How Lamar's Bad Prank Won a Bubba-Sized Trophy (8 page)

I
t's four o'clock and I'm in front of our house. This has to be the earliest I've gotten home all summer. I'm licking Makeda's strawberry lip gloss off my mouth like it's leftover pork chop grease.

There's a poster on a stick stuck in the ground near our porch steps. Once I'm close enough to read it, my eyes burn.

 

Xavier Washington

1st Team All-YMCA

Summer Basketball MVP

 

I've got some MV pee. I look around. Nobody. I unzip. Just as I'm about to add a yellow smiley face, Dad opens the door and peers over the porch. Dang.

“What do you think of the sign?”

I zip up and nod. “Nice, it's really nice, Dad.”

“A couple guys at work helped me make it. Not too shabby for a homemade job, don't you think? Hey, how'd the appointment go with Dr. Avery?”

“Fine, but I'm ready for an adult doctor.”

Dad chuckles. “That's fair.” He buttons his uniform shirt as he comes down the steps. “I forgot I switched shifts with a friend today. I'm working five P to five A. Tell your brother about my shift change, okay? See you in the morning.”

I plop on the couch and turn on ESPN. Bubba's bowling. How did I forget about this? Just as I get comfortable, I hear the front door open.

“Where's Dad?”

I don't turn around. “At work. He switched with somebody.”

“He's supposed to help me with algebra. The final exam is coming up. I have to pass!”

He clenches a basketball between his hands and shouts at the ceiling. I watch his meltdown until it's Bubba's turn to bowl. X steps in front of the television with his basketball tucked under one arm. He snatches the remote from my hand.

“I can't study with all of this noise in the house,” he says.

“Fine, turn the sound down. You've got the remote.”

“It's not the television. Get out, Lamar. I need the house to myself.”

“Hey! It's not my fault Dad bailed on you.”

I stand and try to see around him. He gives me a hard push and I fall back on the couch. Ever since Mom died, it doesn't take much to set him off. Like when he bombs a test or misses a game winner or doesn't understand something. X goes dead red and I know to stay out of his path. Dad took him to see some anger management shrink. Xavier has medication, but I don't think he takes it.

He comes toward me. “You think you're special, with your perfect grades, don't you?”

I shake my head until I'm dizzy. “No. There's nothing special about me.”

“But what do you have to show for it, superstar? Mom's note?”

“You're right, X. I'll just go to my room until you cool off.”

I'm wheezing, but I know he doesn't care. I try to leave. X cuts me off.

“See, what you don't understand is I don't need all of this school stuff. I'm going pro after high
school. Have you heard about the scouts coming to the championship game? They're coming to see
me
! But if I don't pass algebra, it's over. No varsity ball, no pro ball, no nothing. College isn't for everybody. Kobe Bryant didn't go. LeBron James didn't go.”

I try to walk by him again, but he gets all up on me.

“You've got five minutes to get out, Sleazy Wheezy. I'm calling my girlfriend to come over, and I don't want you here.”

“I thought you were going to study.”

“So did I.”

His eyebrows rise. He bites his lip and cuts his eyes to his algebra book on the table. But seconds later, he's back on my case.

“Tonight, I'm switching from algebra to anatomy, know what I mean? So get out. You've got four minutes. I'm not playing.”

He pushes me again. I scramble to the door.

“Okay, I'm leaving.”

I slam the door and stomp down the steps. After a quick swoosh from my inhaler, I kick the base of X's poster. It leans to the side. If some of the neighbors weren't out, I'd finish my mellow-yellow project.

I bet Sergio's watching Bubba. It's a ten-minute walk from my street to his subdivision. Two-story
mansions with four-car garages, long circular driveways, and landscaped lawns are all you see. Sergio lives on a big corner lot in a gray stucco house. He opens the tall wooden door.

“What do you want?”

“Are you watching Bubba? I came over to watch him with you.”

He moves to the side to let me in and I explain. “I was watching him, too, but X told me to burn off.”

“For what? Hanging out with Billy?” Sergio asks.

I glare at him. “No.”

We walk toward the living room. There's a sheet of stamps and a box of envelopes on the table next to a flyer about Bubba coming. I stare at it until Sergio moves to face me.

“Dude, it's not too late. You could still do an essay. As much as you love Bubba, it's almost your duty to write one.”

I keep staring at the stamps. “You already mailed yours?”

“Mailed it this morning.”

I snap out of it. “Good for you, Sergio. But I'm still not writing one.”

He frowns. “I guess bowling with a guy who fakes gutter balls to cheat people out of money is easier for you than writing an essay.”

I stop in front of the sofa. “Why are you sweatin' me?”

He crosses his arms. “You're ruining everything.”

“Like what?”

“Your reputation, for starters.”

I roll my eyes. “You don't know what you're talking about.”

Sergio steps closer. “Billy's a thug, Lamar. You know it, I know it, and the whole town of Coffin knows it. You let him put shame in your game. All your talk about bowling and Bubba. You totally disgraced both of 'em.”

“What's it to you, Sergio? I'm doing what I want to do. Can't you understand that?”

I try to sit down, but Sergio puts his hand on my shoulder and spins me back to face him.

“You're the best bowler I know, Lamar. But your brain is in sideways, fool. You're not the King of Striker's anymore. You're more like the King of Hustlers.”

I step toward the front door and put my hands to my head. “I'm not trying to hear this every time I hang out with you. I'm handling my business and I don't know why you can't see that.” I turn back and point at him. “I mean, if you were handling
your
business, you'd know that Tasha just likes you for your money. She's a gold digger with cheddar
and you don't even see it.”

Sergio's on my heels. “I thought we weren't going to talk about our girls anymore.”

I get outside and turn around. “Okay, okay, I went out of bounds. My bad, Sergio.”

He nods. “Forget it. Come back inside. I won't say another word about you and Billy. Let's just watch Bubba cream somebody's corn.”

I take a step toward his door. My phone buzzes. Sergio looks at my pocket and then back in my face. I answer the call in front of him.

“Hello? Yeah. Twenty minutes? Can't you change it to later? Okay, I'm on my way.”

I snap my phone and drop it in my pocket. “I gotta go.”

Sergio steps back inside. “Whatever.”

I
nside Striker's, I look for Billy. The crowd is thin and the music isn't thumping like it usually is. Striker's seems different, or maybe it's me. I hear someone whistle. It's Billy.

“What's going on, Washington?”

“Hey, Billy. What lane are we on?”

“It got cancelled. One of the dudes got an emergency call from his dad to get his butt home. It was too late to call you back, so I thought maybe we could just hang out or something.”

Unbelievable. If Sergio walked in right now, our friendship would die forever. Heck, it might already be dead. My weight shifts to one leg.

“You should have called me anyway. Bubba's rolling. I was just about to watch him mash somebody's potatoes. I rushed here for nothin'.”

“My bad, partner. From now on, I'll call you if somebody backs out.”

He points to a table. “Check it out. Two pepperoni pizzas with extra cheese and a pitcher of Coke on the table just for us. And since there's nobody playing on lane thirteen, the manager's showing Bubba's tournament. See, you haven't missed a thing.”

I shrug. “Okay, I guess. Let's eat.”

We stroll to the table. I pour myself a glass of Coke and tear away a piece of hot pizza. Billy pulls out a chair, turns it backward, and sits with his chin resting on the high part. He grabs a slice and drops half of it into his mouth. As I eat, drink, and watch Bubba, my conversation with Sergio replays over and over again. I look over at the empty table where he usually sits with Tasha. Dang. I'll call him later. Billy taps on the table, pulling me out of my thoughts.

“You weren't with Makeda, were you?”

I think about what I want to tell him. I decide to leave Sergio out of the mix.

“I was at home, but X is trying to study.”

Billy slurps his Coke. “And he can't study while you're there? Are you
that
noisy?”

I stop chewing. “It's not even about the noise. He's just crazy.”

“You seem a little edgy, Washington. What's going on?”

“Nothing.”

Billy scoots closer to the table. “Hey, we're partners, remember? We share everything. It's okay—I won't tell anybody.”

I grind my pizza with tight jaws, mashing the cheese and pepperoni as I think about what X did to me.

“It's my brother, that's all.”

I stare at my Coke, but I feel Billy deadeyeing me. He puts his hands on the table and leans in. “Can I tell you something? I mean, it's like nonrepeatable.”

I look up. “I'm listening.”

“I get knocked around by Scooter, but who's going to believe me? He's Mr. All-American, and this town would drink his bathwater if he'd let 'em. So I take his beat-downs. Only guys like us understand what it's like living with a jock. You'd be surprised how many guys I talk to about this very thing, Washington. There's a bunch of us. Sometimes, I come here at night and bowl a few games, just to get my head on straight.”

We both grab another slice of pizza. He's gobbling his and I'm tripping on what he just said. Is
there a secret underground society of abused and misused younger brothers? I thought I was alone. I don't know if I feel better or worse knowing this. Does X know? He probably does. That's why he pounds on me and expects me to take it.

We knock off one pizza. Billy closes the box and tosses it on the floor.

“Be honest, Washington. Does X do stuff like that to you?”

I tell Billy everything. It's the first time I've opened up and talked about the beat-downs I take from my brother. All the times he rats on me to Dad, calls me “superstar” like it's a bad word, or just picks on me for no reason. I tell Billy how X pushes me around and how I'm sick of it.

“You know, it's amazing how many things we have in common, Washington.”

I wipe my mouth. “Yeah, I know. It's almost scary.”

Billy counts on his fingers. “You needed cash flow, so did I. Your mom's dead, so is mine. You've got home problems, me too.”

I shrug. “So what?”

Billy turns his chair around and sits the right way. “I don't think it's a coincidence. You need help with a situation, and I've got the absolute perfect advice for you.”

I stop eating. “What?”

Billy leans in. His icy blue eyes freeze me. The left corner of his mouth turns upward and I zone in to hear every word.

“Don't let X push you around. Trust me—nobody's going to believe you. Actually your situation is worse than mine because your brother is straight golden, know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“If X goes crazy again, hit him where it hurts the most.”

I look at my lap. “You mean…”

“No. I mean basketball. He loves hoops more than anything. Mess with his game and he'll get the message. Do something ridiculous, cause a scene, try to embarrass him. Remember what I told you about pulling the fire alarm at my dad's job? It totally worked.”

“What can I do to embarrass X?”

“That's for you to figure out. But the next time he picks on you, plan a disaster party with him as the special guest. It doesn't matter if he finds out who did it. The idea isn't whether or not you get caught; the point is to get even.”

“Yeah, maybe I will.”

“No maybes, Washington. Be committed. If he goes off, you go off. Understand?”

“Yeah, Billy, I got it.”

He chugs the rest of his Coke and grabs the
last piece of his pizza.

“Call me if you need help with your plan. Unwind, Washington. Finish your pizza. Bowl a few games. See you around.”

I take Billy's advice. I take the pizza and pitcher of Coke to a table behind a lane and roll until I feel better. There's one piece of pizza left, so I eat it as I walk home. I think about everything Billy said. With every step toward home, I get stronger in my commitment.

It's dark outside when I ease in the house. X turns over on the couch and restarts his snore. An algebra book lies open on the coffee table. I don't smell any girly perfume, so I figure he probably spent the evening alone.

I tiptoe to my room and close the door. The last thing I want to do is wake up my brother. He'll be fighting mad if I startle him. I'm not in the mood to get punked tonight. But I do know one thing. When Xavier goes off on me again, thanks to Billy, it will be the last time.

S
unday afternoon, right after church, Dad takes X and me out for lunch. Two platters of appetizers later, Dad complains about being sleepy. He drives home and both he and X fall asleep. Too many buffalo wings, fried cheese, and potato wedges. I keep my church clothes on and pay a visit to my girl. She's never seen me pimped out like this—light blue collared shirt and dark blue khakis. I want to look nice, since I might meet her mom.

I'm a few steps from turning on the patch of sidewalk that leads to her house when my cell vibrates. No way. Not now. I turn my back to the
house and flip open the phone.

“Yeah, Billy?”

“I think I've got a monster gig lined up. Meet me at Striker's in five minutes.”

“But I'm busy right now. Give me an hour and I'll be there.”

“Did you hear what I said? This is business, Washington. Be here in five.”

The phone goes silent. I flip it closed and shove it into my pocket. Bump Billy. I'm going to spend some time with my girl, and he'll see me when he sees me.

Makeda's grandma sits on the porch with a bowl in her lap. She gives me a huge, toothless grin, and I feel the buffalo wings from lunch take flight in my belly.

“What's your name?” she asks.

“Lamar.”

She holds out her bowl. It's full of peanuts. “Would you like some? Go ahead and grab a handful.”

I really don't want any, but to be nice, I take a handful and stuff them in my mouth. Man, these peanuts are off the chain! They're sweet and salty and remind me of Mom's snack mix.

She holds the bowl up. “Take some more, baby. Aren't they good?”

All I can do is nod, because I've got a serious
chew rhythm going on. The door opens. Makeda has an apron around her waist. I swallow the peanuts and smile.

“You cook, too? I love pork chops. You know how to fry pork chops?”

I dig into Grandma's bowl and scoop another handful. I chuck the nuts in my mouth and crunch them down to peanut butter. Makeda wipes her hands on her apron.

“I didn't know you were—What are you eating?”

She looks at her grandma's bowl and then at me. I'm chomping away, bobbing my head to my own crunchy beat.

Makeda gently touches her grandma's shoulder. “Grandma, we'll be right back.”

She takes my hand and leads me inside her house. I'm nervous about holding her hand and look for her dad to pop out from behind the curtain or something. I'm scoping the place for him when the door shuts behind me. I spin around. Makeda's frowning.

“Are you eating peanuts from Grandma's bowl?”

I nod because I've got a mouth full of them.

“Didn't I tell you she was senile?”

I nod again.

“Those peanuts used to be chocolate covered. Grandma sucks the chocolate off, then spits the nuts back in that bowl. We try to stop her, but she
keeps doing it. How many have you eaten?”

My jaws lock. My tonsils lift to the roof of my mouth just to get out of the way. There's a shift happening in my belly. Something's rushing toward my throat. I press my hand over my mouth. Peanut goo seeps through my lips and spreads between my fingers. Makeda points to their bathroom.

“Ugh, you better hurry, Lamar.”

My wicked brain flashes pictures of Makeda's toothless grandma grinning at me. No doubt about it. This is going to be violent.

I make it to the bathroom, face the toilet, and lift the seat. I can't believe I've got my face hanging low, staring at blue water inside someone else's—

Nuuuuuuuuoooooooaaaaah!

I'm embarrassed by the high and low barf noises. Oh no, that was peanuts and Buffalo wings. I hurl until nothing comes up but echoes from a hollow belly. At the sink, I scrub my hands and wipe my face to erase any signs of peanut goo.

There's a bottle of mouthwash on the counter, so I unscrew the cap and gargle some, just to rinse my inners. When I open the bathroom door, Makeda and her parents stare at me.

“You must be Lamar,” says Mrs. Phillips.

I nod in case my breath blows fire from leftover barf juice.

Makeda and her mom talk at once. Mr. Phillips
grins. Makeda steps toward me.

“Are you okay?”

I silently belch a minty taste from the mouthwash. “I'm much better now.”

Mrs. Phillips apologizes. “We just can't seem to pry that bowl away from her. We weren't expecting company today.”

Mr. Phillips shuffles toward the television and parks on the couch. Makeda moves toward the door. She seems excited.

“Ms. Worthy is coming Tuesday morning.”

My eyes widen. “The lady from MVP camp?”

Mrs. Phillips smiles at me. I'm so happy I paid attention. Makeda nods.

“I'm making chocolate chip cookies for her.”

“Won't the cookies be hard by Tuesday?”

“I'm just making the dough. I'll freeze it and then bake the cookies early Tuesday morning before she gets here. They'll be delicious. So I'm a little busy right now.”

It takes a minute, but I get the hint. “Oh yeah. Good luck. I'll see you later.”

I look beyond Makeda to the living room. Her dad is still grinning. I bet he stocks chocolate-covered peanuts for Grandma just to keep dudes away from his daughter.

Makeda opens the door. “I'll walk you to the street.”

We pass Grandma on the porch and she holds out her peanut bowl. I want to knock it out of her hand. But instead, I do what Mom would want me to do.

“No, thank you. I've had plenty. See you later.”

As we reach the sidewalk, I look down the street.

“I was hoping we could take another tour of the soccer bleachers.”

She giggles. “Is that all you think about? I'm so excited about Ms. Worthy coming. This is the biggest thing that's ever happened to me.”

I nod. “Don't worry. You've got that gig locked up.”

My phone buzzes. I'm ready to throw it in the sewer.

“I gotta bounce.” I wink at her. “See you later.”

I flip open my phone and walk at the same time.

“I'm on my way.”

Billy screams into my phone. “Dude, where are you? You better not blow this deal for me. Get to Striker's now! I can't talk about it over the telephone.”

“I'm not far away. Hang on.”

Three minutes later, I walk into Striker's. The place is crowded with old people. It's the Sunday-afternoon Seniors League. It smells like
sore-muscle ointment in here.

Billy paces near the snack bar. He wipes his forehead and grips his bowling bag.

“We've got the biggest bet ever lined up in Wabash. Our ride's outside.”

I don't budge. “Wait, back up, Billy. I've got to let my dad know where I'm going. And why is this game in Wabash?”

“It's rich preppies. They insisted we play on their turf. I agreed. The bet is two hundred bucks per person, Washington. Did you hear me?”

I need another fifty bucks bad. I lost twenty to Dr. Avery and another twenty on pizza and drinks for me and Makeda a few days ago.

Maybe Dad won't miss me for an hour or so. Billy walks and I follow him. There's a cab waiting. We get in. The driver turns around and glares at us.

“Where to?”

“Wabash Bowling Lanes.”

“Young man, that's going to cost you forty bucks. Are you sure?”

Billy tosses two twenties onto the front seat. “I'll give you another ten if you hurry.”

The gears shift and our driver burns off. If Dad finds out that I left Coffin without his permission, the tires on this taxi won't be the only thing burning.