How Lamar's Bad Prank Won a Bubba-Sized Trophy (2 page)

S
ince Mom died, every woman in Coffin's been trying to raise me. They put me on blast, asking embarrassing questions in front of God and everybody. I'm strutting down the street when Mrs. Ledbetter waves from the side of her driveway, where she's planting flowers. She's a big woman with a butt so wide, it wipes all the dirt off the side of her car when she stands to greet me.

“Hi Lamar. Aren't you hot? You've got to be burning up with that enormous crop of hair on your scalp. You're making me hot just looking at you.”

“No, ma'am. I'm not hot.”

“Even though my husband's a retired barber, he still sees well enough to give you a haircut.”

“I like my hair, Mrs. Ledbetter. But when I'm ready for a haircut, I'll come see Mr. Ledbetter, okay? See you later.”

She waves again. “Okay, baby. You get back home before dark.”

I nod and keep walking. Farther down the street, four-hundred-year-old Ms. Gibson screams at me from her rocker. Sometimes her words are slurred, so I have to listen very closely.

“Good mo'nin', Xavier. How'd you do in school?”

She can't see, either. Ms. Gibson always gets me and my brother confused. And we just had this school conversation yesterday
and
the day before. Her memory's bad, but her hearing is worse.

I scream back to her. “Made the honor roll again. And I'm Lamar.”

“Oh that's won-ner-ful, just won-ner-ful! Your momma woulda been so happy. Are you eating enough fiber? You walk like you're constipated. I've got something special in the house for that if you need some assistance. Want me to go get it, Xavier?”

Two guys I go to school with pass me and chuckle. I give up just so I can leave.

“No, ma'am. I'm good. But thanks anyway. I'll
see you later, Ms. Gibson.”

She didn't hear me. I can't walk fast enough. If there was another route to Striker's, I'd be all over it. I bet X doesn't get the third degree from Mrs. Ledbetter or Ms. Gibson. No way. He probably gets homemade pies brought to him with a fork and a cold glass of milk. But me, I get questions about haircuts from blind barbers and old remedies for clogged shooters. Geez. I need to bowl.

Striker's is up ahead, and I can't wait to get inside. As I cross the parking lot, I see a flyer taped to the door.
Hmm.
That wasn't there yesterday. Maybe it's about a new summer league.

I step up to the glass door and cup my hands to the sides of my face to block the sun's glare. As I lean in and read, my forehead wrinkles. My eyebrows almost touch.

What? Is this some kind of joke?

I back away and look for a prankster waiting to yell “Boo-ya!” or “Gotcha!” but it doesn't happen. I'm alone. So I step up to the glass one more time, cup my hands, and eyeball every word.

Goose bumps ripple across my skin. I begin to wheeze. Without taking my eyes off the flyer, I find my inhaler in my pocket, wrap my lips around the mouthpiece, and squish a mist down my throat. It can't be a joke! Holy guacamole!

I yank the front door open and step inside. Striker's is packed. Every lane is occupied. Hip-hop music blares from the speakers and rumbles through me. The hypnotic smells of hot buttered popcorn, pepperoni pizza, and burgers own the air. A bowler on lane fifteen lets go of a tight, silent spinner. His body curves as his ball turns toward the headpin.

POW!

Bowlers on the left and right give him props. He pumps his fist and celebrates. The music, the smells, the bowling—they're calling me because every day is party day at Striker's. I'm ready to join the fun, but first I've got to find Sergio.

“Lamar!”

I whip around. Sergio is sitting in the snack bar area with Tasha. He points toward the door. “I know you saw the flyer!”

I rush and greet him with a double fist bump. I even nod at his stuck-up girlfriend, who never speaks to me. Just to make her mad, I pull up a seat and squeeze it in between them.

“Yo, Sergio, this is crazy! I can't believe Bubba's coming to Coffin. I've got a ton of things to ask him. Do you think he'll talk to me? I've got to meet him, Sergio. You know he's my number one.”

Bubba should be every bowler's number one, because he is the biggest, baddest bowler on the
planet.
Bowler's Magazine
said he's the youngest dude on the Professional Bowlers Association tour to earn a million bucks. When he's rolling and ESPN covers the tournament, I'm superglued to the television. Other professional bowlers never talk trash about beating him. That's because Bubba is shut-yo'-mouth-and-sit-down good.

After he punks his competitors, kids swarm him because he hands out strawberry-flavored Bubba Gumballs to celebrate his victories. He signs autographs, shakes hands, and then, before he leaves, crosses his arms.

“What's Bubba's rule?”

“Stay in school!” they yell.

He flashes a peace sign. “Ya'll be cool.”

Bubba is 6'4", with the fattest afro I've ever seen. His fro
and
his bowling ball are round mounds of perfection. I'm trying to grow a Bubba-sized fro. Mine's not a tower of power yet, and nobody else at school is sporting one, but I don't care.

Sergio raises a brow. “You're going to enter the contest, aren't you?”

I deadeye him. “Is water wet? Heck, yeah! But what's up with this essay thing? Doesn't Bubba know school's out? And June thirtieth isn't that far away.”

Sergio pats me on the back. “I'm starting my essay tonight. You need to get started. You're
turtle slow at writing essays. It takes you a whole year to write one sentence.”

Tasha giggles. “Dang, Lamar.”

I cut my eyes toward her. This conversation is between me and Sergio. She's all in my Kool-Aid and doesn't know the flavor. I'm about to say something to her when she rolls her eyes and turns her head toward the snack bar. I think, I've just found my sucker.

With tight lips and squinting eyes, I lift the black spider from my pocket and place it on the table in front of her. Sergio chuckles, and that makes her turn back to us. Her eyes hit high beam before she releases a table-shaking scream.

“Aaaaaaaargh!”

After she burns off toward a group of girls, I put my prize spider back in my pocket, work my eyeballs back to my boy, and drag out my words.

“An-y-way, Bubba should have given us a choice, maybe write an essay or—oh, I know—answer Bubba trivia questions to see who knows the most about him.”

Sergio's still chuckling. “Tasha's going to be hot about that spider thing, Lamar.”

“She needs to get in line with everybody else who's been spider-ized by the L-Train. And I'm just trying to keep up with
you
. Your fake tarantula is off the chain.”

A disc-sized beeper flashes red and vibrates on the table. Sergio picks it up and grins.

“Our lane is ready. That's what's up.”

I push back and stand. “No, my bowling average against yours,
that's
what's
up
.”

Sergio gets in my face. “After I win, we can have a moment of silence in memory of your streak. I feel a Sergio Reyes upset in the making.”

I rub my belly. “The only thing that's going to be upset is your stomach. I'll get my stuff. While you're up, loan me a couple bucks for snacks after we roll. I'll pay you back.”

Sergio opens his wallet and hands me a five. “Dude, you need a job. And I know I'm never going to see this again.”

I take the five. “Thanks, but you're wrong, bro. One day I'm gonna pay you back.”

I pocket the money and stroll to the ball racks. Rolling with a house ball and rental shoes is “ghetto rolling” for serious bowlers. I
hate
bowling with house gear. Bubba would never roll with it. But I don't have a choice. Dad won't fork out the funds. “Things are tight right now, Lamar,” he always says.

I find a ball and place it on the ball return on lane eleven. Sergio types our names into the automatic scorekeeper, then tries to rattle me.

“Check it out. This is our eleventh game, on
lane eleven, and eleven is my lucky number. Coincidence? I think not.”

I lace up my ugly brown bowling shoes and ignore him. It's time to mentally prepare for my game. That's what Bubba says in his
Bowling with Bubba
book. If it's not in his book, it's a jacked-up lie. Sergio nudges my shoulder.

“Five more days until my birthday. I can't wait.”

I break my concentration and grin. “Have your parents dropped any hints?”

“Nope, but I did. I asked for a motorcycle. Probably won't get it.”

I tilt my head. “Didn't you fall off your BMX last week? Training wheels is what you should have asked for. You're going to be fourteen, Sergio. Don't waste a wish on something you know you're not going to get.”

He shrugs. “I just want something awesome.”

I cross my arms. “Last year you got that Trickster BMX. The year before that, you got a five-hundred-dollar shopping spree at All Toys for Boys. Your parents are bankin' and you
know
they're going to get you something awesome. Let's just bowl.”

Tasha rejoins us, clapping for Sergio like a battery-operated seal. I clap too, and make seal noises.
“Arr, arr, arr!”

She stops. Sergio frowns at me.

“Cut it out, Lamar. Let's roll. I haven't got all day.”

“Dang, don't get mad. I was just having some fun.”

I step on the lane and lift my ball from the ball return. My middle and fourth fingers and my thumb slide into the holes and hold on. I lean forward and momentum takes over as my arm swings back and I power it forward, releasing the ball at the perfect angle. No question about it.

POW!

The score screen lights up. The word
STRIKE
flashes in glittery letters.

I cross my arms to form an X. “All day, baby, all day.”

Sergio takes his steps and rolls a straight ball toward the center pin. I turn to Tasha.

“Did you bring bananas and ice cream? Your boy just rolled a split.”

The two farthest corner pins at the back of the triangular setup are left standing. Sergio grins and shrugs. I do the same, because we both know he can't make that spare. By the tenth frame, Sergio has no possible way of catching up. So I do what Bubba would do. I shut him up and sit him down with a spare and a strike.

He grins at me. “You're really not that good, Lamar. You're just lucky.”

I take the comb from my back pocket, groom my fro, and announce the score. “One-ninety-four to one-forty-two. You call it luck. I call it eleven in a row, baby, and I am still the King of Striker's.”

Sergio bumps fists with me. “How do you enter the zone like that? I mean, dude, you don't even hear me when I'm talking to you. You transform into some kind of bowling zombie.”

I put my comb away. “It's all in Bubba's book.”

Sergio dismisses that. “I read Bubba's book twice. It's got to be something else.”

“I've got one focus.” I point at Tasha. “You've got one distraction.”

Tasha rolls her neck from side to side and snaps her fingers. “You
wish
you had a distraction.”

Sergio gives Tasha a five-dollar bill and whispers to her. She storms off toward the snack bar, but not before rolling her neck at me once more. Sergio jabs me on the shoulder.

“Lamar, you need to freeze all that hate you keep throwing at my girl.” I'm speechless. As I rub my shoulder, he keeps laying it on. “That's why you'll always be a table for one. You don't know how to talk to women.”

“Yes I do. Of course I do. I talk to girls all the time.” I puff out my chest, but Sergio calls my bluff.

“I bet you've never held a girl's hand.”

I come back hard and strong. “I'm not a
hand-holder. I'm a lip-locker. But you wouldn't know anything about lockin' lips, would you?”

Sergio leans back and grins, because he knows I busted him. “I'm working on it.”

We laugh, but then my boy gets serious.

“Listen up, Lamar. Girls want superstars, smooth dudes, or bad boys. Pick one and be one. I chose smooth and look what it got me.”

I push him on the shoulder. “You're not smooth.”

Sergio winks. “I'm smoother than a baby's butt with lotion on it. You know it's true.”

According to the hot/not polls at school, Sergio's hotter than Atomic Fireballs. No doubt about his girl mojo. Honeys call him the Spanish fly guy. I call him the luckiest dude in Coffin.

Dark hair, tan skin, cool walk, rich parents. My boy's got it going on. He drowns his curls in mousse to make them lie flat and shine. But around two o'clock those curls droop and dangle as if Sergio's growing black noodles on his forehead. It's a whole new afternoon look, and girls love that, too.

Once, I tried some of that mousse stuff in my afro. I squirted a pile of that extrahold foam in my hand and rubbed it through my hair. For ten minutes, I waited for black noodles to dangle on my forehead. Instead, my fro held an old-school slant
as if me and Frederick Douglass had the same barber.

I need to flip the switch, do something to catch a girl's eye. I'm tired of being the third wheel with Sergio and Tasha. I hate sitting with them at the movies or tagging along at the mall.