How Lamar's Bad Prank Won a Bubba-Sized Trophy (10 page)

“Sure, Washington. Our cab's on the way. I'll be there in a minute.”

I want to scream like the pro athletes do when they pull off something spectacular. I want to spray paint
KING OF STRIKER'S WAS HERE
on their rides.

I'm outside airboxing, throwing jabs and hooks, bobbing and weaving, feeling untouchable. Billy shuffles out with his uncle Mickey. The big guy waves and drives away in an old truck just as our cab pulls up. Billy drops forty bucks on the front seat for the driver, then gives me four crisp one-hundred-dollar bills.

“You rock, Washington! I can't believe how you totally humiliated them! This is the best payday I've had all summer. You've made enough money in three days to buy your own Pro Thunder. Three days! Essays are for Siss-ays, know what I mean? Next time I'll triple our bet.”

I stare at my open hand with four large bills sitting in it. I've got enough money right now to buy two Pro Thunders, and that doesn't include what's in my Bank of Lamar at home. Billy's right. I'll put cash on the counter, baby, just like a real man. I'm at the top of my game and no one can handle me.

Billy and I relive the entire game while riding in the cab. I'm laughing and watching signs on
billboards as we ride by. One particular billboard catches my eyes and drops four hundred dollars' worth of guilt in my lap.

Billy's still bumping his gums about the game, but I've mentally checked out of that conversation. What have I done? What the heck am I doing? Pete was right. How would Bubba feel if he knew I faked the funk? And before I can dog myself for bringing shame to my game, Sergio's angry face visits my conscience and tells me what I already know.

You cheated.

E
arly Monday morning I sit on my bed and make myself a promise. No more cheating. I don't care what Billy says. I cross my heart and move on because I've got money to count.

All my money is spread across the bed. I need a drumroll.

One hundred, two hundred, three hundred, four hundred, four hundred and fifty, sixty, sixty-five, sixty-six, sixty-seven, sixty-eight dollars and forty-four, forty-five, forty-six cents! Holy guacamole—$468.46! I stuff the $8.46 in my pocket; $460.00 is a nice round number. I put the top on my bank and place it back in my closet.

I rush to my computer and pull up several different websites for bowling equipment. One store in town has Bubba's Pro Thunders on sale for $205.00. Yes! Yes! I dance around the room and congratulate myself for being the man. I did it!

Mom would be so proud of me. Maybe not for the gutter balls, but overall, she'd give me a thumbs-up. I sit on my bed and think about her. Birds chirping outside bring me back from deep thoughts.

I need to get to the lanes. This may be the last day I bowl with a house ball. There should be a way I can mark this moment as another part of my dud-to-stud transformation. Bump that. I'm out. Two blocks from Striker's, I see my boy strolling down the street. Okay, I can do this. Don't mention anything about yesterday.

“Yo, Sergio!”

He stops and waits for me. “Are you heading to Striker's?”

I nod. “Heck yeah, it's two-for-one hot dog day. I'll walk with you.”

Sergio checks his watch. “I'm meeting Tasha. Don't forget Bubba's rolling this afternoon. It's that big tournament in Arizona. He won it last year.”

I pretend the sidewalk is a bowling lane and roll an imaginary ball.

“He bowled straight gas last year. One of his games was a two-ninety-eight, two pins away from a perfect game—it was so awesome. The tournament starts at five right?”

“Yep, and I've already told Tasha I'm leaving early.”

I open the door to Striker's. “I'm leaving early, too. So if you don't see me, that's what's up.”

I love Mondays at Striker's. It's never wall-to-wall crowded. Hot dogs are two for the price of one, and I purposely skip breakfast because those dogs are barking good.

Sergio and I walk in. Tasha strolls over, ignores me as usual, and takes all of my boy's attention. I get my two dogs, rental shoes, and ball because I don't want to talk to her anyway. I'm way down on lane thirty-eight. There's no one on the left or right of me.

This is perfect. I just want to roll alone. I deserve a private celebration for what I've accomplished. Today, I don't want my cell phone to buzz. I don't want Sergio and Tasha bugging me. Makeda's my girl, but today, I want to roll solo.

I do crazy stuff like bowl between my legs and bowl backward. I try curve balls and even bowl with my left hand. When I'm through, I head to the snack bar and order a big plate of French fries.
Sergio and Tasha are three tables away, but I can hear Tasha the Tick sucking more blood out of my boy.

“Just twenty dollars, Sergio. Come on, I really want these earrings.”

I purposely push my napkin off the counter. As I reach to get it, I see Sergio snap a crisp twenty out of his wallet. He glances over his shoulder, and I make sure he sees me watching him. Tasha gives Sergio a peck on the cheek and leaves. I wipe my mouth with my wrist, eat the last two fries, and leave him sitting there too.

“Later, Sergio. Don't forget Bubba's rolling at five.”

He nods but doesn't say anything. If I could shake some sense into my boy, I would. Sometimes he just refuses to see the truth. Some things I just can't talk to him about.

 

My watch shows four thirty. I rush into the house and make two salami sandwiches and a glass of chocolate milk, then move to the living room. ESPN is showing highlights of yesterday's baseball games.

I settle in and take a bite of my sandwich when X stands in front of the television with his hands behind his back. His flaring nose and fiery eyes put me on red alert.

“What do you want, X?”

“Dad's working another double shift. He wants you to fix us dinner.”

I don't want any trouble, so I slide him my other sandwich.

“Here.”

X brings his right hand from behind his back.

“I don't want your stupid sandwich. I just want you to see
this
. Look what Dad found.”

It's a bowling trophy. I reach for it, but he keeps it from my grasp. I don't know if I'm excited to see it or sad that I won't be the first Washington to showcase a bowling award. X points to the mantel.

“It needs to go up there.”

I take another bite of my sandwich. “Then move one of your trophies to make room.”

I chug my chocolate milk but watch X pace like a restless caged panther. His steps are silent. I'm scared to move. I've seen his anger before, but he's never been like this. So I try to slow his roll.

“Okay. You're right. Dad's trophy needs to go up there. Maybe you can take one of yours down and give Dad some space. Oh, I know, then Dad can have a bowling trophy up there and when I get mine, I can take Mom's note down and put my trophy up.”

By the look on his face, my idea was not the one he had in mind. Actually, he seems angrier than
before. So I come right out and ask him what's up.

“You got a problem, X?”

“What's
your
problem, Lamar? Dad's into basketball. He's into me. You think you and Dad are going to have some bowling bond, some trophy tie? No. I'm not moving any of my trophies. The note needs to come down now.”

“It says ‘Reserved for Lamar's first trophy.' Not Dad's, not yours.”

He keeps pacing. “The only way a bowling trophy makes this mantel is if I stick Dad's up there. Get real. You're never going to bring home the hardware.”

I put my sandwich down. “Shut up, X—that's not true.”

He stops in front of Mom's note. “When Mom tacked that yellow Post-it for you, I'm sure she believed you'd have
something
up there by now.”

My face warms and I stand in front of the couch. “Shut up!”

“Aren't you embarrassed by that? I can't believe she tagged you as the superstar of this family. You're a total disgrace to her memory.”

I can't take it. “I said shut up! That's between me and her. Just give Dad one of
your
stupid spaces.”

“No way. My trophies deserve to be up there. Dad's trophy deserves to be up there.”

He stops in front of Mom's note. Our eyes lock.

He's dead red. I'm code blue.

“Please, don't do it, X.”

His arm reaches up and I dash toward the mantel, but I'm a step too late.

“No, don't!”

R-r-rip.

I lunge and knock him to the floor. My sandwich flies, my glass rolls. Dad's trophy falls from Xavier's hand.

With both fists, I pound him over and over again. “I hate you!”

He grabs my arms and flips me. My head bangs the floor. His fists pound my face, shoulders, chest, and stomach. One solid blow connects with my chin. I taste blood oozing from inside my mouth. Soon, the only fists flying are his. And he talks to me with each brutal blow.

“I hate you, too, Lamar. No matter how many trophies I put on that mantel, it was never enough for Mom. You were her favorite. But guess what? You're not getting Dad.”

I close my eyes and take the worst beat-down of my life. Please, just let me pass out. Maybe if he hits me enough, I'll go be with Mom. But he stops, crumples Mom's note, and throws it at my chest.

“If it means that much to you, post it in your room. But this mantel's for real champions.”

He steps over me, opens the front door, and slams it closed. I reach for Dad's trophy. It hurts to move. I manage to stand and place it above the fireplace where Mom's note used to be.

It's their mantel now, not mine.

I swallow the blood puddle in my jaw and stagger to my room. Mom's note is in my balled hand. I uncurl my fingers.

Oh God. It's bad. I rush to my bed and place the note next to me. I try to straighten out what X did. But I can't. It's crumpled and wounded. One edge is torn. I place it on my lap.

It's weak and sick just like Mom was when she died. I close my eyes and wish I hadn't. I beg the memory to stop.
No, please don't take me back to the funeral.
But it's too late.

The pews are packed. Our red-and-white-robed choir sings “Amazing Grace” as I slump in the front row at Second Baptist Church in a black suit I swore I'd never wear again. I hate that suit and that song. Dad's crying. Xavier covers his face. I'm not crying. I'm begging Mom to get up. But she doesn't. So I stare at my black shoes just so I won't look at her casket.

A quick shake of my head snaps me back. I force my eyes to open. Tears race down my face. I press the note against my chest to protect it from the steady flow of water dripping from my chin.

My chest tightens so I reach for my inhaler and shake it.

Swoosh!

Again.

Swoosh!

There's a rumble in my stomach. I feel the eruption working its way to my mouth. I scream at Xavier, even though I know he's gone.

“I hate your guts! I hate you! Do you hear me?”

I'm burning with pain and anger. It's Xavier's fault. He needs to know how this feels. I just want to go in his room and set everything on fire.

Wait.

My conversation with Billy rewinds and replays in my head:
Don't let X push you around…. If X goes crazy again, hit him where it hurts the most…. I mean basketball. He loves hoops more than anything…. Remember what I told you about pulling the fire alarm at my dad's job? It totally worked.

I pull the cell phone from my pocket and hit redial.

“Hello?”

“Billy, it's Lamar.”

“Dude, did you get your ball? I told you my way is the fast track.”

I clamp my teeth so I won't cry. “I don't want to talk about that.”

Silence stalls the conversation.

“Where are you, Washington? What happened? Talk to me.”

“It doesn't matter. I'm going to pull the fire alarm at the game tomorrow.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“Wow. Okay, you called the right person. Let's talk tomorrow at Striker's. Ten o'clock.”

“I'll be there.”

“Don't back out,” says Billy.

I wipe blood from my lip. “Trust me, I won't.”

M
y mouth hurts and my left eye stings. I can't sleep. I turn on the radio and plug in my earphones, then switch the station to heavy metal. Angry music is what I want to hear.

I listen for hours. I don't remember falling asleep, but I must've, because I freak when a lead guitar hits a high note and the singer matches it. I yank my plugs out and open my eyes. Morning's here.

In the bathroom, I check out the damage to my face. My left eye is barely open. It's puffy at the top and bottom. My lip doesn't look any different from the outside, but inside it feels bumpy and swollen.
My chest hurts, but it feels a lot better than it did last night.

I breathe in through my nose and exhale from my mouth. This is stupid. I'm not doing these chump exercises today. I get dressed, lace my Jordans, and turn off the light.

Dad's walking around in the living room. I wait for him to retreat to his room, because I'm not doing my chores today either. A pair of sunglasses hides my puffy eye and guards it from the heat of the sun. Our Xavier-loving neighbors shout “Go Coffin!” as I walk by, but I don't return the greeting.

I can't wait to get to Striker's. I'll roll as many strikes as I can, because a strike makes an X light up on the scoreboard and I'll imagine that I'm really lighting up X.

My shades stay on while I get my rental shoes and a lane assignment. I'm on lane fifteen, waiting on Billy. He's late. I check my phone. It's charged and working. I'm thinking about rolling a game to calm my nerves when I hear my name.

Makeda and an older, thin woman with skinny wrists stand near me. The woman smiles, and it takes every muscle in my face to return it. I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose like Dr. Avery does and hope no one says anything about me wearing them.

“Hey, Lamar. What's up with the sunglasses?”

Dang.

“I'm having some problems with my left eye. Lots of light hurts, so I'm wearing these.”

“Can I take a look?”

“No! I mean, it'll hurt.”

“I'm sorry.” She turns to the lady with her. “Lamar, this is Ms. Worthy. Ms. Worthy, Lamar.”

“It's nice to meet you, Lamar. Makeda tells me you're a good bowler.”

I shrug, and even that hurts. “I'm pretty good.”

Ms. Worthy sits next to me and scans the bowling alley. “I used to bowl. It was so much fun. I can't for the life of me remember why I stopped. Maybe I'll start back up again.”

I nod. “You should, Ms. Worthy. Lots of old people bowl.”

I look at my girl. She's shaking her head, so I flip the switch and work my charm.

“And lots of young people, too, like you and me and Makeda.”

The happy returns to my girl's face. She touches me on the shoulder and I wince.

“Are you sure you're okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Ms. Worthy and I are going to the mall and then to see a movie. Wanna come?”

Double no.

“No thanks. I'm going to hang out here for a while, but have fun.”

I walk them to the exit.

“It was nice meeting you, Lamar,” says Ms. Worthy.

“You, too. Makeda's like the best person in the world for that counselor position. You'd totally mess up if you didn't hire her.”

She smiles, and I open the door for her and my girl. They walk out and I feel like I've done my job.

At eleven o'clock Billy makes his way to lane fifteen. He stops in front of me.

“What's with the shades?”

I take them off and he doesn't budge.

“That's a beauty. Put any ice on it?”

I put them back on. “Can we talk about what we planned to talk about?”

He drops his gear. “Sure. Let's rock and talk, Washington.”

Billy sits next to me. “Okay. First of all, are we really going to do this?”

“Yes.”

He leans in. “Here's my rule: If you get caught tonight, you don't mention anything about me, got it? I mean ever.”

“Yeah.”

“Same thing goes for me. If I get caught, I'll never mention your name, understand? My word
is good, Washington. Is your word good?”

“Good as yours.”

“Cool. Okay, let's talk about specifics. The game starts at five. Plan to meet at the concession stand during halftime.”

Billy checks the lanes on both sides of us. “Let's bowl so we don't look suspicious.”

I can't focus. I've done nothing to prepare myself to bowl. I hear Billy's ball hit the wood and roll down the lane, but I don't care.

Billy sits next to me. “You remember where the alarm is, don't you?”

I look to the side of me. Billy wipes his hands with his bowling towel. He tilts his head and nods toward the lane.

“Go bowl, Washington. You're too tight. You gotta get some of that off you.”

With everything I have, I chuck that twelve-pound ball down the lane. My shoulder and arm throb, but I need that ball to connect with something, just like X's fist did. I've never been so happy to totally annihilate seven pins. The best thing is I get to roll again. I miss everything.

“Tough break, Washington.”

“I don't care. Let's finish talking about tonight.”

“Sure. Okay, you're going to need a lookout man. That's me. I'm going to stand in the hall near the men's room and make sure nobody comes
back there. If I see someone heading that way, I'll give you a signal like a whistle or something, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good. Now, let's get our timing down. As soon as the halftime buzzer sounds and people start crowding the concession stand, we'll make our first move. Go to the bathroom across from the computer room, walk into a stall, and stay there. I'll do the same. We'll stay there until the buzzer sounds for the third quarter to begin.”

So far this sounds good. “Okay, then what?”

“Once we know the restroom is clear, I'll leave first to make sure no one is watching. Wait one minute, and then you come out. This way, it won't look like we're together.”

I nod. “That makes sense.”

“Okay, here comes the important part, Washington. I'm going to have a book with me. I'll slide down the wall not far from the bathroom and pretend to read. Most security people won't bother kids reading. When you come out of the bathroom, if I nod yes, go down the hall and stand by the alarm. If I shake my head, it means we'll have to do it some other time.”

“Okay.”

Billy gets his ball off the ball return. “So I'll nod and you race to your spot. Once you get there,
count to fifty and pull the alarm.”

“Okay, then what?”

“Then nothing. You're done. Stay with the crowd and blend in.”

“I can do that.”

“You better. You'll only get one shot.”

Billy paces in front of me. “You're doing the right thing, Washington. He crossed the line and you need to let him know.”

I put my hand up toward his face. “I don't need a pep talk. I need a partner.”

“I'm your man, bro.”

He steps up to the approach line, rolls a spinner down the lane, and kills eight pins. He spares with the second ball.

I stand to leave. “Anything else you need to tell me?”

“Yeah. This is your last chance to back out.”

I kick off my bowling shoes. “It's yours, too.”

“I'm in,” Billy says.

“Then I'll see you tonight.”

 

After bowling I'm not ready to go home, so I drop a few coins in the Indy 500 racing game and take a seat behind the wheel. I hit the gas and shift gears like I'm really in the race. The more I think about what Xavier did, the faster I go. It's not long before I crash into several other cars and my game's over.
I shove more coins in and try again. This time I lose control and smash my car into the wall. I hit the steering wheel with my hand and get up.

Next I try pinball. I flip that ball out, and the machine lights up as the ball makes contact with bumpers.

Bing. Bing-bing.

Here comes that ball, straight down the middle, in between my flippers. I nudge the machine to change the ball's path and everything stops. The word
TILT
lights up. What a rip-off. I try every game in the arcade, but today's just not my day. It's time to go.