This Way Home Page 12

  “You want me to destroy your shed,” said Elijah.

  “It’s crap anyway. I’ll bring the Jeep over; you’ll need the light.”

  It took Elijah fifteen minutes to carry the shovels, rakes, and mattocks from the shed to the small single-car garage. Banks positioned the Jeep so that the headlights illuminated a swath of backyard surrounding the shed. Clouds of mosquitoes formed around the halogens, providing a rich feeding ground for a dozen or so bats that cut back and forth through the light.

  Banks thumped Elijah on the back. “Take your time and think it through. I’ll be downstairs. Come get me when you’re done.”

  Elijah studied the inside of the shed. He considered each stud, rafter, and cinder block for its structural importance, trying to find the weak point. The foundation and walls looked solid, but the corner studs were all loose. Happy with this discovery, he used a power drill to bore holes at the tops and bottoms of the studs; through these, he ran loops of rope that he cut and tied off. Lastly, he ran the black static line through the loops such that the line would exert equal pressure on each of them. He was so focused on his work that he failed to notice Kerri standing in the doorway, talking to him.

  “I think you’re doing it wrong,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I heard you two talking about implosion. If you want this thing to fall in on itself, I’d pull just from the bottom loops. And you have to concentrate the force from the center; otherwise you’ll just pull it over to one side, which won’t be as clean as a true collapse.”

  Elijah wiped the sweat from his face with his shirt. “How do you know?”

  “I took physics,” she said. “And I did two weeks with Habitat for Humanity, so I know how a building goes up. Just reverse the process to take it down, right?”

  Elijah sat back and considered; he saw that she was right. From the top would work better, and he’d need to run the static line through another loop in the center. “You’re very strange. Do you know that?”

  Kerri nodded. “So are you. My father works you like a dog, and you keep coming back. Why? There must be easier ways to make money.”

  “I don’t know,” said Elijah. “I don’t like to quit.”

  He tested his work and made adjustments until the rope pulled equally on the corner studs. “What’s your father making down there anyway?”

  “He’s trying to make a display case for his medals, but it’s not going so well, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t think accountants got medals.”

  “They don’t, and he’s not an accountant; that’s just what he tells people when he doesn’t want to explain. But listen, I have a confession. Would you like to hear it?”

  “Yes!” Elijah answered a little too enthusiastically.

  “Oh, get over yourself,” said Kerri. “Not that kind of confession.”

  “Right.” Elijah tried to play it cool, though he suspected it was too late for that.

  “I listened to your whole conversation. Not just the part about tearing down the building.”

  “You were eavesdropping,” said Elijah.

  “So? I’m bored out of my mind here. Anyway, about your gang problem—I think I know how to fix it. Which is another way of saying that I’ve got a plan.”

  Elijah looked in the direction of the house; Banks was opening the back door, coming out to check on him. “A plan.”

  “Yes. A simple, elegant one to destroy the gang and solve your problem.” Kerri pressed a slip of paper into his palm. “Call me after your silly basketball tournament and I’ll explain it to you. It’s not a date, though.”

  “Of course it wouldn’t be a date,” said Elijah. “Why would I think that?”

  “Good,” said Kerri. “I’m glad you understand. By the way, I don’t really think your tournament is silly.”

  —

  AFTER BANKS SHOOED his daughter back to a safe distance, he inspected Elijah’s work, tugging on each and every line and knot. “Not bad. Your rope work is as ugly as hell, but it’ll hold.”

  “Is there a rule against using this winch?” Elijah tapped the spool of steel cable on the Jeep’s front bumper.

  “Have at it,” said Banks. “You ever used one before?”

  “No, but I’ll figure it out.” Elijah found the release lever and pulled out ten feet of cable. Next, he secured the black rope to the safety hook on the end of the cable. “Ready?”

  Banks and Kerri stood off to the side, waiting.

  Elijah pushed a red button on the winch’s housing; a low electric whine issued as the cable snaked smoothly around the barrel and lifted the black rope off the ground. As it drew taut, the building creaked once and shuddered. Elijah backed away.

  THE BOYS DRESSED in plain gray sweats and marched solemnly to the Battlegrounds. They didn’t speak or pass the ball around. Each was absorbed in his thoughts, but Elijah knew his friends well enough to guess what was running through their minds. Dylan was probably mixed between excitement for the game and sorrow over the loss of his new shoes. Michael was undoubtedly worried about Money. As for Elijah, he knew he should have been thinking about the exact moment when he would recognize his father’s face in the crowd. But instead, he replayed in his mind the destruction of Banks’s shed…the way the rope had drawn as taut as a wire, pulling the walls down with a muffled thump. And how neatly the roof had fallen on top of the whole mess. Much more gently and quietly than he would have expected.

  And the best part was what Banks had said: “Nicely done, boy. Clean and effective.” It wasn’t much, but he knew compliments were rare from Banks. And he had done a good job. He’d followed the rules and taken down the shed cleanly and effectively. He had a right to be proud. There was something else, too—the little slip of paper that contained Kerri’s phone number. It’s not a date, she’d said. Which meant that she’d at least thought about the possibility of a date with him.

  Nearing the Battlegrounds, Elijah’s limbs began to tingle. It was a familiar feeling, a jagged current of energy he knew would explode on the court in a storm of layups, jumpers, and drives. He wiggled his toe through the hole in his shoe, glad to be free of his nicer but tainted kicks.

  At the edge of the parking lot, which was packed to overflowing with cars, SUVs, and several news vans, Dylan stopped and turned to face them. “I can’t take any more of this doom-and-gloom crap. I mean, didn’t we train all year just to get here? So how come we’re acting like someone’s dog got run over? None of us has a dog.”

  “Because,” said Elijah, remembering. “We’re about to dis Blood Street Nation in front of hundreds of people. We’re going to have to pay for that.”

  “There ain’t no we.” Michael scowled. “I’m the one that’s gonna have to pay. I’m the one putting himself on the line.”

  Dylan’s face grew red. “That’s crap, Michael. Ain’t we standing here with you? Ain’t we by your side? We always got your back.”

  “Yeah, you’re here,” said Michael. “But you’re here to play some ball. That’s different.”

  “No, it ain’t,” said Dylan. “It’s all the same for me. On the court or off. I love you guys. We’re brothers, and it’s always gonna be like that.”

  Elijah touched Dylan on the shoulder. “Well said, brother.” He looked off in the distance at court number one, which was lined on both sides with hundreds of people. He wondered if Sam Lehigh was among them, and if he was waiting to see him play again. It was a selfish thought, but he wished they could save this argument for later. Because what he really wanted to do more than anything was play. Why couldn’t they forget about Money and Blood Street Nation and play ball?

  “Grow up, Dylan,” said Michael. “What do you think’s gonna happen to us? We ain’t gonna stick together, and you know it.”

  “That ain’t true,” said Dylan.

  “It is,” said Michael. “Elijah’s gonna go off to college and be with smart people. Better people than us. You wait and see. And we gonna be watching hi
m on TV and saying, ‘That’s our boy Elijah Thomas!’ Only he ain’t gonna be our boy anymore ’cause he’ll be gone.”

  “That doesn’t mean we won’t still—”

  “Man, that’s exactly what it means. Don’t you get it? He’s gonna go be somebody. Didn’t you see him talking to that scout? Don’t you know what that means?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So he’s set, and you and me…well, we gonna be right here fighting thugs like Bull and Neck Tattoo for whatever scraps is left.”

  Dylan shook his head and looked down at his worn-out sneaks. “I don’t know about you, but I’m gonna be somebody, too. You wait and see.”

  “You keep believing that, Dylan,” said Michael, stalking away toward the courts.

  “Screw you!” Dylan’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Man, who do you think sticks up for you when people say stuff behind your back, like about how you’re all arrogant and only care about yourself? I do. Me. I tell them they’re wrong about you. I tell them, ‘He’s a good guy; you just don’t know him. Michael’s got a big heart; he just doesn’t like to show it.’ ”

  “Maybe they’re right,” said Michael. “Maybe I’m not a good guy.”

  “Come on, man.” Elijah caught up and placed his hand on Michael’s shoulder.

  Michael shrugged off his hand. “You don’t want to hear it, Elijah, but it’s true. I was so jealous you had your future all lined up. I started thinking, ‘He’s gonna get it all, and what do you got, Michael? Nothing.’ ” He looked away, like he was talking to someone else. “So I went and talked to Money and started hustling, trying to make a name for myself.”

  “Hustling. What’s that mean? How you been hustling?” asked Dylan.

  “Started out running errands and stuff. But then it was things you wouldn’t even believe. Bad things. It’s like you cross this one line,” said Michael. “And it’s a big deal and you’re afraid to cross it. But you do it again and it ain’t as scary; it’s easier. And then one day you look at yourself in the mirror and you’re, like, a different person.”

  Elijah studied his hands; he didn’t trust himself to look at his friend.

  “So when Money wanted to sponsor a player—someone good enough to get a shot at a Big Ten school—I was like, ‘You got to see my boy Elijah.’ ”

  “The shoes and jerseys were your idea,” said Elijah.

  “That’s right.” Michael straightened, wiping at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “It wasn’t all selfish, though. You were running around out there with your toes busting through your sneaks, and I thought you deserved better. I thought you deserved your chance. Then Money saw you play and wanted to know if I could make it happen. I jumped at the opportunity and said, ‘Hell, yeah, I can.’ ”

  “And you did,” said Elijah.

  “Almost.” Michael lifted up his sweatshirt to show their plain white T-shirts. “Now we’re back to ourselves, and Money’s gonna put a cap in me. I probably deserve it.” He flashed a quick smile and turned to walk away, toward the crowd that was gathering around the center court, where they were scheduled to play. “Come on. We got a game to win.”

  “ELIJAH’S ARMY?” said the volunteer at the check-in table.

  “We’re changing our name,” said Elijah.

  “What?” The volunteer scanned the boys’ faces to make sure he’d heard correctly.

  “We’re not Elijah’s Army no more,” said Michael.

  “Well, who are you, then?” said the volunteer.

  Elijah looked at the dry-erase board. Since Elijah’s Army was listed in the sixteenth slot, he said, “We’re Team 16.”

  The volunteer stared at him, unblinking. Finally, he shrugged and said, “Okay, fine. Team 16 it is. I need to see your wristbands.”

  Dylan and Michael stepped forward and pulled up the sleeves of their sweatshirts.

  “And you?” said the volunteer.

  Elijah hesitated, thinking about what Michael had said. Before Money puts a cap in me. Was that really a possibility? Then he remembered Ray Shiver. Why wouldn’t it be possible?

  “Come on, man,” said Michael. “What’s done is done. Let’s just play ball, and I’ll deal with Money later.” He put his hand on his friend’s back and shoved him gently toward the table.

  Elijah struggled to get the thick, heavy words out of his mouth. “Are we friends? You and me and Dylan.”

  Michael sighed but said nothing.

  Elijah fought the surge of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. “Michael, look at me, man. Are we friends?”

  “Yeah.” Michael sniffed and wiped at his nose. “But that don’t mean—”

  Elijah held up his hand. “If that’s still true, then we’ve got your back. Period.”

  Michael scuffed the toe of one of his sneakers. When he looked up, his eyes were red and filled with tears. “So what’s that mean? You don’t hate me for setting you up? Because that’s what I did, man. I set you up.”

  “It means that after we win this game, we’re going to deal with Money together. All three of us.”

  —

  THE TOURNAMENT COORDINATOR gave a quick blast of an air horn to get everyone’s attention. “And now the moment you’ve all been waiting for! Competing for the grand prize of three thousand dollars and the 2014 Hoops title, I am proud to present two of the most exciting street ball teams you’ll ever see.”

  Cheers and whistles rose up through the crowd and engulfed the speaker in a wave of sound. “First, with an average player age of twenty-four, I present the returning Hoops champions, Blunt Force Trauma!”

  The team made their way out to the first court in silver metallic tracksuits, with their names and numbers on the back—Basher, number one; Skillz, number seven; and Big Al, number ninety-nine. Basher couldn’t have weighed a pound under two-sixty, and yet he moved with the ease and athleticism of a much smaller player, dribbling and cutting his way to a clean reverse layup. Skillz had the perfect build for a street baller: six-foot two, and strong and lean. For a warm-up, he stopped at the nineteen-foot arc and dropped four consecutive two-pointers before tossing the ball to Big Al, their aptly named forward. Big Al stood six-foot-eight and could slam it from the foul line with enough authority to make many teams give up on the spot.

  “Last but not least,” said the announcer. “Formerly known as Elijah’s Army, with an average player age of seventeen, Team 16!”

  The boys stood at the gate, listening to scattered applause from a bewildered crowd. The boys wore old, dirty sneakers that had lost their jump long ago—from walking all over town, not to mention countless Battleground pickup games. And in place of their hundred-dollar custom jerseys, they each wore a white Hanes. On the front of each T-shirt, the boys had hastily written “Team 16” with a black Sharpie. Elijah wondered if people perceived them as nervous boys dressed in half-assed clothes or as young men taking a stand. And what of Sam Lehigh? How would he see them? Or their mothers, who watched silently and nervously from the front row of the crowd.

  The announcer continued, “Folks, keep your eyes on these three exciting young players, all of them upcoming seniors on the varsity team at Montgomery High School, the pride and joy of Baltimore’s own Coach Bernie Walters. Give it up for Team 16!”

  The boys walked to center court, where they stood shoulder to shoulder. They looked at the crowd gathered beyond the fence, at least a hundred persons deep. Elijah knew he should look for Sam, the Syracuse scout, but his eyes were busy scanning every tallish African American male in his late thirties. A few were possibilities, but the skin tone or facial structure was off.

  Dylan nudged Elijah and pointed at Elijah’s mother who stood at the front of the crowd next to the scout. “They’re here for you.”

  “Let’s go,” said the referee.

  “We’re ready, sir,” said Elijah. Dylan and Michael stood on either side of him, relaxed, ready.

  —

  BUT THEY WEREN’T READY. For one, Dylan and Michael were ba
dly mismatched, neither of them able to outmaneuver or outmuscle their opponents. And Elijah, who was usually the epitome of grace under pressure, was so distracted that an easy pass bounced right off his head.

  “What’s wrong with you, man?” said Michael after they lost their first possession on a rare brick that bounced off the top of the backboard.

  But to answer his question all Michael needed to do was follow Elijah’s gaze to behind the far goalpost, where Money glared at them, vengeful, seething.

  “Oh, damn,” said Michael as the hooded figure raised his hand in the shape of a gun. He lowered his thumb, the universal gesture to symbolize pulling a trigger.

  THE NEXT TWELVE minutes were a study in confusion. The Blunt Force players dominated every aspect of the game, while Team 16 looked like they’d just woken up.

  In the fourth minute, Elijah nailed a pair of two-pointers and a jaw-dropping reverse dunk; but over- or underthrown passes immediately followed, along with quick conversions by Big Al. On defense, Team 16 collapsed on drives and conceded too much space on the outside for easy jumpers. At the twelve-minute mark, the score was thirteen to ten in favor of Blunt Force Trauma.

  “Time-out!” said Elijah.

  “I got nothing left,” huffed Michael, looking down at his feet. “They’re schooling me out there.”

  “Yeah,” said Dylan, shaking his head. “How come I feel slow?”

  Elijah scanned the fence line, looking for Money; thankfully, he was gone. He slapped his teammates lightly. “Let’s cut the crap out there, okay? We’re better than this.”

  “What do you want us to do? They’re too strong.” Michael wiped sweat off his face and shook it from his hands.

  “I want you to stop acting scared and play our game,” said Elijah.

  “What’s our game again?” asked Dylan.

  Elijah knew he was supposed to say something to motivate his teammates. But all he could think about was yesterday morning, and how they’d still been friends. He remembered walking down the middle of the street, playing Switch, their stupid passing game that really wasn’t stupid at all, now that he thought about it. It was the embodiment of their style, because it was based on how well they knew each other—to the point where they could anticipate each other’s movements so far in advance. And that was exactly what was missing.