for a long while, still waiting, staring straight ahead. They could hear a deep, muffled voice on the other side of the wooden door. Obviously Mr. Bernardino was doing all the talking. It’s always that way. Jeremy wasn’t planning on saying anything when it was his turn. Nothing at all.

“We have two games this weekend.”

“Huh?”

“Saturday and Sunday. We have two games,” Hank said. “If you need a ride or anything.”

Why would he think that? Why would he think I don’t have a ride, Jeremy thought. Like it’s written all over my face. Like my grandmother can’t drive a car or something?

Jeremy turned to say something appropriate and then stopped. Hank didn’t really mean anything by that. He probably just wanted to be friends. Hank was pretty okay, and he was a pretty good basketball player, too.

“I’ll let you know,” Jeremy answered.

The sound of a chair scraping against the floor and heavy footsteps meant Bernardino must be done with that big kid, Alex or Carter. Whichever one was
the real big kid with the blonde hair.

“He wouldn’t have done anything,” Jeremy told Hank.

“Who?”

“That big kid.” Jeremy pointed to the door.

“Oh, you don’t know him,” Hank said, shaking his head.

The door opened and Carter Burnell hurried out. He took up a lot of space. Jeremy and Hank watched him go. Mr. Bernardino called Hank in. Jeremy slouched down even further in his seat and waited.

N
ormally Anabel wasn’t crazy about old people. It wasn’t like there were really any in her family. Both sets of her parent’s parents had died years ago. She didn’t even have a very old teacher. Mrs. Fronheiser in elementary school was pretty old, like fifty or something. But Jeremy’s grandmother, Mrs. Binder, was probably the oldest person Anabel had been this close to.

It wasn’t really that she didn’t
like
old people, but they seemed
so
old. So far away from understanding anything Anabel was thinking or doing. And they look different.

Anabel had watched her mother looking in the mirror, putting on her makeup, getting ready for work.

“My lids are sagging. Anabel, look. Didn’t they used to be here?” she said. She had her pointer finger tugging up at her eyes.

Anabel was sitting on the side of the bathtub. “No. You look exactly the same. You look beautiful,” she said.

Anabel’s mother didn’t put down her mascara, but she turned sideways and kept jerking the little black wand up at her lashes. “You’re sweet,” she said.

She looked back into the mirror. “But, God. I’m getting old. Life is too short. You know that, Ana? That’s why you’ve got to make the most of it. It just goes by so fast.”

Anabel didn’t answer. Life might be short, but some days were really, really long. Besides, even as her mother was telling her to make the most out of life, Anabel knew she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. It was very comforting to do the exact same thing every day, doing only what you know you are good at.

There was also something comforting about Mrs. Binder, even though
her
eyelids had clearly sagged completely years ago.

“Your brother just made a shot,” Mrs. Binder told Anabel. She pointed down to the court.

They had a ritual. They always climbed up to the top bleacher, far to the left, and leaned their backs against the wall. Mrs. Binder brought homemade cookies and Anabel brought two extra juice boxes from her pantry.

“It was a lucky shot,” Anabel said. She poked the ministraw into her juice box.

“Oh, you’re too hard on him. He’s good. Look, he just tried to block that other boy from shooting.”

“He fouled him,” Anabel said.

“Is that bad?”

And she kind of liked that Mrs. Binder didn’t know anything.

“It means the other team not only gets the two points, but they get to shoot a foul shot,” Anabel explained.

“Oh, that’s bad then.”

“Right.”

It was getting crowded on the bleachers. The teams for the next game were starting to arrive and, of course, their parents. Some of the North Bridge parents moved up to see better.

It was a close game. This new coach was doing a pretty good job. He had gotten all of the kids to play at least a little, and he put the weaker kids in with the stronger players so everyone looked better.

Anabel was surprised. They might even win this
game. Jeremy was playing great. Anabel was just about to tell that to Mrs. Binder, but two of the dads sat down right in front of them, nearly right on her feet.