Pull (22 page)

27.

Without me, the team went up to Zionsville and nabbed a nice win. But they came home and got walloped by Ben Davis. There's no shame in that, but it put a fizzle on the momentum they had built up. Tomorrow night's the last game of the regular season, against Roncalli. But there's a lot more to the day than that.

This morning, it means surgery. First thing. Nothing like going to Methodist Hospital at sunrise on a Friday. The people all seem happy enough. The nurses crack jokes to each other and laugh softly. The doctors clip by, a lot of zip in their stride for such an early morning. But none of them are getting their knees cut open today. Mom and Dad sit on either side of me, trying to keep me calm. Mom even reaches over and gives my hand a squeeze, telling me that everything's all right, just like she would if I were five and scared of the dark.

Jayson's at school, of course. But it turns out, tonight is his play. And it's not just that he's
in
it. He let it slip to me that he's the lead. I swore to him again that I'd tell nobody. But when he realized that I had surgery the same day as his performance, his face fell. He
wouldn't admit it, but he was hoping he'd get at least some audience. I apologized, even told him that I could still make it—under the knife first thing, basic rehab in the hospital, then a discharge by late afternoon. He didn't buy it for a second. And, truth is, if I get out early, it's not like I'll want to go straight from the hospital to a middle school play. So I finally had to spill it to Mom and Dad—Jayson will be mad at me, but he needs to have some people there.

“You two don't have to stay,” I tell my parents. “And I don't need you tonight. Go see Jayson.”

“Hush,” Mom says.

“For real,” I say. “Kid'll be here after a while. Lia said she'd come straight from school. There's no sense in you two just sitting around while I'm knocked out.”

“Stop,” Dad says. “We're not letting our son go through this without his parents.”

I know what I'm suggesting seems ridiculous to them, but I wouldn't mind having some alone time to clear my head.

“I think being in this hospital is making me ill,” Mom says. We spent a lot of time in the hospital beside Dad last year, so I don't blame her. But when I look at her she really
does
look sick, her skin a few shades lighter than normal.

“Hospitals will do that,” Dad says. He fetches her a bottle of water and she pops a couple Tylenol from her purse. “After this,” Dad says, “let's all make a deal not to spend any more time in hospitals.”

“Fair enough,” I say. We both smile, but I can't muster a laugh.

Soon enough, I'm called back. They go ahead and put me in a bed with two chairs beside it for my parents. The nurse draws the
curtain to give us some sense of privacy, but nobody says a word until the surgeon comes. He looks reasonably young. Has some color to his face, like he took a winter trip to Florida or something. And his hair is like a sculpture, a thick sea of black parted neatly on the right. He's a bit too polished, but I don't know what I expected. But all that fades away as soon as he starts talking. He walks us all through each step—the small incisions for the arthroscope, the drilled holes in the bones, the graft from below the kneecap, then some screws and stitches to keep everything in place. “It sounds more complicated than it is,” he says. “You'll be in recovery for a few hours and then we'll run some tests. But you can be home by dinner.”

Mom frowns like she thinks he's being flippant. But his confidence is good for me. He makes an exit, telling us we'll get started in about twenty minutes, that we can just breathe easy until then.

I wait a few minutes, but then I press Mom and Dad again. “Go to Jayson's play tonight,” I say. “You can see me after surgery and then still have time to make it. I'll hang at home with Kid.”

They talk over each other in explanation, saying that one child's surgery wins over another's play, and that Jayson doesn't even want them there anyway.

“Please go,” I say. “Jayson thinks it's all about me anyway. And if nobody's at his play, he'll be right.” I pause, then hit them with the clincher. “Besides, since when did you base your parenting decisions on what Jayson wanted?”

They both lean back in their chairs. Mom in particular, still pale, looks too tired to put up a fight. “Fine,” she says. “Dad will go to the play. I'll stay with you.”

That's a decent compromise, so I let it go. Then, soon enough, they come to wheel me back. I say my good-byes to Mom and Dad. There's a sudden urge to cling to them, like I'm some little kid getting on the school bus for the first time. But I fight it. Chin up.

When I get to the surgery room, I see they've put a poster up above me so I have something to focus on. It's of Derrick Rose, slicing through the lane. At first I smile. He's had the game I've most admired since I was a kid. He's why I rock the D Rose 5s. Then again, maybe he's not the player they should be showing me. Truth is, he's never been quite the same since he went under the knife.

The surgeon said it went well. Full recovery expected, though he insisted the timetable is different for every athlete. Then he stressed the importance of the rehab exercises and he was gone.

Then it was a few hours of check-ins by nurses. They made sure my leg was properly elevated. Kept checking that the knee wasn't bent at all. Through it all, Mom and Dad stood watch. They'd try to distract me with some chatter about any old thing—politics, old family stories, the weather. But I wasn't having it. I just wanted out of there. Finally, Kid showed up to relieve my parents. Then Lia as soon as she could race over from school. She looked good, but stressed. I appreciated her being there, but I silently seethed at how she worried over me. It made me feel less like her boyfriend and more like her problem child.

At last, they got me out of bed for some quad sets. Standard stuff. They liked what they saw enough to check me out. Like the surgeon said—in time for dinner.

I could walk on my crutches, but the hospital insists on Kid
wheeling me to the car. No more fancy ride for him now—just that old Nova that was supposed to become mine. So we get to the parking lot, Kid behind me and Lia walking by my side. “You want me to take you?” Lia asks. She points to her ride a few spaces away.

“Nah. Kid's got it,” I say.

She pulls her coat tighter around her, even though the weather's given us a break at last—spots of sunshine coming through the gray, the temp climbing toward 50. “Well, I'll just follow you to your place,” she says.

“You don't have to do that,” I say.

Now she frowns, all that beauty tightening down into a hurt expression. “I know I don't have to. I want to.”

The more she presses, the more I'm desperate to be free of her. At the same time, I'd like to just go to her place and curl up with her, pretend the rest of the world doesn't even exist. I don't know how to explain it. My own heart is a lot harder to solve than any math problem I've ever stressed. “Lia,” I say. “I'm just gonna go home and sleep. There's really no point.”

“No point?” she says, getting heated up. But then she checks herself. She's not going to stand here and beg. “Just text me later if you want,” she says. Then she turns to her car, climbs in and speeds away. As soon as she's gone, I feel her absence like a wound.

Kid slides my crutches into the backseat, then helps me into the front. He climbs in and shakes his head at me. “Real well played with the honey,” he says. Surgery or not, he's not passing up a chance to needle me over girls.

“Man, you know how it is,” I say, trying to play it off.

We drive a couple blocks in silence. Then Kid, suddenly serious, says, “Yeah, I do know how it is, D. Sometimes you just have to be with family.”

All's quiet until Jayson bursts home from the play. I'm on the couch, leg elevated, and he comes straight at me. “How could you?!” he hollers. If he put as much emotion into the play as he's putting on in our living room, then he must have killed.

“Jayson,” Mom snaps. She's been reclined in Dad's chair for the past hour, still trying to chase away the nausea that popped up at the hospital. Now she sits up straight. “Did you forget that your brother just got out of
surgery?”

“Come on,” Jayson says. “It's not like they were replacing a lung. He's already out.” Then he wheels back to me. “But, D, what part of ‘secret' do you not get? Why do I have to look out in the audience and see Dad there with his camera like some idiot?”

Mom about leaps out of her chair when she hears
idiot
. But it's Kid, who's been sitting over at the table combing through the newspaper, who changes the vibe in the room. He just starts cracking up. He leans back and howls at the ceiling. We all stare. Then, once he's settled, he shakes his head at Jayson. “Young pup, you've got an uncle who's got a debt he can't pay. You've got a brother who can't walk and who still screws things up with girls even when he's the best point guard in the state. We
need
you Jayson. These days you're our only damn hope. So step up.”

Jayson's too mad to just give it up, but I see him soften at Kid's little speech. The tension drains out of his shoulders and his hands drop from his hips.

About that time Dad finally comes through the door. I can see it on his face—the way his eyes are narrowed and his lips are still a little tight like there's something sour in his mouth. He and Jayson went round and round on the short ride home. He was probably hanging in the car for a second, taking deep breaths and counting to twenty. As he walks in, I can feel the room tense back up. He turns to me. “How's the leg?”

“Okay, I—”

He just keeps walking past. He gives a little wave to Mom and acts like Jayson isn't even there. He finally stops when he gets to the kitchen table, where Kid's still sitting.

“You ready, Sidney?” he asks. “I'll give you a lift.”

Kid grabs his wallet off the table and stands. Nods at Dad. They start for the door, but this time Jayson pipes up. “Where are you guys going?”

“We've both got late shifts,” Dad deadpans. “We work, you know?” He starts for the door again.

All Mom has to do is cough. Dad stops. He exhales. All the anger drains from his face. “You okay, dear?” he asks.

She smiles. For years it was so rare that Dad would get worked up, but Jayson's got his buttons pushed 24-7. I think Mom likes that she can be the chill one for a while. “I'm fine,” she says, smooth as butter. “But I was hoping to get a report on our young actor.”

Even in the dim light of the living room, I can see Jayson blush at that. He shakes his head like he's disgusted.

Dad takes another deep breath and answers. “He was incredible,” he says. All the edge is gone from his voice. He's clearly sincere. As he
talks, I see Jayson's embarrassment deepen. “The other kids were lucky to remember their lines, but Jayson was actually
acting
. He's on another level already.” Then Dad adds a little punch line, his edge back—“Now if he could just act his age off the stage, we'd be in business.”

Then Dad turns to Kid, and the two older Bowen brothers head out the door wordlessly. The two younger ones are left speechless in the living room, their mother watching them. Jayson stares at the front door. It's like he's trying to figure out if he should be angry at Dad's final words or proud for all the words that preceded it. Finally, I reach my hand out from the couch. “You really tear it up?” I ask.

“Yeah, I kinda did,” Jayson says. He smiles for real now. Then he bends down to slap me five.

That's it. Except for one more thing. I check my phone and there's a missed text from Wes:
You still think you can help me? I might need it to be soon.

28.

They beat Roncalli in the closer to end on a good note and push our record to 14-6. But tonight it gets real for my boys. First round of Sectionals. Pike's the host school, but we've got Lawrence North up first. My freshman year, they were the big dogs of the Sectional we had to knock off, but they've dipped some since then. They're just barely above .500 this year.

As we bus up I-65 toward Pike, I get surrounded by Fuller, Stanford, and Reynolds. I already gave Rider the breakdown for the game before we hit the road, so now I'm just chatting with the vets. Thing is, since they've been in a playoff atmosphere before, they really don't need my advice. We talk some basics of the game plan. Check their shooter, Mike Bell, anywhere 25 and in. Double hard on their power forward, Martavis Richardson, but let any of the chumps they rotate at center solo if they want it. That barely gets us past the 38th Street exit.

“So talk, D,” Fuller says. “I know everyone's asking you, but you got to tell your boys. Where you heading next year?”

I shake my head. Try to wave them off. They're not having it
though. They all start ragging on me to spill, throw some information their way.

“Look, D,” Reynolds says at last. “I might have been a pain for you, but I need this. You know the only looks I'll get when I'm a senior are D-II if I'm lucky.”

I've got no choice but to cave. At this point, I feel like I owe something to these guys. Between our in-fighting and my injuries, this season's been a struggle. But here we are, at the end of the line, together. “Fine,” I say. They all lean in. “But for real, you can't tell anyone. I haven't even mentioned schools to my folks yet. I'm waiting until the season's done to talk it over with them and Coach, then we'll spill a list to Whitfield. Before then, it'll just distract from your season.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” Stanford says. “Just tell it.”

So I tell them my list—making them the first people to hear it aside from Kid. I rattle off my five, and they have the same reaction as Kid—a little puzzled at some of the inclusions. So I add, like I'm trying to justify my decisions for them, “It's not like I've ruled everyone else out. But those were the best schools that kept offers out for me after the ACL tear.” Like I have to remind them of it, I hold my crutches up as evidence.

“Can't be,” Fuller says. “No way everyone backed off after an injury.” He seems truly troubled by the notion, like up until this point he thought college basketball was filled with only the most ethical and steadfast coaches.

“Not everyone did,” I say. “But most of the real elites did. I think maybe it's more than the ACL. With that plus the calf injury, they might think I'm injury prone.”

They soak it in. They lean back in their seats. They shouldn't be
pinning hopes on me, but everyone that's ever walked the halls at Marion East—much less pulled on a jersey—wants to see a local baller bang it on the biggest stages. Hop to a powerhouse like Kentucky. Bring home some hardware. Leap to the L after a year or two. But I know a couple things now. The first is that you can't make much of a leap when you're worried too much about what other people want. And the second is that if you get caught up in what's down the road, you lose sight of what's in front of you.

So when Stanford tells me I still have a chance to show out next year, I don't hesitate. “Forget next year,” I say. “Forget all that. You three just show out tonight, you feel me?”

Show out is the truth, sure enough. We were worried about Martavis Richardson in the post, but we forgot something—Richardson has to check Stanford. First time down Stanford swims past him for a board and a bucket. Later in the first, Stanford steps to the shallow corner for a look off a Reynolds drive. When that one falls, Stanford gets his scowl on. He thumps his chest a few times as he races back on D. Coach tells him to just take it easy. But I know Stanford. He gets a little swole up. He's determined to try to take over. When I was running point, I'd try to rein in his emotions—maybe even skip him on a touch just so he'd cool down—but now I just urge him on.

“Richardson ain't nothin',” I holler at him. “Just wear him out, Stanford.”

He looks my way and gives me a few emphatic nods, then bodies up on D. I get a look from Coach Bolden too, but it's not nearly as enthusiastic. He just points to my spot behind the bench. “Sit,” he seethes.

I obey, hobbling back on my crutches, but Bolden's not truly mad
at me. Next dead ball, he comes all the way down to me. “I love the energy, D,” he says. “But put it into teaching Rider. Be more a coach than a cheerleader, right?”

“Got it,” I say. But as I do, Fuller pokes the ball free and we get a fast break. Lawrence North cuts off the first wave, but Stanford's trailing the play with a clean run at the rim. Fuller slides a dime to him right in time and Stanford gangstas one home on top of a guard. Our crowd explodes. I do too. “That's what I'm talking about, Stanford,” I scream. There's no way he can hear me from the other end, but Bolden sure does. He just looks at me in exasperation, like
What did I just say?
“Okay, Coach, okay,” I say. “But that thing was nasty.”

Even Bolden has to smile at that.

By the time we get to the end of the first, the rout is on. Stanford's already in double digits. Reynolds is getting loose too. He's buried a couple threes from deep. Then, when the second quarter starts, Fuller decides to get in on the act. An awkward runner that gets a roll. A mid-range J from the wing. A baseline drive that ends with him muscling one home.

Our lead swells to ten. To thirteen. And by the end of the half—with Jones and Rider starting to chip in some timely buckets too—we're up 44-25.

As Lawrence North slouches toward their locker room, it's clear they're finished. They're not talking. Not even the coaches. And the players don't even look angry at the whipping they're taking. Nope—they just want to get the rest of it over with so they can be done with their deflated season.

Stanford hosts.

Pike's on tap tomorrow night, so none of the players are drinking a thing stronger than Coke. But this isn't exactly like Fuller's party from earlier in the year. At Stanford's, people are getting loose. He's swiped a whiskey bottle from his mom's cabinet—how he'll explain it later is his problem, I guess. And people keep showing up with plastic bags filled with sixers and bottles of cheap booze they've scored, either on fake I.D.s or from generous older siblings. Judging from the glaze on some eyes, some people have been living it up before they made it here.

A good chunk of Marion East is at Stanford's. Dancing, talking game to each other, sneaking off to get busy in the back bedroom or the back alley or their cars. Good for them, I guess. But nobody's got it made like I do. Even when Stanford drops some old school Jay-Z, I can't dance a step with my knee—but who cares? Lia's curled up on the couch beside me. She's warmed by a few drinks of her own, but it's just enough to make her extra flirty. “Too bad you can't dance with me,” she purrs. “I wanted to show you some new moves.”

“I bet,” I say.

“Then again, there are moves and there are moves.” She traces a fingernail down my chest until it rests on the button of my jeans.

I laugh at her and bat her hand away.

“Aww, you never want to have any fun,” she says, all mock hurt.

“I'm up for fun,” I say. “Later.” My hesitancy is all show. Truth is I'd like nothing more than to find the first unoccupied room. She gets like this and my whole world feels electrified. But teasing her just makes
it more intense—especially since it's usually the other way around. Plus, I'm enjoying watching everyone have fun. It's not exactly the way I want a post-game celebration—watching the game with screws in my knee was never part of the dream—but it sure beats losing.

Fuller comes over and sits on the other side of Lia. Crowding again. This time I don't mind, because I don't know how much longer I could have held out on Lia. “How you kids doing?” he asks. We both laugh. Fuller's face falls into a worried expression. “What? What'd I say?”

“Kids?” I repeat. “Fuller, you my boy and all, but sometimes you talk like a thirty-year-old. You have got to loosen up.”

“I'm not that bad,” he protests.

Now Lia jumps in on him. “You dance yet? Even one song?” When Fuller doesn't respond, she just gives him a deep, knowing
Mmm-hmmm
. Then she points across the room. “See that girl?” Fuller turns with his whole body, leaning forward like a dog on a scent. Lia backhands his shoulder. “Look at me. God, don't be so obvious.”

Fuller turns back to her, but he's still practically panting. “What about her?” he asks.

“Her name's Erica Cotton. And she keeps asking me about you.” As Lia talks, Fuller's eyes grow as wide as they do when he's got a free run at the rim. “But she has one rule. She won't hook up with any guy who won't dance.”

Fuller's eyes narrow again. His eyebrows pinch together. “You for real?”

“I swear it,” Lia says. “Get out there and dance, and I'll introduce you to her.”

Fuller takes a deep breath. Then another. It's like he's steeling
himself for a clutch free throw. “Okay,” he says, more to himself than anyone else. “I got this.”

He walks hesitantly to where people are dancing. As the music thumps along, the bass so high that glasses and beer cans rattle on tables, Fuller glances back. Lia motions for him to go on. Then she pulls herself tighter to me and leans her head on my shoulder.

“How you know that girl?” I ask.

“Who?”

“Erica. The one all into Fuller.”

Lia laughs. “I've never talked to her before in my life,” she says. “But you're right. Fuller's got to lighten up. I figured dancing would be a good first step for him.”

I look down at her. “You're evil,” I tease.

“A little.”

Then we watch Fuller. He just bobs his head at first, feeling out the rhythm. And then—bless him—he goes for it. He crouches down and jumps back and forth. He twitches his body to the beat. And the whole time his face is as creased in concentration as ever. He even dances serious. And not very well—all elbows and knees. But that's not the point. The boy's trying, and everyone picks up on it. Practically the whole team hollers in approval, the name Fuller swelling across the room. Then they start chanting his name, laughing and clapping in approval. The girl looks a little surprised by the whole scene, but she doesn't seem to mind. And after a little bit she starts getting into it too. She doesn't quite grind up on him, but she's encouraging him plenty.

When the song's done, Fuller comes back. He's breathing hard, a
light sweat on his forehead, but he's here to demand his reward. “Well?” he says to Lia. Then he nods to the girl she pointed out earlier.

Lia stands. “Let's go.” She takes Fuller by the hand and leads him across the room. She glances back at me, smiles and shrugs. The girl's winging it. But something tells me she's got this. Not surprisingly, in about ten seconds she's coaxed a broad smile from the girl, and the three of them are chatting it up. At one point, Fuller looks at Lia—his face aghast and his palms turned up—then nearly doubles over laughing. The truth is out, I guess.

I check my phone. Five missed texts. All from Wes. Each one is him asking me where I'm at with increasing urgency. I hit him back to let him know I'm at Stanford's and in, like, two seconds he responds.
On my way D
.

I try not to think anything about it. I ease back into the couch again. I flex my knee gently. Can't help it. It's like I have to check it every two minutes to see if it feels stronger, even though I know it's going to feel the same way it did the last time—sore, basically. I'm not allowed to take a step without crutches for at least another week, but I still have workouts. Quad sets, hamstring curls, sitting knee flexions four times a day. Hamstring stretches every waking hour. It's not like I get a sweat up, but I can feel the work in my knee. It's a good pain, a sign that the recovery has begun. I know I have a long way. Months. Close to a year maybe. But it's just like getting better at your game—it doesn't happen overnight, but day by day by day. My first goal is to get totally free of crutches in two weeks, because that means no more limp. Then the next goal will be adding resistance to a stationary bike or to hamstring curls.

I have to stop myself from thinking that far ahead. Right here. Right now.

Lia comes back to me, laughing, but Fuller stays put. He's in his groove now, chatting up that girl a mile a minute. All good.

Lia sits beside me, but then leans across. She lets her body press against my lap as she does, but she's reaching to my end of the couch. She grabs my crutches and then sets them in front of me. “Please tell me you're ready to bolt,” she says. She surveys the room. “It's a nice party and all, but you probably need to go lie down.” She drawls those last two words out. She's had enough waiting.