The second game, early the following week, is much different.
Our opponents—the Woodrow Wilson Warriors—are amazing. Stealing balls and outscoring us practically from the tip-off.
Vasquez curses every time he comes to the sidelines for a timeout.
Coach tells him to watch his mouth before our team gets slapped with a technical.
The crowd in the bleachers is subdued for this game, except for one man who yells things like, “Come on, Johnny, you shoulda had that!” or “Johnny, that was yours!” He must be Vasquez’s dad. And he’s pissed.
The more Vasquez’s dad yells from the bleachers, the quieter Vasquez gets when he comes over to the sidelines. In the locker room at halftime, Vasquez is silent, brooding, like water about to explode into a boil.
No one goes near him. No one says anything to him. I consider patting him on the shoulder, but refrain.
We’re well into the fourth quarter when Coach taps me on the back and says, “You’re in, Dorfman.”
I’m so startled I trip when I get up, but quickly right myself and check in at the table where Diaz sits with someone who runs the scoreboard. When I jog onto the court, I feel everyone looking at me, and even though I should know, I don’t remember where I’m supposed to position myself.
Vasquez shouts my name and passes me the ball. Hard. But my hands manage to hang on to it. I hope Bubbie’s watching. Two guys run toward me at the same time, so I pass the ball back to Vasquez, and the guys move toward him like magnets. Except the ball doesn’t go into Vasquez’s hands, like I’d intended. One of the guys from the Warriors snatches it and dribbles toward his own basket and scores.
I grab my head and watch in horror.
It surprises me when Coach doesn’t replace me for messing up.
I get in position under our basket, like I was taught. Vasquez passes the ball to Landsberg, who feeds it to me, like we practiced a million times. I reach up to drop it in, but it rolls off the other side.
I do the same boneheaded thing one more time.
Then Coach pulls me.
A couple people boo from the stands. They are booing me because I hurt my team. They are booing me because I don’t belong on the court. They are booing me because I’m tall enough to be a basketball superstar, but I’m a basketball superdud, even with all my practicing. I’m too slow. I could be a basketball superstar, if only…
I sit the rest of the game, and by the time the final buzzer blasts and we lose 98–59, I’ve made up my mind. I know exactly what I need to do.
The guys gather to trudge into the locker room, heads down. But Vasquez is still on the floor, looking into the eyes of his dad, who is screaming and red-faced.
Vasquez doesn’t say a word, simply maintains eye contact.
He’s still getting reamed out by his dad while the rest of us file in to get reamed out by Coach.
“Vasquez!” Coach yells. “Get over here.”
Neither Vasquez nor his dad respond.
I think Coach is going to go over and tell Vasquez’s dad that Vasquez is supposed to be in the locker room with the team, but he doesn’t. And we all go in without him.
I always thought of Vasquez as this tough guy, but right now I’m worried for him because his dad is big. Mean. I wish Coach went over and made Vasquez join us in the locker room. I wish someone—a parent, a teacher, a coach from the Warriors—someone!—did something because Vasquez’s dad looks way too angry.
My dad may have a lot of issues—a lot—and he might have accidentally embarrassed me sometimes, but he’d never do something like that to me in front of all those people.
ALMOST UNSTOPPABLE
The moment I wake, I think about how badly I played at last night’s game. How muddled and foggy I felt both on and off the court. How I let my team down in such a big way.
Then I take my two pills for today, wrap them in a tissue and stuff them in my pocket. On the way to school, I drop them into a trash can and am surprised by how easy it is.
I immediately feel better, even though I know that’s impossible.
During lunch, we talk about basketball. And girls. And food. No one talks about Vasquez’s dad. And Vasquez himself is oddly quiet today, except when he grabs the tangerine from someone’s lunch and hurls it at Tim.
“Bull’s-eye!” he shouts when it smacks Tim hard on the side of his head.
Tim doesn’t even turn and face us.
Dare stands and glares.
And Vasquez? He finally looks happy. Like Tim’s head was a substitute for someone else’s—someone he could never throw a tangerine at…and live to tell about it.
I dump what’s left of my lunch and spend the rest of the period in the bathroom. I keep thinking about that tangerine smacking Tim in the head. He didn’t do a single thing to deserve it. It’s not Tim’s fault Vasquez’s dad is a jerk.
Between the image in my mind of Tim getting beaned by the tangerine and the gross smell in the bathroom, I feel like I’m going to hurl, but I force myself to wait in there until the bell rings.
I wish I didn’t feel so alone. I know I shouldn’t, but I wish Phin were here.
During practice, I’m still slower than the other guys and sort of uncoordinated when it comes to shooting. I even accidentally hit the assistant coach in the back with one of my passes. He gives me the stink eye, but doesn’t say anything.
It’s okay, I remind myself. I have to hang in there until all the meds are out of my system and I start performing better. Just a little more time with no medication and the other teams won’t be able to stop me.
No one will.
Thankful, Part 1
Mom puts a veggie lasagna in the middle of the Thanksgiving table, and we all hold hands.
I’m holding Sarah’s hand and Grandmom Ruth’s. Her skin is tight and dry.
Mom tells us to say something we are thankful for.
Sarah starts, “I’m thankful for the Knit Wits and the chance to make the world suck less.”
Dad clears his throat and nods toward Grandmom Ruth.
“Sorry,” Sarah says quietly. “And I’m thankful for my family.” She squeezes my hand.
“I’m thankful for my family and friends,” I say, giving Dad a special nod because he made sure I got my hormone blockers. “And for all this good food Mom made for us.”
“Me too,” Dad says. He leans over and kisses Mom’s cheek. “And I’m glad Grandmom Ruth could be here with us. Sorry you can’t be here, too, Pop.” Dad looks up at the ceiling.
Grandmom makes a tight-lipped smile, but when I look at her, the smile disappears. I desperately want to let go of her prune-like hand, but don’t.
“That was nice,” Mom says. “I’m grateful for my husband, my mother-in-law and my two beautiful daughters.”
Grandmom Ruth gasps and drops my hand like a hot potato.
“Let’s eat,” Mom says.
THANKFUL, PART II
Bubbie, Mom and I sit outside for Thanksgiving dinner, which feels weird because in New Jersey it’s way too cold to sit outside, but here it’s a really nice day—warm, but not too warm, and the sun’s shining.
My health-crazed bubbie actually cooked food that looks and smells delicious.
“It’s okay to splurge once in a while,” she says, putting a container of European butter on the table.
I pile my plate with turkey, candied yams, string bean casserole and three rolls, slathered with butter. “Mom?”
“Hmm,” she says, focusing on cutting her turkey.
So I say it a bit louder: “MOM!”
I must say it too loudly because both Mom and Bubbie look at me, startled, like a siren went off or something. But it’s a good thing I got their attention because what I have to say is super important, especially at Thanksgiving, when we should be all about family. “I was thinking, maybe we could go visit Dad.”
Mom looks like I punched her in the face.
Bubbie tilts her head. “Visit?” Bubbie asks. “Your dad?”
“He must be lonely there,” I say, taking a big bite of roll.
Mom gasps. Maybe she choked on a piece of turkey. She should put some gravy on it so it’s not so dry.
“Isn’t that a great idea? When can we go? How about right now?” I leap up, but Mom presses a hand to my wrist and I sit again.
Then Mom says something that really throws me for a loop. I expect her to tell me of course it’s a great idea, of course we should visit Dad, especially on Thanksgiving. But what she actually says is this: “Phineas, have you been taking your medicine?”
It’s my turn to look like her words punched me in the face. Phineas? I turn to see if he’s behind me.
“Earth to Norbert,” Mom says.
Bubbie reaches over and taps my hand. “Norb?” she says quietly. Her eyes look worried. “Did you hear your mother?”
Did I?
“She asked if you’ve been taking your medicine, bubela.”
Have I? I almost turn to ask the only person who might know.
Mom says something to Bubbie about getting me to the psychiatrist right after the holiday, but her voice sounds far away.
I sit there, staring like a deer in the headlights—my heart going a million miles a minute.
“Sweetheart?”
What’s happening?
