Night Hoops Page 7

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Zack Dawson. Two police cars came roaring up our block about an hour ago. It was quite a scene. One cop went around the back. The other knocked on the front door. They were inside for about ten minutes, then they led Zack away—in handcuffs. Mrs. Dawson was screaming at them from the front porch, calling them every name in the book. I'm telling you, it was something."

  As he spoke I felt myself going pale. "What did he do?"

  Scott shrugged. "How should I know? Stole something, probably. Or drugs. There are about a million things he could have done." He stopped, then looked at me. "What's wrong with you?"

  "Nothing's wrong with me," I snapped, suddenly angry. "But there's something wrong with you. You act happy to see Zack get arrested."

  His back stiffened. "Since when have you been big buddies with Zack Dawson? It seems to me a couple months ago he almost killed you."

  "I'm not big buddies with Zack Dawson, or with Trent. But it doesn't make me happy to see them get in trouble. And I don't see why it should make you happy either."

  I pushed past him and went to the kitchen, pulling the door closed behind me. I grabbed some Oreos and milk from the refrigerator, and then sat down and ate.

  In eighth grade our class had gone on a field trip to the juvenile detention center. Before we'd gone, I'd figured the place would be a dump, with busted toilets and graffiti on the walls, like something from an old movie. But it was the opposite—spotlessly clean and modern, with a nice basketball court, a computer lab, a big library.

  That was the first shock. The second was that the kids locked up in there didn't look that different from me. They were a little older, but not much. They wore orange jumpsuits and laughed loudly with one another as they moved from one room to the next. You could have told yourself they were having fun if it weren't for the double set of doors that locked them in and the guards that stood at those doors. Before we left the guides showed us the rooms the kids slept in. They were tiny little rooms, bare and cold. It spooked me to think that Zack was in one of those rooms.

  I had to do something, so I went out to the basketball court. It felt good to pick up the basketball, to eye the hoop. I knocked down a three-pointer, retrieved the ball, and knocked down another one. That was more like it. I worked the ball between my legs, behind my back, controlling it as though it were a yo-yo on a string. I blocked out everything except the season coming up, the game on Thursday, and the minutes I was going to play.

  After dinner I sat at my desk. Instead of doing my homework, I put my pencil down and listened to the sounds of the night. A car on 104th. A fire truck somewhere far off. Another car. Some dog, barking his fool head off. Something felt wrong.

  Then it hit me. It wasn't any new sound that had thrown me off; it was a missing sound. Trent wasn't practicing with Steve Clay.

  The Dawson house was shut up tight the next morning, and Trent wasn't at school either. Rumors floated around. Someone said Zack and Trent had been shooting a gun down by the trail. Somebody else said that they'd stolen a bunch of guitars from Mills Music. There was talk of broken windows at the school district offices, and swastikas painted on the outside of a synagogue in Redmond.

  At practice Coach O'Leary stayed in his office while we ran through warm-ups. We could see him in there talking on the phone. When he finally came out, he called us together. "What do you bet Trent Dawson's no longer on this team?" Carver whispered as we shuffled over to O'Leary.

  "You got that right," McShane agreed softly.

  O'Leary's normally cheerful face seemed topsy-turvy. The corners of his mouth were down and his eyes drooped. He waited for absolute silence before he began.

  "I won't beat around the bush. You know the police were here talking to Trent after practice yesterday. The long and the short of it is that they took him into custody. I spoke with Trent last night and again today, and he has given me his word that he has done nothing wrong. I accept his word, and I fully expect that when the investigation is over he will be cleared and that he will return to this team." He paused. "Any questions?"

  Every one of us wanted to know what was being investigated, but nobody had the courage to ask.

  "All right then," O'Leary said. "Let's get to work."

  It was our last practice before the season started, and it was our worst. Guys were chirping at each other, acting more like opponents than teammates. Every time the gym door opened O'Leary stared toward it. When the two hours ended, it was like being released from the dentist's chair. Not exactly the way to start a season.

  Part Three

  Chapter 1

  The next night, we opened the season against the Juanita Rebels at their gym. They had decent players at every position, and they had an all-star at guard, a six-four guy named Matthew Jefferson. When I played, I'd be guarding him.

  There was no practice on game days, so as soon as school ended I walked straight home. Once I reached my block, I sneaked a peek over at the Dawson house. The shades were down; the curtains drawn. It looked like a house with a sick person in it.

  When I opened the front door, Scott was sprawled out on the sofa, blowing into the mouthpiece of his trumpet. "Are they back?" he asked in a monotone.

  "What?"

  "Zack and Trent. I saw you staring at their house. Are they back?"

  "Are you spying on me now?"

  He gave me a pained look. "I'm sitting here on the sofa looking out the window and I see you staring at the Dawson house for about five minutes. I wouldn't call that spying, would you? Now, are they back?"

  "No, they're not."

  I started toward the kitchen. "I heard what happened," he said, still using that irritating monotone. "I got it all from Katya. You interested?"

  I turned back. "You know I am."

  He stretched his arms above his head, yawned. "A couple of mornings ago a cyclist found some dead chickens and roosters down on the Burke-Gilman trail. They'd been clubbed with a baseball bat or something. It happened right where Zack and Trent hang out. The police asked around, and it turns out Michael Ushakov saw them do it."

  "Michael did? Are you sure?"

  Scott lowered his voice, as if someone might overhear. "Don't say anything to Katya, but this is where it gets tricky. You know Michael. Sometimes he says it was Zack. Sometimes he says it was Trent. Sometimes he says it was both of them."

  I bit my lower lip. "What do you think will happen?"

  "Who knows? Nothing, probably, unless they admit it. I can't see Michael testifying in court, can you?"

  I shook my head. "No, I can't." Then, for the second time, I headed toward the kitchen.

  "Dad called," Scott said.

  Again I turned back. "What did he say?"

  Scott shrugged. "Just that he'll be at the game."

  "Nothing else?"

  "I didn't pick up. The message is on the machine if you want to listen to it."

  "What do you mean you didn't pick up?"

  His face went red. "It's you he wanted to talk to, Nick, not me. I don't think it's even occurred to him that the band will be playing tonight."

  We looked at each other for a long moment. Then he stuck the mouthpiece back into his trumpet and started flipping through his music book. A second later he was blowing on the horn, loud and clear.

  Chapter 2

  Mom came home early and stuck some sort of pizza into the microwave for dinner. It wasn't a lot, which was perfect, because I was so nervous I couldn't have eaten much without puking.

  Getting out to the car was a major production. First I forgot my basketball shoes. Then Scott had to go back inside for some sheet music. When Mom finally backed the car into the driveway, she realized she'd left her purse on the kitchen table. So it was back into the house one more time.

  When I reached the locker room, my body felt incredibly cold. It was a raw December day, maybe forty degrees outside, with rain and wind, but the cold was from inside me. I wasn't alone. Nobody looked good. Not
Luke, not Fabroa or Chang or Markey or McShane. Not even Carver.

  Ten minutes before we were to take the court, Coach O'Leary called us together. He was all business. "The Jefferson kid is the guy we have to contain. Notice I didn't say 'stop.' I said 'contain.' He's too good to be stopped. I'm not worried about his points, so long as he has to work for them. It's his defense that scares me. He's got long arms and good court sense. If they press us, don't loop passes over him. He'll pick them off and be dunking in your face. Guards, come back for the ball, dribble up the center of the court, and don't stop dribbling unless you've got someone to pass to. Forwards, stay out of the corners. Either drive straight to the basket or give up the ball to a guard so we can run a set play. Got it?"

  The senior starters all said "Yeah!" real loud, while the rest of us croaked out a weaker version of the same word. "All right, let's go get 'em," O'Leary cried, clapping his hands.

  During our lay-in and passing drills, I sneaked a peak into the stands. Right away I caught Dad's eye. He was beaming ear-to-ear and gave me two thumbs up. I looked for Mom then, but she wasn't there. For an instant I figured she must be buying food or drink or something, and then I remembered. They wouldn't be sitting together, not at this game, not at any game. She'd be on the other side of the gym, near the band and Scott. I wanted to wheel around and look for her, but I couldn't, not with O'Leary barking out last-minute instructions.

  The horn sounded. The starters shuffled onto the court, acting as if they were in no hurry at all. I took a seat on the bench next to Luke, about halfway down.

  You're not supposed to root against a guy on your own team, but it's hard to be riding the pines and not have some negative thoughts creep in. Carlos Fabroa had the job I wanted. If he did well, I was going to sit. But if he struggled, I just might get a chance.

  Fabroa did okay for the first few minutes, keeping his dribble alive until he could make the smart pass. But breaking a press a couple of times isn't the same as breaking it over and over.

  Jaunita led by two near the end of the first quarter, when he made his first terrible pass, a rainbow lob that their center picked off. Immediately they were off to the races, with Jefferson taking a pass in stride and throwing down a thunderous one-handed jam that electrified the crowd and totally rattled Fabroa.

  Fabroa took the in-bounds pass; the double-team came at him. He tried to split the defenders, but dribbled the ball off his knee. Two seconds later Jefferson nailed a three-point shot from the corner. In less than five seconds Juanita's two-point lead had grown to seven.

  "Nick! Luke!" Coach O'Leary yelled down the bench. We both popped up. "Get in there for Fabroa and Markey. And make something happen."

  My skin went completely dry as I knelt at the scorer's table waiting for the next dead ball. When I actually took the court, my knees felt like metal hinges holding together two rigid boards. The ref handed the ball to Luke, he in-bounded to me, and I was playing in my first varsity game.

  There was no chance to ease into the game, not with Jefferson guarding me. I drove hard to my right, lost him a little when I went behind my back with my dribble, and then cut straight toward the hoop. Carver's man rotated to me, and I made a bounce pass to Darren for the lay-in. Then I was back-pedaling, looking to pick up Jefferson, totally in the flow.

  The rest of that half was like a track meet. Up and down the court we went, Juanita trying to disrupt our rhythm with their press, while we tried to make them pay for it with aggressive drives to the hoop. When the halftime buzzer sounded, we were up 36–32, and I still hadn't come out.

  O'Leary kept both Luke and me out there to start the second half. I wanted to show him he was right to do it, but Jefferson was bigger than I was, and stronger. Toward the middle of the third quarter Juanita started posting me up. Jefferson would take the entry pass, everybody would clear out, and then he'd methodically back me down toward the hoop. When he had me where he wanted me, he'd give me a little pump fake or two, and then either spin by me or shoot over me. They scored on three out of four possessions using that same play, and twice I fouled him.

  It was the fouls that stuck me on the bench at the start of the fourth quarter. That and the fact that I was so tired I was late getting back on defense. Luke came out with me, and we sat side-by-side, sweat dripping off us, watching.

  The score was knotted at 57 when we left the floor. Nothing terrible happened, no 10–0 run or anything, but little by little Juanita pulled away. A three-point lead became five, then seven. With four minutes left their coach took Jefferson out, figuring the game was wrapped up.

  Still Luke and I sat.

  They led 68–58 with under three minutes left when Luke and I finally returned. Two things made me think we still could win. I felt fresh, and Luke had that look in his eyes. Besides, the Juanita guys thought they had the game. They'd stopped pressing, and they weren't being careful with the ball. Jefferson was leaning back on the bench smiling, taking congratulations from fans in the first row, waiting for the clock to run out.

  They didn't know about Luke's hot streaks. He caught fire right when we needed it, and I fed him the ball just the way you'd feed a campfire. He filled the basket. A three-pointer from the corner. A driving, spinning lay-in. A miss from the top of the key. But then two more three-pointers, both from well outside the arc. By the time the Juanita coach finally got a time out, we were up 75–74 and it was our fans, and our band, that was raising the roof.

  Jefferson came back in, along with the other first-stringers, rested, but also out of sync. They hadn't expected to return; in their minds they were at the pizza parlor telling their girlfriends about all the shots they'd made.

  The momentum was ours, but we just couldn't put them away. Our lead was three, then five, then three, then one: 83–82. That was the score when, with less than a minute left, Chang was open for a three-pointer from the corner. I hit him with a perfect pass and he went up in rhythm. In the air the shot looked good. I was certain it was going to be the dagger to the heart, but the ball hit the back rim and bounded high into the air. Juanita's center snatched the rebound, called time out, and it was anybody's game.

  We huddled around O'Leary. I could see him eyeing me, see the worry in his eyes. He looked toward Fabroa. Was he going to take me out? He couldn't. I had to finish the game. I had to! He coughed, then motioned for me to come closer. I was staying in.

  "Listen up," O'Leary said. "Somehow or other, they'll get the ball to Jefferson. Nick, you get out on him, you hear me? Make sure he puts the ball on the floor and drives to the hoop. No open jumpers. Understand?

  "Now for the rest of you. As soon as Jefferson puts the ball on the floor, I want whoever is closest to rotate off his man and double-team. If you're not sure it's you, go after him. Even a triple-team is okay by me. If Jefferson makes the good pass, and some other guy makes the shot, then I'll tip my cap to them and say good game. But I don't want Jefferson beating us. Make him pass the ball." The horn sounded. We headed back to the court. "And box out!" O'Leary yelled after us. "No second chances."

  Just as O'Leary had predicted, Juanita worked a screen to get the ball to Jefferson on the right side, about eighteen feet from the hoop. Once Jefferson had the ball, they cleared out the side, setting it up for him to work me one-on-one.

  Jefferson dropped both shoulders low and swung the ball in front of me. My eyes were locked on the ball as he moved it side to side. But my mind was going, too. He was good, but not so good that he'd try to make a long jumper at that moment. I backed off a little, just six inches, to give myself an edge when he did finally put the ball on the floor, in case I didn't get the double-team help. I didn't want him dunking in my face.

  Then it happened, quicker than quick. The instant Jefferson saw me back off, he rose for his jumper. Awkwardly I lunged toward him, but I was too late to get a hand in his face; too late to bother his shot at all.

  I'll never forget his eyes. They were incredibly intense, totally focused on the hoop. His rel
ease was perfect, the spin on the ball was perfect, the arc was perfect. Swish! Nothing but net. He drained that shot as though he was playing horse with his buddies in mid-July.

  I looked to our bench. O'Leary had his hands in the air, his eyes were closed, and his face was contorted with pain. "No! No! No!" he was shouting. Juanita had the lead back with seventeen seconds left.

  We had no time-outs. Luke in-bounded to me. A feeling of panic, of desperation, overcame over me. I'd blown it!

  I brought the ball across the center line, my heart racing. Jefferson came out on me, picked me up. Carver clapped his hands, calling for the ball, but I wasn't giving it up. "Be the man." That's what my dad had said. Jefferson had burned me; now I was going to scorch him.

  I turned my back to the basket and started backing Jefferson down, bumping against him, working closer and closer to the hoop. Luke flashed into the key, looking for a pass, but I let him go. This was me against Jefferson.

  I could hear the crowd counting down the seconds. Eight ... seven ... six ... five ... I gave Jefferson my best head fake. He didn't bite. I gave him another one, and another. Still, he held his ground. Three ... two. ... In desperation I turned baseline, hoping to get off a fade-away jumper. But he was all over me. I couldn't jump, couldn't even see the basket. All I saw was his hand. Still I released the ball.

  It went about an inch. Then Jefferson stuffed the ball right back in my face, stuffed me so hard I fell flat on my back, the ball landing on my belly as I fell.

  The horn sounded. Juanita fans rose in a great roar of happiness. The Juanita players hugged Jefferson and then high-fived each other. I closed my eyes and lay there, hoping that when I opened them it would turn out to have been a bad dream.