How Lamar's Bad Prank Won a Bubba-Sized Trophy (7 page)

M
om must have been desperate when she hired Dr. Avery. She said he specialized in children's respiratory problems. I think he's full of crackers and cream cheese. I wheeze just as much now as I did at four years old when he first diagnosed me with asthma.

Later, in kindergarten, Dr. Avery made me a child chump when he wrote a “Lamar can't play” note. My teacher read it to me and then sentenced me to the library during recess. That same note made me a certified member of the nerd herd on the bleachers during gym class. Worst of all, I got
labeled a “no-pick” for everything, and the title stuck as I grew.

I knot up every time he says, “No, Lamar, you can't play that sport” or “No, Lamar, you can't run that race.” Each
no
comes with the same routine. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and sips whatever he has in his Styrofoam cup. One day I asked him.

“What's in the cup, Dr. Avery?”

“Coffee,” he said.

I think it's Haterade.

I push the door and tolerate the stares as the country cowbell
doodle-ling
s. I sign in and give the receptionist the copay money. She says Dad called her and she'll have my receipt ready when I leave. I look for a regular seat, but they're all taken. The receptionist points to the right.

“There're probably a few seats around the corner in the children's play area.”

It's been ten years since I've sat around the corner. I barely remember what it looks like. When I turn the corner and scan the room, memories race back.

“Ouch!”

I plunk my head with my knees when I bend to sit on a four-inch-high safari animal chair. Two snotty-nosed rug rats want to rub my “booboo.”

“I'm a'ight,” I tell them.

My knuckles rest on the carpet. Is that a baby blue rhino in a pink tutu dangling from the ceiling? Please, just hurry up and call my name.

A door creaks open around the corner.

“Lamar Washington?”

I roll out of my chair and shoot my two new rug rat friends a peace sign.

Nurse Sharon greets me at the door. “Good to see you, kiddo. Doing okay?” she asks.

“I'm doing great—actually, fantastic.”

She looks over her shoulder at me.

“Take a seat in room four. Dr. Avery will be with you soon.”

He always listens to my lungs, so I unbutton my shirt. A knock on the door and a slow turn of the knob alerts me. He pokes his head in before fully opening the door.

“Hello, hello, how are you doing, Lamar?”

I mimic him. “Good, good. I'm doing real good, Dr. Avery.”

He sits on his stool, puts his Styrofoam cup on the counter, and grabs my chart.

“Well, you're obviously not here for a sick visit. How can I help you?”

“I want to play soccer. Do you have a stash of supermeds, you know, something that might help me if I decide to try out?”

He keeps reading my chart. “I didn't know you
liked soccer, Lamar. I thought you were a bowler. Best game ever.”

“You're right about that. This soccer thing is just temporary. But I'm going to need something stronger than my inhaler if I try out. I know you've got something that'll help me.”

I pull a twenty from my pocket, tuck it in his lab coat, and wink.

“And here's a little extra something for your trouble.”

Dr. Avery takes a quick sip from his cup and flips the page in my chart.

“You're not trying to bribe me, are you, Lamar?”

I just smile. Of course I'm trying to bribe you, fool!

Dr. Avery resembles a black Albert Einstein, except his nappy gray afro reminds me of a sheep's butt. And his fro has a hole in the middle where he's going bald. If he had a flag on top of his head, you could practice golf putts.

He puts the stethoscope plugs in his ears. “Let's take a listen.”

I breathe big breaths for him.

“When was the last time you used your inhaler?” he asks.

“About an hour ago.”

“You sound great, Lamar.”

I keep breathing big air. “I've been doing
my exercises every day.”

“Good, good, very good.”

After I suck all the good air out of the room, he pats me on the shoulder.

“Well, your lungs sound clear, but I'm afraid not clear enough for soccer. Your allergies can flare at any time, especially in the soccer-field grass. Unfortunately I don't have any miracle drugs for you. And in good conscience, I must advise you to stay clear of soccer, especially knowing how quickly your air passages can narrow. I'm sorry.”

“Are you telling me I can't even try out? There's got to be something at the drugstore. Just write a prescription for a few pills, not a lot. I just want to make the team.”

“I'm sorry, Lamar, but—”

“Wait, stop, didn't you hear me? I probably won't even get in the game.”

He pushes his glasses up the slope of his nose and picks up his cup.

“You have the worst case of asthma I've ever seen. You've been hospitalized six times with life-threatening asthma attacks. Your lungs are still very fragile, Lamar, and I'm not willing to jeopardize your life for a silly game of soccer.”

“Soccer isn't silly, Dr. Avery. Maybe you just can't figure out the game, just like you can't figure out how to help me.”

He puts his hand on my shoulder. “I understand you, Lamar. Three years ago when you sat on this very table and told me you wanted to play sports, I recommended bowling. And from what I hear, you're one of the top young bowlers in Coffin. Do you still bowl with your dad?”

“Not really.”

I can't stop my mind from flipping calendar pages, way back three years ago when Mom took me to Striker's for the first time. We bowled with bumpers, laughed, and ate junk food all day. Eventually, we graduated from bumpers to regular bowling, even wore matching blue T-shirts, as if we were a team. Saturdays belonged to Mom and me.

After she died, Dad took me to Striker's a few times, but then he fell off. Our fun dropped to none. It seemed like he could only remember how to get to Xavier's games.

I clench my teeth, shrug, and squint at Dr. Avery. “You can't dribble a bowling ball, and there's no hoop at the end of the bowling lane.”

I frown at the perfect lungs on a colorful poster of the human body taped to the wall. As I stare at the poster, I feel Dr. Avery's eyes on me. He lets go of my shoulder.

“I'm sorry, Lamar. I wish I could help more.”

“Me too.”

I hop off the table and don't bother to button my shirt before leaving. The receptionist holds out a receipt, but I don't take it.

“Okay, no problem, I'll put it in the mail,” she yells.

It's hot outside, but not nearly as hot as I am right now. I come out of my shirt and tie the sleeves around my waist. Dad doesn't like me walking around outside in a muscle shirt and saggy jeans. He calls that look ghetto and thuggish. But I don't care today.

I cut a sharp left down Eighteenth Street. I need to bowl. I need to hit something. Halfway to Striker's, I detour down an alley and kick the base of a Dumpster. There's no one around, so I look up to the sky and take it out on God.

“It's not fair! Why did you give me bad lungs! Why can't I be normal? You made X normal! Why didn't you take him instead of Mom? Our house is all messed up now.”

I lean against the Dumpster and slide to the ground. Tears fall without permission. It's not like I hadn't known what Dr. Avery might say. But I wanted it so bad. A
yes
and a few superpills would change how people see me. I wouldn't seem so wimpy to Dad or even Mr. Phillips. But there's nothing I can do. I get up, wipe my eyes, and stuff my hands in my pockets—and that's when it hits me.

Dr. Avery kept my money.

He's lucky that twenty wasn't my only one, or I'd go back and snatch it out of his lab coat. Plus I'm in the parking lot of Striker's and I don't feel like going back to his busted office.

I open the door to Striker's. The air conditioner cools me off in more ways than one. I'm happy to be away from the doctor's office and back in the land of teenagers, bowling lanes, and hip-hop music. No safari chairs or tutu-wearing rhinos in here.

“Lamar!”

Makeda floats toward me, looking dynamite in her blue soccer uniform.

“How did the doctor's appointment go?”

“As usual. You feel like taking a walk? I do.”

“Okay. Let me tell my friends I'm leaving and get my bag.”

When she returns, I take the bag off her shoulder. “I'll carry this.”

We're barely out of Striker's parking lot when she starts bugging me about the surprise.

“Come on, Lamar, tell me what it is.”

“Not yet,” I say.

I catch her looking in my hands, trying to get a clue. As we pass the Little League football and soccer fields, I stop and turn to her.

“I wrote you a poem.”

Her expression makes me happy that I took the time to do it. She scurries to a tree near the chain-link fence surrounding the soccer fields and takes a seat in the grass. I slow strut toward her to add drama to my presentation, making her giggle.

After taking her bag off my shoulder, I pull my masterpiece from the back of my jeans and unfold it.

“You know, it was hard finding words that rhyme with
Makeda
.”

She shrugs. “Yeah, I bet that was tough.”

“And this took me a while….”

She frowns. “So are you going to read it or what?”

“I'm going to read it—just let me finish what I want to say. I worked really hard to put into words what was on my mind.”

She rolls her eyes. “Lamar…today already.”

I clear my throat. “Okay, here goes.

I raise my eyes from the paper and wait for her to tell me it's the best thing she's ever heard, but she doesn't. She's not even looking at me. I go sit next to her under the tree.

“What's wrong? You hated it?”

She nods. “I liked it a lot. And I'd really like to be your girlfriend.”

“Then why won't you say yes?”

“What if you decide to go back to being the old Lamar; the one who puts tacks in my chair and high-fives my forehead? I'm scared of that. I mean, how stupid will I look, kickin' it with a guy who clowns me? That would really hurt my feelings.”

Dang. I should have worked harder on that poem. Maybe I should have made something rhyme with
I won't make fun of you anymore
. I take her hand.

“Makeda, you gotta trust me. I don't know what else to do, but please, don't tell me no. Come on, give me a chance.”

We sit under the tree in silence for what feels like six months, and watch cars and people go by. It's two fifty. I've done all of the begging I'm going to do. I'm not moving until this girl gives me an answer. She tugs my T-shirt. I cut my eyes to her and brace for my second rejection of the day. Instead she nods.

“Okay. My answer is yes.”

“For real?”

“For real, Lamar.”

“Okay, okay, cool.”

I scramble to my feet and offer her my hand. She takes it and I help her up. We stare at each other like we're aliens from the planet Dense. She giggles and shrugs.

“So, what now?”

I shift my weight to the other leg. “Maybe we should seal the deal.”

She stares at the sidewalk but I can see a smile on her face. “How?”

“I don't know. Maybe we should bust a slobber or something.”

Makeda's eyes widen. “My dad can see this far. If he catches us kissing, trust me, you can't run fast enough.”

I look for the perfect spot. There's a hole in the links of the fence leading to the back of the soccer bleachers. I know these bleachers pretty well from all the times I've come to watch Sergio play Little League football. I get closer to examine the area, then motion to her.

“Come on, follow me. Stay low and quiet.”

I go through first and hold the links apart so she won't snag her clothes. We go deep under
the bleachers to the very end, away from the sun peeping through.

“How's this?” I whisper.

“Perfect.”

I take her hand. “Okay, ready?”

“I think so.”

I lick my lips and move toward her face. Light shines behind her from the spaces in between the long seats. I lean toward her and she closes her eyes. I close mine, too, and keep leaning closer and closer.

Okay, maybe I've never played a sport in this place. But in a few seconds, I'm going to…

Score.

Mmmm.

We pull away at the same time.

“Your lips smell like strawberries and taste like 'em, too,” I say.

“It's my lip gloss. I got it free when I bought two facial cleansers and hand soap from Mom's Mary Kay lady. I've got more flavors at home. I've got cherry, peach…”

I kiss her again because I'm not trying to hear about Mary Kay. This time when I pull away she stays quiet, so I lead her back through the fence and onto the street. Once we hit the sidewalk, I release her hand so I won't catch a beat-down
from her father.

Talking seems wrong for this moment. So we just stroll in silence. She turns onto the patch of sidewalk that leads to her porch. I wave at Grandma.

Makeda takes a few steps forward and stumbles, then looks over her shoulder at me and giggles. I know why. The L-Train knocked her off her track! She's love drunk from these luscious lips of passion! I kick my strut into fifth gear. Holy guacamole! I've got a girlfriend. I lift my top lip closer to my nose and take a big whiff.
Mmmm
. I love strawberries.