Boy21 Page 4

  After gazing into her eyes for what seems like a long time, I kiss Erin good night on her porch, and then leave.

  It was an awesome roof night, especially since Erin is a very good kisser, but I’m not thinking about Erin right now. I’m surprised to find myself thinking about Boy21.

  I feel weird.

  I feel worried.

  I feel sorry for Boy21 because his parents were murdered and he thinks he’s from outer space, but, then, his knowing so much about constellations is pretty interesting. He seems very smart—intelligent enough to pretend convincingly, which makes me wonder if Coach’s theory is correct, if Boy21 is just acting.

  What if Boy21 snaps out of it by basketball season?

  If he’s even half as good as Coach thinks he is, I’ll lose my starting position.

  And yet Coach picks me to help Boy21.

  If I help him, I could end up riding the pine this season, and if I don’t help Boy21 acclimate to Bellmont, I’d be disobeying Coach for the first time in my life.

  Boy21’s parents were murdered, I tell myself. Murdered. Don’t be selfish!

  My mind also says, But this is your senior year, your last season, and Erin and you have worked so hard on your game….

  Does he really truly believe that he’s from outer space?

  Will he want my number?

  I also wonder if we’ll maybe end up being friends—real friends.

  I’ve never really had a good guy friend.

  It’s always just been Erin.

  Boy21 and I have already sat in silence together, and on the first night we met too.

  What was it about the green constellations?

  I stop walking.

  “I like your dwelling pod,” Boy21 says. He’s standing very rigidly in front of my house, like he’s really nervous.

  “How did you get here?” I ask.

  “I have a map for this sector of Earth. I never go anywhere on your planet without a map.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I was sent to your planet to gather scientific data on what you Earthlings call emotions.”

  “No. Why are you standing in front of my house right now?”

  “I saw you lying on your roof. Behind that big tree over there across the street, I politely waited for your love partner to leave.”

  I just stare up at Boy21.

  He was spying on me, which should freak me out, but for some reason I don’t feel angry. I’m mostly curious about why he came to my house at all.

  “Can we sit up there together and identify all we see in the cosmos?” he asks, and then points toward the roof.

  I don’t know why but—suddenly, almost involuntarily—I nod once, and then he follows me into my house.

  My dad—who picked up an extra one-to-nine-a.m. Friday-night shift and is therefore leaving for work—says, “Are you the new kid?”

  “Is that the English-language human term you will call me, Earthling?” Boy21 says. “New kid?”

  “Did he just call me Earthling?” Dad says to me. His expression makes him look uncomfortable, like he’s squinting directly into the sun.

  I shrug.

  “Your grandparents are worried about you,” Dad says to Boy21, staring in disbelief at the N.A.S.A. T-shirt. “Coach called asking if you were here. I’ll just give him a ring back now to let him know where you are.”

  Dad goes into the other room to make the call.

  From his wheelchair Pop says, “The neighborhood people don’t know you, son. It’s not safe to walk across town at night alone.”

  “Nothing on this planet can possibly harm me,” Boy21 says.

  Pop says, “I wish that were true, but it ain’t.”

  Dad returns and says, “Coach is coming to pick up Russ. You two can wait out front if you want to talk. But I need to go to work now.”

  When my dad leaves, we sit on the front steps and Boy21 says, “I’d like to sit with you on your roof in the future and teach you about my home—outer space. You have a calming presence, Finley. Would it be possible to sit on your roof with you in the future?”

  No one has ever told me that I have a calming presence. Maybe people think it, but they just don’t say it. “Sure,” I say.

  I like the words calming presence much more than White Rabbit or dumb mute.

  Calming presence.

  I search his face, trying to determine if he’s making fun of me or being ironic, but he’s not—he’s one hundred percent serious, or at least I believe he is.

  We sit in silence until a tired-looking Coach pulls up ten minutes later, smiles an embarrassed thank-you to me, and takes Russ away in his truck.

  I lie awake all night thinking about Boy21.

  11

  THE NIGHT BEFORE SCHOOL BEGINS Erin and I are making out on my roof when suddenly she pulls away and says, “Is that Coach’s truck?”

  I sit up, peer down over the edge of the gutter, and see the old Ford.

  “Finley!” Dad yells from the living room.

  Erin and I slide through my bedroom window and jog down the stairs.

  “Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Coach says. He and Dad share a smile.

  “No,” Erin says. “Nothing at all.”

  “Take a drive with me, Finley?” Coach says.

  “Sure thing.”

  “We’ll only be ten minutes, Erin. Promise,” Coach says.

  “No sweat.” Erin plops onto the couch and takes the remote control from Pop’s hand, because he’s passed-out drunk again with my grandmother’s rosary beads wrapped tightly around his left fist like brass knuckles. There’s a green Jameson whiskey bottle between his legs. “I’ll just watch some TV with my favorite senior citizen.”

  Dad shakes his head at Pop’s state, but no one says anything.

  As we get into Coach’s truck, I see sweat beads on his forehead and dark spots on his shirt where he has sweated through the fabric. It’s a hot sticky night, but I can tell Coach is nervous.

  He drives me around the block, and then parks with the engine running, the air-conditioning on full blast, which feels nice because we don’t have air-conditioning at my house.

  “Are you still willing to help Russ?” Coach asks.

  I know what he wants me to say, so I say it.

  “Good. Here’s the situation,” Coach says. “It took some convincing, but the boy’s agreed to stop talking about outer space and go by Russ Washington. No more Boy21—at least not in school. But given the stress of classes and a new environment, there’s no guarantee that he might not slip back into his routine, so I want you to stick by him. I want you by his side every second of the day. If he has to take a leak, you go with him. Understood?”

  It sounds like Coach is preparing me to mark a man in a basketball game, because he’s raising his voice like he does in huddles. He’s being more forceful, and it’s like I’m not doing him a favor anymore, but just doing what I am supposed to do as a member of the basketball team. I’m willing to help, but I feel like the circumstances have changed somehow. Or am I just being paranoid?

  “What if we’re not in the same classes?” I ask.

  “Don’t worry about that. What time should I tell Mr. Allen to drop off Russ?”

  “Drop him off where?”

  “At your house, so you can walk to school together.”

  Erin and I always walk to school together alone, and that’s my favorite part of the day. I like talking to Erin first thing in the morning, and kissing her too. I think quick and say, “Can Mr. Allen drop Russ off at Erin’s house around seven twenty?”

  “Done.”

  This way, I can go to Erin’s at seven and spend at least twenty minutes with her alone. It’ll mean waking up a bit earlier, but I don’t mind.

  “Finley.”

  “Yes.”

  Coach reaches over and squeezes my shoulder. “This Russ—he’s special. His doing well here at Bellmont means a lot to me. His father was a close friend.”

&nbs
p; I nod.

  “You won’t let me down, right?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. Seven twenty at Erin’s house. What number is hers?”

  I actually can’t remember, so I say, “Just a block down the street from mine. We’ll be sitting on the front steps. Mr. Allen won’t be able to miss us.”

  “And you didn’t tell Erin anything about the situation, right?”

  “No more than necessary.”

  “Thank you for that. Let’s keep Russ’s true identity a secret at least until basketball season is under way.”

  I want to ask Coach about my starting position—how he can ask me to help the kid who’s threatening to take it away—but I don’t say anything and Coach drives me home.

  When we pull up to my house, he says, “Just tell Erin and your folks we were talking hoops, okay? They don’t need to know our secret.”

  I nod. I’m a little uncomfortable with this secret, but when your coach gives you an assignment, you do it.

  12

  “SO THIS RUSS IS GOING TO WALK with us every day?” Erin asks me.

  We’re sitting on her steps waiting for Boy21’s grandparents to drop him off so we can walk to school and start our senior year.

  “Looks that way,” I say.

  “Why?” she asks.

  I shrug.

  I feel bad about keeping the secret from Erin, but Coach told me to keep Boy21’s true identity hidden, so that’s what I’m going to do. I know I can trust Erin. She’s a great secret keeper. But for some reason, I also feel like I should let people make up their own minds about Boy21—including Erin.

  “You know Coach went to the Irish Pride Pub to talk with my brother,” Erin says.

  I blink several times rapidly.

  It surprises me to hear this, because black people generally don’t go to the Irish Pride Pub, although Rod did play ball for Coach back in the day, so they know each other.

  “Coach asked Rod to get the word out on the streets,” Erin says.

  I raise my eyebrows. “Really?”

  “That Russ Washington is our friend.”

  This means that Coach asked Rod for protection. If he did that, it means he also went to Terrell Patterson’s older brother Mike. Mike Patterson controls much of the streets on the blacker side of town.

  “Seems kind of strange for Coach to be sticking his neck out so far for a non–basketball player,” says Erin, fishing.

  “Coach has a personal interest in Russ,” I say.

  “Why’s that?”

  “They’re sort of like family. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Erin says, and then adds, “so did you forget to tell me something?”

  She gives me this funny look that makes me start to feel horny.

  I cock my head to one side and squint at her.

  She stands and spins around so that her new white back-to-school dress lifts a little and I can see her knees.

  I just stare at her. She’s probably the only girl in our entire school who’ll be wearing a dress today. All the other girls will be wearing jeans or short shorts or tight miniskirts.

  “How do I look, Finley?” she says.

  I give her a smile, two thumbs up, and one raised eyebrow.

  “Thank you,” she says. “You look very handsome in your new Sixers T-shirt.”

  Erin puts her hands on my knees and leans in for a kiss, but before our lips meet, I hear a car horn, and then Boy21 is getting out of a big old Cadillac.

  We strap on our backpacks and meet him at the car.

  Boy21’s wearing a brand-new-looking outfit.

  Tommy Hilfiger button-down shirt.

  Dark blue jeans.

  Nike Zoom Soldier sneakers.

  His hair’s been cut and shaved tight to his skull by a barber—no more nappy braids.

  Instead of a backpack, he has a leather over-the-shoulder bag.

  He looks sort of like a prep-school student, which will put him at a disadvantage in our school and make him stick out, because no one at our school has money, except drug dealers.

  Erin offers her hand and says, “I’m Erin. Nice to meet you.”

  “Russ.” Boy21 shakes her hand without making eye contact.

  “Where you from, Russ?” Erin asks.

  “Out west,” he says.

  This is when I realize that either the therapist has really healed Russell or Boy21 has gone incognito.

  Out west?

  It’s such a true, grounded, not-weird answer.

  I’m surprised by how disappointed I am.

  “You’ll look after our boy?” Mr. Allen says from inside the Cadillac.

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  “Thank you,” Mr. Allen says, then smiles and looks me in the eye from under his old-style hat—the kind with a feather sticking out of the red band ringing the 360-degree short brim.

  As we walk to school, Erin tries to engage Boy21 in conversation, but he only gives one-or two-word answers, asks Erin no questions, and kind of acts like I usually do, which makes me wonder if he’s also a minimalist speaker in certain situations.

  I keep waiting for her to ask this six-five kid the most obvious question, and, of course, she eventually does.

  When she asks if Boy21 plays basketball, he says, “No,” with conviction.

  I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’m glad to hear he doesn’t play basketball anymore. And I’m relieved that my spot on the team is secure.

  She asks where exactly he’s from out west—what town, what state?

  He says, “I forget.”

  Erin gives me a worried glance, and then asks Boy21 if he likes Bellmont so far.

  Russ shrugs.

  “Was that your grandfather in the car?”

  He nods.

  “Do you live with him?”

  “And my grams.”

  “Where are your parents?”

  “No more questions,” he says, then smiles awkwardly and adds, “please.”

  Erin gives me another worried look.

  When we turn onto Jackson Street, Erin says, “There it is. Bellmont High.”

  Our school is a long three-story brick building with a cop car perpetually parked out front. By the front doors are metal detectors manned by large grumpy people who perform random bag searches. Kids have tagged the outside bricks with all sorts of graffiti. In sloppy silver spray-paint cursive someone long ago wrote BELLMONT HIGH BLOWS HUGE COCK next to the gigantic silhouette of our mascot, which is a rooster. And those words are the first we read every morning.

  The hallways are yellow and very loud. Girls laughing. People pushing one another. Lockers slamming. No one seems to notice Boy21, just like no one seems to notice us.

  We squeeze through the crowds and check the lists posted in the hallway.

  Boy21 is in my homeroom even though homerooms are arranged alphabetically and all the other M and W names are not grouped together.

  This is when I realize that Coach has intervened. Our team has been so good for so long under Coach, he has a lot of power around here.

  Boy21’s locker is right next to mine and it just so happens that he’s in every one of my classes and every single teacher has chosen to sit us together on the seating charts. This also means that Boy21’s in all Advanced Placement classes, like me, which isn’t saying much because our school isn’t very academic. Don’t think I’m smart. If you’re polite and seem well behaved, you get placed in the AP classes.

  To our teachers, Boy21’s very respectful and formal, always maintaining eye contact.

  He says nothing to the other students in the building. Even when they speak to him, he continues to look at the floor or the ceiling, not answering.

  I worry that the other students will find him arrogant, which is not a good thing to be in our neighborhood, unless you like being beaten down.

  During lunch, noticing his size and stature, the other basketball players come over to my table, and Terrell says, “Yo, White Rabbit, who dis?”

/>   “This here is Russ Washington. He’s new,” Erin says.

  “You play sports?” Sir says. Sir is our starting small forward and our number one wide receiver. His mom named him Sir because she wanted people to show him respect. He’s half Puerto Rican, which is a bit of a rarity around here.

  Boy21 just shakes his head.

  “Maybe you should try basketball,” Hakim says. He’s our power forward. “You’re tall. You got the body for it.”

  “I see you’re in our AP English class. Who’s your favorite author?” Wes asks. Like I said before, Wes is our center, and he’s a bit of a bookworm. He’s always reading books on the bus when our team travels. He wears a headlamp at night so he can keep on reading when it’s dark out.

  Boy21 doesn’t look up or answer the question.

  “Okay. I see how it is,” Terrell says. “You a quiet one, just like your new friend here.”

  “What’s wrong with being quiet?” Erin asks.

  “Nothing, White Rabbit’s lil baby,” Terrell says.

  I see the hurt look on Erin’s face, but I don’t say anything when she gets up and throws her trash away. I wanted to say something. Sometimes I really hate being a minimal speaker.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” Terrell yells with his hands above his head. “Ladies and gentlemen!”

  Everyone in the lunchroom stops talking.

  When the room is hushed, Terrell says, “Please welcome the new student. This here Black Rabbit, good friend to White Rabbit, and just as quiet. These people friends of mine too, understand? So just let them do rabbit things as they wish without paying them no mind. That’s it. Enjoy your lunch.”

  Some people laugh at Boy21’s new nickname, but everyone understands that Terrell is officially putting Boy21 under his family’s protection.

  “Okay,” Terrell says. “Now you rabbits do whatever rabbits do. And, White Rabbit, you get ready to rack up the assists this winter, you hear?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Terrell is wearing a huge diamond in each ear. Those are new. He never wore diamonds last year.

  When my teammates leave, Erin returns to the table, but she won’t look at me.

  I know she wanted me to stick up for her when Terrell called her White Rabbit’s lil baby, but I need Terrell to like me so that the basketball season will go well, which is my number one priority, and there are much worse nicknames that other girls in our school endure. This is why I’m looking forward to basketball so much. When it starts there will be plays to memorize and I’ll be in the gym just about every night. The rest of the world will disappear.