Night Hoops (19 page)

In the locker room all the guys surrounded me. "Great game, Nick! Way to step up!" I expected that from Luke and Trent, but to hear it from Carver and McShane, from Fabroa and Markey and Chang—that was the greatest feeling. I tried to act as if what I'd done was no big deal, but I thought I was going to bust apart. I sat soaking up their praise for so long that when everybody else was long gone, I was still in my underwear.

I finished dressing and left the locker room. Dad was waiting for me, a big grin on his face. He wanted to go out for pizza, but suddenly I felt really, really tired. "If it's okay, Dad," I said, "I just want to go home."

"Come on, Nick! This is what we've been waiting for, isn't it? Let's go out, celebrate, talk. You and me."

"I'm tired."

He stiffened. "All right. You call the shots."

It's a five-minute ride from the high school to our house. He looked over at me a couple of times. "Something wrong?" he asked as we neared the house.

"Nothing's wrong."

I knew Scott would be with Katya, but I thought Mom would be home. She wasn't though, which was fine with me. I wanted to be by myself.

I went to the kitchen and got some chocolate chip cookies and a glass of milk. I sat at the kitchen table, enjoying the quiet, the cookies, the cold milk.

My mind wandered, jumping here and there. I remembered the shots, the passes, Franklin's early lead. Then I was in the locker room, before the game, looking at the blackboard and the one word O'Leary had written. TEAM. I'd heard it a million times, but I'd never really understood what it meant before. Seniors and sophomores, first-stringers and bench warmers, we were all one, all doing things together that we couldn't have done on our own. It was a great feeling, a feeling I didn't want to give up.

That's when I knew I had to go see Trent one last time.

It was crazy in a way. Three months earlier I'd have been glad to have him leave—in fact, I would have bought him his ticket. But now I knew him. His crooked smile, the way he took stairs two at a time, his stutter-step dribble on drives to the hoop. I knew him. And when you know somebody, everything changes. I looked out the window. There was a light on downstairs. I laced up my shoes, headed across the street, and tapped on his door. Immediately it opened up; he peered out through the screen.

"You got a minute?" I asked.

He stepped out onto the porch. "I guess. What's up?"

I thought for a moment, wanting to pick my words carefully. "I just want to know how things stand," I said.

He looked at me, his face blank. "I'm still going, if that's what you're asking."

"But why?" I said. "You don't want to go. I know you don't."

He looked away. "It's not a question of what I want to do."

I thought for a while, trying to get the words just right. "So he looked out for you when you were little. Okay? Nobody's arguing. He was a good brother. But that was a long time ago, Trent. You can't mess up your own life because Zack gave you pretzels and a can of Coke twelve years ago. It doesn't make any sense."

His eyes flashed. "I already told you I'd stay for the Garfield game."

"I'm not talking about the Garfield game. I'm talking about everything. The hoops at night in the back yard, the school stuff. Everything. The summer, and next season, and the season after that."

He shook his head. "You don't get it, do you?"

"No, I don't," I said, my voice rising. "I don't get it."

He shook his head. "I just don't fit with guys like you. I never have and I never will."

"You don't fit with Zack," I said. "Not anymore."

He looked away. "You don't know everything, Nick. If you did, you wouldn't say that."

Something in his voice scared me, but I'd gone too far to back off. "So tell me. Make me understand."

For a long time he didn't speak. Finally he nodded. "All right, I'll tell you. I'll tell you everything." He paused, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "Zack wasn't alone when he killed those birds. I was right there with him. I killed half of them, maybe more. I hit them with a golf club, hit them over and over until they were dead. I don't know why I did it. I just did it. But Zack never told the cops I was there. He took all the heat. You hear me? All of it. And the shooting? That was my fault. Because once Zack got out I rode him, telling him he had to do something to get back at Ushakov, something big. I watched him get the gun down from the closet, saw him flip through the yellow pages looking for a place to buy bullets. I knew where he was going that night, what he was planning. I could have stopped him. All it would have taken was one word from me. But I let him go. I wanted to roll the dice, see what would happen."

He stopped then, stopped and stared at me. I knew I should have said something, but a numbness had come over me. I
felt light-headed, dizzy. He went on. "Now you tell me, Nick. Do you think your mom would have me in her house if she knew? Do you think Luke's dad would have me over for a barbecue?"

"You've changed, Trent," I said, finally finding my voice. "You're different from what you used to be."

He snorted in disgust. "Nothing changes, Nick. Nothing and nobody."

I swallowed. "So the team, you and me being friends, all we've gone through—it doesn't count for anything?"

He shook his head slowly. "It doesn't count for anything."

I stared at him for a while. "If that's how you feel," I said at last, "then don't wait until after the Garfield game. Go as soon as you can. Tonight even." With that I turned and headed across the street toward my own house.

I hardly slept that night. Sometimes I told myself that I had done the right thing, the only thing. A minute later I'd be certain I'd totally blown it. It was probably three
A.M.
before I fell asleep, which made the alarm at six that much crueler.

When I stepped outside the door to head to school, I peered over at Trent's house. It looked empty, but it often looked empty. I almost went over and knocked on his front door, just to see if he was still there, but then I decided to let it go.

Before my first-period class Martha Judkins came over and told me what a good game I'd played, how exciting it was to watch, how she'd never been much of a basketball fan before. Any other day I'd have been ecstatic to have her standing by my desk, leaning her body close. But that day I kept looking past her to the door, which kept opening and closing, hoping the next person would be Trent.

The bell rang. That's when I started lying to myself. Big deal that he wasn't there. If I'd had any sense, I'd have stayed home, too. He was probably sound asleep. The talk about taking off to go live with Zack—it was all talk. He had a room and a bed and a mother who left him alone. Why would he go live on the streets?

At lunch Luke and Darren came right over to me. "Where's Trent?" Luke asked. "Nobody's seen him all day."

I shrugged. "I guess he cut school."

"Today?" Darren said in disbelief.

"He'll be at practice, won't he?" Luke said. "He wouldn't cut that."

"Sure," I answered. "He'll be at practice."

But he wasn't. As the guys suited up, I could see them looking around, wondering. On the court, a rack of basketballs was waiting for us. Pretty soon guys were dribbling and shooting, doing the normal loosening up that we'd been doing for three months. To an outsider things would have looked totally normal. But each time one of the gym doors opened, everybody stopped to look, hoping to see Trent.

Coach O'Leary emerged from his office, blew his whistle. We circled around him. He scanned our faces. "Where's Dawson?" No one answered. He looked at me. "Was he in school today?"

I shook my head. "No, Coach."

His forehead wrinkled. "What is he, sick or something?"

"I guess so," I answered.

Practice was light. We walked through our plays, then just shot around. What we needed was rest and O'Leary knew it. When practice ended I headed off the court, but before I reached the locker room O'Leary called me over. "What's up with Dawson?"

I looked down. There was too much to explain, way too much. "Who knows? He's always been tough to figure."

O'Leary frowned. "Check on his house for me, will you? And if he's there, you have him call me. Okay?"

"Okay."

He turned and headed toward his office.

"Coach," I called after him, "what if he's not there?"

He turned back. "Then
you
call me."

He wasn't. And if his mother was home, she didn't answer. I knocked and called out, then knocked again. Back at my own house I telephoned O'Leary and gave him the news. "Great," he said. "Perfect timing."

At dinner Scott pulled some bread apart, stuck a piece in his mouth, then looked at me. "What's the deal with Dawson?"

When I didn't answer, my mother took up the question. "Is something wrong?"

I shrugged. "I don't know what you're talking about..."

"Come on, Nick. I go to Bothell High too, you know."

"What's going on?" my mother asked.

Scott turned to her. "Trent wasn't at school today. And from the way Nick was pounding on his front door and calling his name out, I'd say that he wasn't at practice either. Which means he probably took off, just like I always said he would."

"And you're happy about it, too, aren't you? You want him to screw up. You can't stand it that things might turn out okay for him."

Scott looked at me hard. "Tell me this, Nick. Would you be so worried if he disappeared after the season was over?"

Any other time I probably would have exploded. But at that moment I was too tired. I dropped my silverware onto the table, pushed my chair back, and stood.

"Where are you going?" Mom asked.

"I'm going to my room. I'm not hungry."

And that's what I did. I went straight to my room and lay on my bed. From downstairs I could hear—or at least I thought I could hear—Mom chewing out Scott.

Then there was silence for a while. A little later I heard the front door open and close—Scott leaving, undoubtedly to go to Katya's. A few minutes after that Mom knocked on my door. "You want to talk?" she asked, her voice soft.

"Not really."

"Well, I do." She came into the room and sat at the end of my bed. "This has been a hard year for Scott, you know."

I laughed. "Yeah? Well, it hasn't exactly been a piece of cake for me either."

"I know, I know. Still, put yourself in his shoes. His younger brother becomes the big star on the team he quit. That's tough."

"So what am I supposed to do about it? Just let him insult me?"

"No, no." She looked out my window for a while, then looked back. "I always want you to remember he's your brother. That's all."

There was a sadness in her voice that took the anger out of me. "I know he's my brother," I said. "It's just that he can be such a ... oh, I don't know. But I don't hate him, if that's what you're worried about."

Her face relaxed a little; she even smiled. Then she sneaked a peak at her watch. It was Friday night, her night to meet at Starbucks with other women who were going through divorces. "You should go," I said.

"I could skip it. We could rent a movie, pop some popcorn. We haven't done that in a long time."

I shook my head. "I couldn't watch a movie. You go."

She patted me on the leg, then stood. "I love you."

Half an hour later the house was empty. I grabbed my basketball and went outside, not because I wanted to play, but because there was nothing else to do. I don't think I knew I was burning up until I felt the coolness of the night air on my face. I took the ball out to the top of the key, eyed the hoop in the dim light, and let it fly. The sound of the ball ripping through the cords was soothing.

I'd been shooting for about an hour when I thought I heard something from behind our shed. I held the ball and peered into the darkness. We have raccoons sometimes, and cats all the time. But this had sounded different, or maybe I'd just hoped it had. "Trent, are you out there?"

The wind moved the high branches of the hemlock trees. A car drove down 104th. The sounds of a laugh track from a television comedy drifted by. But that was all.

The Garfield game started at one. At nine in the morning I went over and knocked on Trent's door. I knew it was useless. There was no car in the driveway. The shades were all pulled down.

I was barely back inside my own house when Luke phoned. "Any sign of Trent?"

"No."

A long pause. "Well, I guess we're just going to have to win without him, aren't we?"

"I guess we are."

After I hung up, Mom came out from the kitchen. "Anything?"

I shook my head.

She pursed her lips, then forced herself to smile. "How do pancakes sound? I mixed up some batter."

Normally it's my favorite breakfast, but that morning the idea of doughy pancakes covered with thick syrup turned my stomach. "I'm not up for pancakes," I said. "I'd rather just have some toast if that's okay."

Another smile. "Of course it's okay. I'll put the batter in the refrigerator. It won't go bad. But is toast going to be enough?"

"It'll have to be. I don't think I could eat much more."

Mom made toast for me, poured me a glass of orange juice, then sat and drank coffee as I ate.

"Where's Scott?" I asked, as I put jam on the toast.

She frowned. "Where do you think?"

When I finished eating I started to wash up, but she stopped me. "I'll do the dishes this morning. It's not every day my son plays for the championship."

While she did the dishes, I sprawled out on the sofa. My head was throbbing and I felt chilled the way you feel when you're about to come down with the flu, so I closed my eyes for a second, opened them, then closed them again.

It was the telephone that woke me. It rang three times before my mother picked it up, or at least three times that I heard.

I could tell from the cool tone of her voice who she was talking to. I stretched my arms above my head and yawned. "Is that Dad?"