Jakarta Missing (25 page)

A boy from the middle school jostled her. “What's happening to Tarzan?” he asked.

“Yeah,” the guy beside him said. “I thought she was supposed to be so great. The Storm is sweeping her into the gully.”

Dakar's feet felt frozen to the floor.

“Aah,” the first guy said. “She used to be great. But it's clutch time now.”

Suddenly someone was reaching around Dakar and thumping the guy's shoulder. Dakar pulled back, startled. “Don't be such a nimwit,” Melanie screeched at the boy. “Jakarta isn't clutching. She has nerves of obsidian. You—you nimrod.”

“Whatever,” one of the boys muttered. They walked on.

“What a dolt,” Melanie said to Dakar.

“Yeah …” Dakar could feel a smile just swallowing up her face. “What a scarab beetle.”

When they were done laughing, Dakar asked, “Do you want to meet my great-aunt Lily? She's in there waving one of our pompoms.”

“Sure. I'll come sit with you.” Melanie paused. “No, I gotta sit with my family because everyone's here. Even my cousin. But can I come over to meet her tomorrow? I'll stand with you right now while you get your stuff, and we'll concentrate on sending good thoughts to Jakarta.” Melanie closed her eyes and chanted softly, “Be a river, Jakarta.”

“Yeah, come over tomorrow,” Dakar said. “I want you to meet Aunt Lily, and I want to show you my room. Be a river, Jakarta. Be a river.”

The Storm started shooting layups with four minutes ticking down in halftime, but the Wildcats didn't come out until just before the whistle blew. “Big-time lecture,” Pharo said knowingly. Whether it was the big-time lecture or Melanie's chant, something must have worked. Emily set a pick, and Jakarta hit a three, first thing. The whole team seemed to loosen their shoulders. Then, in minutes, everyone was on fire. But Jakarta was on superfire. Up. Swish. Up. Swish.

The crowd was on its feet. The crowd was with her. “Tarzan,” they chanted as she took the ball down the court. “Tarzan. Tarzan.”

“Why do they call her that?” Dad shouted to Dakar.

“I'll tell you after,” she shouted back.

Ten points for Jakarta. Fourteen points. Seventeen. The Wildcats were now dominating. The Storm coach called time-out, and the girl who was supposed to be guarding Jakarta kicked her home bench in frustration. Only ten points from the record, the announcer boomed. Across the gym Dakar saw Melanie doing a victory dance. That must be Melanie's cousin with his fists in the air.

As the fourth quarter started, Dakar doubted that anyone was worrying about who would win the game. Unless the Wildcats suddenly collapsed, they were going to regionals. “Record,” some people started to chant. “Record, record.” And Jakarta kept knocking down baskets. The Storm players were doing their best to sandwich her in a double team. They were just as determined, Dakar saw, to say, “I guarded the best scorer in the whole state and kept her from running away with the game.”

The clock was ticking down. The gym was writhing with noise. Dakar's ears pounded, and she felt as if she were caught up in the middle of the hissing ocean. Suddenly, above it all, she heard Coach Svedborg screaming, “Take time out.” Emily, who had the ball, signaled. For a second the Wildcats were milling, huddling, and then a whole new team was out on the floor—all except Jakarta.

“What's happening?” Dakar shouted to Pharo.

“Only garbage minutes left. Coach is putting in the kids who never get to play. The Storm will never catch us now.”

“What about Jakarta?” Even before he answered, Dakar knew. Nobody else had anything at stake. But Jakarta—Jakarta could get the record. This was her last chance. Last minutes of the last game of the regular season. Dakar chewed her thumbnail anxiously, glancing across the gym to see if Melanie was doing the same.

The Wildcats took the ball on the side. Dakar stared at Jakarta, willing her to run, to leap. Those legs must still be strong—Africa legs. Runner legs. Her arms couldn't be tired yet. Be a river. Ball in to Jakarta. Jakarta dodged, and one of the inexperienced girls, someone whose name Dakar didn't know because she'd never seen her in a game before, set a good pick. Jakarta made a jump shot, over the defender's head. Swish.

“Two more to tie,” someone screamed out.

Two more. Two more points. The game seconds were clicking down. “Foul them,” Coach Svedborg yelled. His face was redder than ever. Someone did. The Storm player made both shots. Now. Wildcat ball. Fifteen seconds left.

Dakar was trembling. She felt connected to every single person in this gym—yes, even the Storm. They all were part of this moment together. They all would remember it for a long, long time.

Okay, okay. Ball in. Crisp. Bounce pass. Right to Jakarta's willing hands. Dakar felt her heart floating, bursting. Jakarta was thundering down the court. Jakarta was a river, an antelope, a gazelle. The other team couldn't stop her. Yes! Yes! Hallelujah glory. They couldn't shut Jakarta down. “Tarzan,” the crowd screamed. “Tarzan.” Two points to tie the record. Three points for a brand-new record—not half Promise Johnson's—all Jakarta.

“Shoot a three,” Dakar screamed. “A three.”

In the last split second she saw it. Saw it as if she were a camera, catching one fluid motion and freezing it into stillness. Saw Sharyn—the blond girl from that day in practice. Knew. Exactly. What. Was. Going. To. Happen.

And it did.

Jakarta dished. Sharyn arched up. Released. The ball kissed the glass—and went in.
Blaaaaaaaap
. The end-of-game buzzer blared.

For a moment there was a shocked silence. Then the fans were pouring onto the floor. “Going to regionals,” someone behind Dakar shouted.

“And on to state,” someone else shouted back.

Dakar stood still, staring down at Jakarta.

The fans were pushing around the players, hugging, laughing.

Jakarta wasn't looking at them, though. She was looking at the coach, and his face was angry, his mouth wide open. Even from here Dakar could read the words.
“Why didn't you take the shot?”

I
n the pandemonium Dakar lost everyone else. That was okay, she thought as she walked slowly across the parking lot filled with swirls of people. She felt dazed. Let Dad get Aunt Lily and Mom out of there and safely home. She didn't want to talk to anyone.

As she was swept along, she caught sight of Melanie for a moment, a few cars away. “Are you okay?” Melanie signed.

True friend Melanie. “Fine,” Dakar signed back. Not fancy fine, she thought. But fine.

As she got herself free of the people and started walking down the street, though, she had to admit, actually, no, she wasn't fine at all. In fact, she had never felt so
desolate
. “And that's bad,” she said out loud. “Because I have felt pretty desolate before.”

Without thinking about it, her feet found their way to the practice courts where she had watched Jakarta and Pharo so many times. No one would know where she was. So what? she thought defiantly. No one ever thought about
her
feelings. They wouldn't care if she froze to death.

She sat on a bench for a long time, shivering. “You're just feeling sorry for yourself,” she whispered. It was true. But so what? If there was no one else to feel sorry for her, she'd feel it for herself.

She was surprised—and also not surprised—to hear footsteps. She was surprised—and not surprised—that it was Jakarta who cared enough to find her.

“Hey,” Jakarta said, settling down beside Dakar.

“How did you know I might be here?” Dakar asked.

“Mom and Dad sent me to Melanie's house. Melanie and her mom drove over to check the magic place. I thought you might be here. Pharo walked me over.” Jakarta gestured with her chin and Dakar glanced back. In the dusk she could barely see Pharo leaning against a tree. He waved.

So they had all cared, Dakar thought with relief. Then she scolded herself. “You're such a baby. Why do you make them prove themselves?”

She looked at Jakarta's face, which was wet with something. Tears? Sweat? “Why did you do it?” Dakar blurted out.

It was obvious that Jakarta knew what she meant. “I don't know why I did it,” she said, slumping over. “Coach wanted that honor for me so bad. He took a chance on me, you know. He worked hard with me. Why didn't I give him what he wanted?”

“Yes,” Dakar wanted to yell. “Why didn't you?”

“But I knew Sharyn would make it.” Jakarta went on as if she were arguing with herself. “We practiced that exact shot a zillion times. And that basket meant a zillion times more to her than to me. Her only game points of the season, you know.”

“That's not the point,” Dakar wanted to say. “Why do you have to join Dad and be the patron saint of lost causes?” But maybe it was the point. She wished she didn't feel so all confused.

After a few minutes Jakarta said, “Probably my motives weren't that pure.”

She put her head in her hands, and suddenly Dakar wanted to hug her. It was hard to have a pure heart.

“I might have done it,” Jakarta said, “because I wanted to show Dad he was wrong. That sports isn't all about greedy grabbing and self-glory.” She laughed—a low, sad laugh. “I also have to admit I just might have done it to make Coach mad. Because sometimes he reminds me so much of Dad, and it was all mixed up in my mind with getting back at Dad.”

Dakar slid her mouth down into the front of her coat. Her breath warmed her chin and neck. “Why does everything have to be so complicated?” she said in a muffled voice.

“You know how God was always doing miracles in ancient Israel, making the sun stand still and sweeping people up in flaming chariots?” Jakarta said. “Do you know why it never seems like God does those kinds of things to save people these days?”

“Huh-uh.”

“You know how the Apostles' Creed says Jesus ‘ascended into heaven and sitteth on the right hand of God the Father Almighty'? Would you be able to do miracles with someone sitting on your right hand?”

“That's not funny.” Dakar liked the sound her voice made inside the coat. It made her sound like a little, petulant kid—and that's what she was, she thought fiercely. Just a little kid.

“Sorry.” Jakarta laughed. “I thought it was when I heard it. It's a boarding school joke.” Her voice suddenly got serious. “Oh. One last thing. Some little piece of me did it because I wanted Dad to be proud of me.”

Dakar sighed.

“He and I are going back to Kenya,” Jakarta said.

“I know,” Dakar said. That was it, she thought. That was what the desolation was about. The second she saw that last basket, even though she didn't know she knew, she knew.

“Of course, I'll stay through state,” Jakarta said. “I think we might win. But I miss soccer. I miss Africa. This isn't home. Pharo promised to come visit me. His mom wants to visit, too. I wish you'd come with us.”

Dakar's heart was being squeezed in half. Maybe she should go. She thought about the jacaranda trees, fat, fancy flowers drooping over the fences and onto the ground. But every place was beautiful. And people could make a difference every place, too. Even if Jakarta's name wasn't going to be on the wall o' jocks forever, look how her basketball playing had made people come out from behind their television sets and come and sit together and cheer. Look at Aunt Lily and the cook making plans to plant beans. For that matter, look how the cook got brave enough to visit her sister. I made a difference, too, she thought in amazement.