Night Hoops Read online

  My body was settled into the soft bed. My stereo was right there. If I turned it on, I could block Trent out, block basketball out, block everything out.

  There are moments in your life when you know you've got to go in one direction or another. I took a deep breath, exhaled. Then I pulled myself off the bed, changed into my sweats, and tramped downstairs and out the back door.

  When Trent saw me he jumped back as if he'd seen a ghost. It took a second, but then I realized what had happened: I'd scared him. The lights were out in my house. He must have figured the place was empty, that I was in Victoria, and that my mom and Scott were gone, too.

  "You mind if I shoot around with you?" I asked.

  It was a crazy question. He was in my back yard shooting at my hoop. Then again, maybe it wasn't so crazy. Because once night fell the court became his, and I was the outsider.

  "Sure," he said. "You can play."

  In the pale moonlight the basket seemed only half real, half there. You'd think that the darkness would make it hard to shoot, but it actually helped me concentrate. There was nothing else to see, nothing else to hear. O'Leary wasn't shouting instructions at me; my dad wasn't scrutinizing my every move. There was just the basket in front of me, the ball in my hands, and Trent defending.

  But in a way that's not even right. Because it wasn't Trent. Or at least not the Trent I knew, the tough-guy Trent, the Trent who'd knock you down as soon as look at you. There were none of the pointless shoves, none of the mean-spirited fouls, none of the trash-talk that marked his game.

  Not that he didn't play tough. He guarded me tight on defense and he came at me hard on offense. I did the same to him. But everything was fair. It was the purest game of basketball I've ever played, so pure that neither of us ever thought of keeping score.

  If we hadn't tired I think we would have played all night. But finally, on a stutter-step, he dribbled the ball off his foot. It rolled into the bushes, and neither of us made a move to go get it. "Enough," he said.

  "Enough," I replied.

  I went inside and got a liter of Pepsi and brought it out. I suppose I could have invited him in, but I didn't want to leave the darkness. We drank in silence for a few minutes.

  "That was a good game," I said.

  "Yeah," he answered. "It was."

  He took another swig, then stood to leave. "How about tomorrow night?" I asked. "You want to play again?"

  "Okay. Tomorrow night."

  Chapter 9

  The next morning I woke up filled with energy. I made myself breakfast, then went out to the shed and dug out the painting stuff. The paint in the downstairs bathroom was peeling. It was supposed to be a creamy white, but you could see the pink and yellow that had been underneath.

  My father had always said he was going to repaint. He actually bought the paint, but he never got around to it. I figured I couldn't make the walls look worse. So I scraped off the loose stuff, washed it down, sanded a little, then got to it.

  Usually I get bored doing stuff like that, and pretty soon get careless, splattering the paint or getting some on the porcelain or on the window. But that morning I was careful to get the right amount of paint on the roller and to spread it on the wall evenly. I even did the window slowly. When I finished it looked really good, and I thought how pleased Mom would be when she returned.

  In the afternoon I took my bike out and rode the trail down to University Village in Seattle. Nobody else was out, so I really moved, breaking a sweat. It started drizzling on the way back, and the misty air felt tremendous.

  When I reached the railroad trestle in Bothell I saw Michael Ushakov. He grinned at me and waved. I thought of Katya and felt guilty that I'd never gone over to see him, so I stopped. He came right up next to my bicycle and started fingering my light, repeatedly pushing the yellow button that turned it off and on.

  "You didn't have this before, did you?"

  It was like him to notice anything new.

  "No," I said, "it was a Christmas gift."

  "From your mom?"

  "From my brother."

  "Scott?"

  "Yeah, Scott."

  "Scott's over at my house a lot. I like Scott."

  I smiled at that. He pushed the yellow button a few more times. There wasn't anything more to say. I slung my leg over the frame. "You should go home now, Michael," I said. "You're going to get drenched if you stay out."

  "Okay," he said. "See ya."

  As I pedaled off I looked over my shoulder. He was headed right back to the railroad trestle.

  My grades had arrived in the mail. I stared at the envelope for a while, took a deep breath, then ripped into it. Two C+'s, three B's, and an A in P.E. It wouldn't make my mother happy, but I'd be eligible to play.

  I stuck a frozen pizza into the oven. After I ate, I popped a Sonics tape into the VCR, one where Payton scored thirty points on Allen Iverson. It was a great game, but I didn't watch it closely. Mainly I listened for the gate to creak open.

  The Sonics game ended and I started on an old Tom Hanks movie. Still no Trent. Then, around nine, there was a lot of commotion at the Dawson house. Mrs. Dawson came down the front porch steps, yelling at Zack. Zack screamed right back. The shouting went on for at least five minutes before the Corolla raced off, tires squealing.

  That was that, I figured. No Trent. But a minute later I heard him on the court, and about ten seconds later I was headed out the back door. Once I stepped outside, I nodded to him. He nodded back, took a hard dribble, pulled up, missed a fifteen footer, and we were at it again.

  I don't know how long we went one-on-one. An hour maybe, with neither of us talking at all. Then—out of nowhere—Trent stopped. "You block out really well on the boards. Never foul or anything."

  "Thanks," I said, surprised. Then it hit me what he was after. "You want me to show you some tricks my dad taught me?"

  He dribbled the ball a couple of times. "Yeah, sure."

  So I broke down the moves for him, piece by piece. He was a quick learner, and within ten minutes he was blocking out better than I do. "That's good," I said. "Really good."

  He took a little jump shot, swished it, then looked at me. "I passed."

  "What?" I asked, not following.

  "My classes. I passed everything. I'm eligible."

  "That's great," I said, and I reached out and kind of shook his shoulder. "Way to go. You'll play a lot."

  "Think so?"

  "You bet. You bring that instant energy when you come in. You'll get minutes."

  He took another jump shot, missed long, retrieved it.

  "I've never played in a real game, with a scoreboard and real refs and all that stuff. I've never even had a uniform."

  "Well, you'll get one now. Coach will have one ready for you at the next practice. You wait and see."

  We shot a couple of times each, then he spoke again. "Do you keep them at the end of the season?"

  "Keep what?"

  "The uniforms. Do you keep them?"

  It was a good thing it was dark, because I had to smile at his question. He was like a kid at Christmas, all excited. "No," I said, making sure my voice was even. "They go back. As a matter of fact, if you don't get them washed and ironed, you pay a fine."

  The following night we played again. It was the last night Mom and Scott would be away. All in all, I was glad they were coming back—the house was lonely without them—but Mom wouldn't let me play basketball late into the night, the way I'd been doing, and I was going to miss that freedom.

  Something was wrong with Trent, though. He was edgy, fouling me more and scowling when I called him on it, acting a little like the Trent of old.

  Around ten o'clock, right when we were going at it hard, the gate opened. I picked up my dribble and squinted into the darkness. "Who's there?"

  Zack's voice rang out. "Come on, Trent, let's go."

  I could hear Trent breathing in the still air. "Where?"

  Zack's voice was commanding. "You know
where. Now come on."

  For a second, it was like being back at Canyon Park in the summer. Zack shows; Trent goes. Only this time Trent didn't go. "No. I'm playing basketball."

  Zack took a couple of steps forward. He patted the pocket of his jacket. "I got them."

  Trent dribbled the ball once, then held it. "I don't care. I'm playing basketball."

  Zack came right onto the court. "You promised me."

  Trent faced him down. "I promised nothing."

  For a long moment there was silence. Then Zack was gone, out of the yard. Seconds later the Corolla roared off into the night.

  "What was that all about?" I asked.

  "Nothing," Trent snapped. He bricked a jumper off the front rim. "Let's just play."

  He tried to get going, but his game was way off. Pretty soon he stopped entirely. "I've had enough," he mumbled.

  "Come on," I said. "A little longer."

  He shook his head, picked up his sweatshirt, and headed off the court. No liter of Pepsi, no talk.

  Inside, I took a shower. Then I went down to the kitchen and made myself a peanut butter sandwich. I was sitting at the table, looking out into the night, when I heard the first siren. After that there were three more, each one screaming down 104th toward Main Street.

  I slipped into the front room and looked across the street to the Dawson house. Nothing. Totally dark. But something kept me from going upstairs to bed. I sat down on the sofa by the window and waited.

  I didn't have to wait long. Within ten minutes a police car roared up the street. The tires squealed as it came to a halt in front of the Dawson house. One officer popped out of the car and raced around to the back. The other one was up the walkway and onto the porch, his hand on his gun. Seconds later another police car pulled up behind the first.

  I heard the knock all the way across the street—that's how loud it was. "Police! Open up!" For a while there was nothing, then the Dawson's front door opened and Ericka Dawson stepped onto the porch, pulling the door closed behind her. She talked to the policeman for a moment. He showed her something, then she stepped aside as he crossed the threshold into her house.

  The house had been dark, but within minutes every light was on. After what seemed like forever the policeman came out, alone. A little while later the first police car drove off. The motor on the second turned over, but instead of driving off, the car inched a hundred yards or so up the block, then came to a stop in a dark spot between streetlights. It was still sitting there an hour later when I finally went to bed.

  Chapter 10

  Early the next morning Scott and Mom returned. She'd bought some San Francisco sourdough bread at the airport, and we went into the kitchen and talked and ate. Scott unrolled a poster of whales from the Monterey aquarium, and he showed off the third-place medal he'd won at the jazz competition. "We got called back for two encores. It was awesome."

  "That's great," I said. "Congratulations."

  Then Mom started. She described the auditoriums, the audiences, the cheering. "Everywhere you turned there was music. The whole city was alive with it. Oh, I wish you could have been there!"

  They ran out of things to say just about when the bread was gone. There was a stretch of silence, then Scott stood. "I'm going to call Katya."

  "Scott, you spent every minute on the trip with her. Give the girl some room to breathe."

  "I told her I'd call. I can't not do it."

  Mom frowned, then took her suitcase to her bedroom. I wandered out to the front room, dropped onto the sofa, pulled the curtains back a bit, and peeked out across the street. The police car was gone, but in its place was another car I'd never seen on our block, a large, dark Chevy. A man was sitting inside reading a newspaper.

  A moment later Scott came downstairs. "That was quick," Mom said, coming out of her bedroom.

  "She wasn't home," Scott replied, worried.

  "So she went someplace," Mom replied. "She doesn't have to ask your permission, does she?"

  "But we were going into Seattle today. To Gameworks."

  "Give her a few minutes and call again. Only I'm warning you. You'll suffocate her if you don't give her some privacy."

  Scott went upstairs as Mom sat down in the chair across from me. "How about you? What did you do with yourself while we were gone, besides paint the bathroom? It looks great by the way. Thank you."

  "Nothing much. I watched some TV, read a little, shot some hoops."

  "Did your father come by?"

  I hadn't thought about him at all. "No, he didn't."

  She didn't say anything, but I could tell she was angry. I stood. "I'II be in the back," I said.

  "That basketball court has turned out to be a pretty good thing for you, hasn't it?"

  "Yeah, it has."

  I shot hoops for an hour or so. When I came back inside, the big Chevy was still parked up the block, and Scott was still moping around. "Has the newspaper come?" I asked him.

  "Yeah. Mom brought it in. It's on the table."

  Mom laughs at the Eastside Journal. She says that if a bomb exploded in their own office, the Seattle Times would have the story first. She subscribes only because I read the sports section cover-to-cover.

  I pulled off the rubber band. The paper unrolled in front of me. I'd intended to go right to the sports pages to see if they had the scores from the Victoria tournament, but the headline jumped out at me. BOTHELL YOUTH SHOT ON TRAIL. Quickly my eyes raced through the paragraphs. "Mom," I said as I read. "Scott. Come here."

  There must have been something in my voice that drew them, because they both came immediately.

  "What is it?" my mother said. "What's happened?"

  I pointed to the headline. "It's Michael Ushakov. He's been shot."

  Part Four

  Chapter 1

  It was as if an earthquake had rocked our house—everybody was reeling. Mom grabbed the newspaper from me, put a hand to her mouth, then dropped it, saying, "Oh my God."

  Scott went straight to the phone.

  "Don't bother," Mom said. "I'm sure she's at the hospital." Mom turned to me. "Does it say where they took him?"

  I snatched the newspaper from the ground. "Yeah, here it is. University Hospital."

  "We can be there in half an hour. Poor Mrs. Ushakov."

  Scott grabbed his coat. Mom looked around for her purse for a moment, found it, then turned to me. "Are you coming?"

  I shook my head. "I'd just be in the way."

  She didn't argue. "All right, but you're on your own. I don't know when we'll be back."

  A minute later she and Scott were gone. I stayed inside for maybe ten minutes, working up my courage. Then I opened the front door and walked out to the strange car. The man inside was reading the newspaper. I tapped on the window. "Are you a policeman?" I asked when he rolled it down.

  "What do you want, kid?"

  "I think I know something about what happened last night."

  He put the newspaper on the seat next to him and motioned toward my house. "You live there?"

  "Yeah."

  He pulled out his wallet, showed me his identification. "I'm Officer Tomlinson. How about if I come in and we talk?"

  I thought I knew so much, but I was finished in a couple of minutes. "Let me see if I've got this right," he said, looking over his notes. "You were playing basketball with Trent Dawson last night. Around ten, Zack Dawson came up. He seemed to have gotten hold of something, something Trent knew about. They argued a little, and then Zack left. Is that it?"

  I nodded.

  "But you didn't see what he had inside his coat?"

  "No."

  He tapped his pencil against his note pad. "How long did Trent stay with you once Zack had left?"

  I felt my chest tighten. "A while."

  "How long is 'a while'? Two minutes ... thirty ... an hour?"

  "At least ten minutes," I said. Then I added: "Probably more like twenty."

  He closed his notebook.

  I
screwed up my courage. "Was it Zack? Did he shoot Michael?"

  "I can't answer that," he said, standing. "But we'd sure like to talk to him. In fact, we'd like to talk with both Dawson boys. So if you see either of them, or they get in touch with you, you tell them that. And then you call us right away. You understand? Right away."

  He left, and not more than a minute later the telephone rang. I raced to pick it up, thinking it was Mom, but it was Luke. Earlier in the day I'd been hoping he'd call, but now the basketball team seemed as if it were part of a world I'd left.

  To him it was everything. I asked how Victoria had been, and his voice bubbled with excitement. "Great. We had tea at this huge old hotel, the Empress. I know it sounds stupid, but it was fun, like being in England. And there's this Miniature World where all the big battles from the two world wars are set up. There's another place called..." He rattled on and on, with me saying "Yeah" or "Sounds great" every thirty seconds or so. Finally he stopped.

  "How'd you do in the tournament?" I asked.

  He groaned. "We lost all three games. None was even close. We were totally squashed." He paused. "That's the bad news. The good news—for you—is how we lost. Fabroa got himself in foul trouble every game. And Chang just isn't quick enough to play point guard. The first night he got double-teamed and couldn't handle it. After that every team doubled him as soon as he touched the ball. Turnovers, fouls, sloppy defense. You name it; we did it. O'Leary was going absolutely crazy on the bench."

  "That's too bad," I said.

  "Yeah, yeah. For the team. But not for you. With a couple of good practices, you'll be starting Thursday against Lake Washington." He paused, waiting for me to show some excitement. When I didn't, he noticed. "Something wrong, Nick?"