“This is terrific,” she said, reaching out to hug Matt. “I can't believe you made this yourself. It looks like it's right out of a custom kitchen store. Thank you!”
Matt had already opened several gifts, getting some CDs he wanted, plenty of clothes for school and even a white Jason Kidd Nets' home jersey from his brother. There were no gifts left under the tree, but his mother reached behind her chair and pulled out a rectangular present wrapped in green and red paper with a large white bow. “This is for you, Mats,” she smiled.
Matt unwrapped the gift. It felt like a box with shoes in it. And it was. But these were no ordinary shoes. His mom had bought him a pair of black Air Jordans with white trim. They were the latest model, just like the shoes a lot of NBA players wore. This was unbelievable. “I thought you might like those,” she grinned.
Matt spent the rest of the Christmas holidays hanging out with Jake, Amar and Phil. Strangely enough, they were all looking forward to the return of school and, most importantly, the resumption of basketball. Unlike other coaches, Coach Stephens didn't believe in his team playing or practising over Christmas. “You boys can work out on your own, but the holidays are time for a break â for me and my family too,” he had told the team.
It wasn't long before the Stingers were back into the grind of three practices a week. One Thursday afternoon in early January, after practice had finished, Grant Jackson walked over and sat beside Matt's locker room stall. “Hey, Hill,” he said, so quietly that Amar couldn't hear. “A bunch of us are going to hang out after the game tomorrow night. You wanna come with us?”
Even though Jackson had been a little friendlier as the season wore on, Matt was surprised at the invitation. He also realized that Jackson wasn't inviting Amar. It put Matt in an awkward position.
“Uh, yeah, sure,” Matt replied, not knowing what else to say.
“Cool, bring your bike. We'll go from here after the game.”
As he trudged home that night through the light snow, Matt's mind raced at the invitation. He wondered what sorts of things Jackson and his buddies did for fun. He wondered why, all of a sudden, he was considered cool enough to hang out with them. He also wondered why Amar wasn't, and he felt guilty about that. But Jackson's invitation also felt good, like a sign Matt was becoming part of the “in” crowd. He felt himself looking forward both to the game and to the next evening.
On Friday morning, Matt's mom told him she'd be at the game, sitting in her usual spot. “Do you want to catch a movie afterward?” she asked.
Matt remembered Jackson's invitation. “Not tonight, Mom. I mean, I appreciate it and everything and normally a movie would be great. But some guys from the team asked me to hang out after the game. So I thought I would. Okay?”
“That's okay with me. Sure. We can see a movie any time. But who are these guys? Is Amar going too?”
“No, Mom. It's just some other guys from the team, some older guys. I guess the guy who asked me was Grant Jackson. You know who he is, right?”
“Isn't Jackson the boy who got suspended?” his mom asked. “I don't really know him. And what exactly are you guys going to be doing?”
“Mom. He's just a guy. He's okay. I mean, he's on the team, right? We're just going to hang out with some of his friends. It's no big deal,” Matt said impatiently.
“Okay, just remember to call if you need a ride and be sure to make it home by ten-thirty,” she said. “And wave to me at the game.”
The Jensen Jokers didn't provide much of an opponent that evening for South Side. Jackson was on fire for the entire game, scoring thirty-one points, and the Stingers cruised to an easy seventy to forty-two victory. Matt had ten points in about fifteen minutes of playing time, which was becoming an average game for him as the season progressed.
After his shower, Matt got dressed and noticed Amar waiting for him near the door. “You want to rent some videos tonight? I think my mom is making pizza,” his friend said.
“I can't,” Matt said sheepishly. “I've got something to do.” Matt didn't mention Jackson and McTavish and the rest of that crew. Amar hadn't been invited and, obviously, Jackson hadn't wanted him to know about it. For a second, Matt was torn. He felt guilty for excluding Amar and not telling him about being invited to hang out with the other guys. But Amar made it easier when he turned quickly and said, “Okay, Matt. Later.”
Jackson, McTavish, Steve White and a couple of other kids Matt had seen before but didn't really know were outside the locker room door when he emerged. “We've got our bikes here, have you got yours?” Jackson asked.
Matt nodded. By the time the half-dozen boys headed out of the school parking lot, Matt hadn't even asked where they were going. There was a wet snow falling that made cycling down the darkened, slick streets a little tricky. The heavy snow, back-lit against the orange glow of the streetlights, made it difficult to see where they were headed.
They stopped at the end of Densmore Street, about eight blocks from the school. Matt knew it well because Wong's Grocery was at the far end of the block. “Oh, yeah,” smiled Jackson, turning on his bike seat toward Matt and the others. “We're loaded up for some revenge tonight. You in, Hill?”
Jackson grabbed at the bag one of the boys â a skinny grade nine named Nate Griffin â was carrying, pulling out several cans of spray paint. It was obvious now that they planned to do some tagging. Matt had never done anything like this before, but it didn't seem overly harmful. Anyway, he didn't want to come across as a wuss. He could go along for the ride, couldn't he? He wouldn't have to actually spray anything.
“Sure,” he said, quietly. “I'm in.”
“Good,” Jackson said. “Let's go then.”
They sped down a slushy back alley behind Densmore on their bikes. It had grown even darker, and Matt wondered again where they were going. He was a few feet behind the others when he noticed they had all stopped behind a large, dark metal garbage container at the back of one of the buildings.
“I'm first,” said Jackson, eagerly holding up a couple of the spray cans.
The others watched from behind the trash bin as Jackson gingerly made his way through the snow to the back of a building. He began to paint. A large, crude red swastika took shape across the white back wall. Suddenly, none of this felt right to Matt. He began to get an uneasy sensation in his stomach. He wished more than anything that he was at Amar's, eating pizza and watching movies.
But Jackson wasn't done. He grabbed another can, this one yellow. He started to write something across the back of the building in huge, three-foot-high letters.
As Matt strained to read it in the dark, he started to feel nauseous. Jackson had written “Go home Chinks” in ugly lettering across the wall and had also drawn a crude face with slanted eyes. And what was worse, in one sudden, utterly horrible realization, Matt now knew exactly where they were. At first he hadn't recognized the building because they had come down the darkened back alley. But now he knew: This was the back wall of Wong's Grocery. This was Phil's store. And the kids he was with were attacking Phil's family, maybe not physically but with these horrible words and symbols.
“That'll show them for narcing on me,” seethed Jackson, his dark eyes flashing anger.
Suddenly it all made sickening sense to Matt. Jackson and his buddies were targeting Wong's for a reason. This must have been the store where Jackson and White had been caught shoplifting. Phil's grandmother was constantly chasing groups of kids out of her cluttered store because she suspected they were stealing from her. It didn't surprise Matt that she had pressed charges after catching them. But why hadn't Phil told him about this? Matt would have never agreed to hang out with Jackson and his buddies if he had known that they might target Phil's family.
Matt was incredibly ashamed. Phil's grandmother had fed Matt handfuls of candy, bowls of noodles and bottles of Coke and had always let the boys watch TV or play video games in the tiny room at the back of the store. She had always smiled kindly at him and often called him “lucky boy.” He wasn't sure if she had meant he was some sort of lucky charm or if he himself was fortunate, but Matt had recognized it for what it was, a term of endearment.
Matt felt almost physically ill. He wanted to get away from this place, from these guys. But he was one of them. He felt strangely paralyzed with fear and shame, hiding behind the dark, cold metal of the Dumpster. A light flashed on in the back room of the store where Phil's grandmother slept. The rickety back door swung open and Matt could see her round face peering out, cautiously. “Who out there?” she called. “Go away now, I call police.”
They bolted for their bikes and pedaled hard through the slush to the end of the alley and around the corner to Anderson Park. They stopped with their front tires in a circle. Jackson and his friends were laughing loudly and Griffin lit a cigarette. “Did you check out that old bag?” Jackson sneered, stooping over and putting on a mock Chinese accent. “Oooh, I call police.”
Matt wasn't laughing. In fact, he felt like throwing up. He was so ashamed he could barely breathe. But he knew he couldn't show the others how he felt. “I gotta go guys,” he said curtly. “My curfew is ten-thirty.”
“See ya, Hill,” Jackson said. “Yeah, see ya around, dude,” smiled White.
The five were still laughing in the park as Matt rode out of sight. He couldn't pedal fast enough as his stomach heaved and a shameful tear trickled down his cheek. He pumped his legs furiously as his bike tires skidded through the wet snow. It was dangerous riding so fast in these conditions, but he didn't care. Anything to put distance between him and the ugliness he had just been a part of.
His mother was asleep by the time Matt arrived home, so he quietly made himself a peanut butter sandwich before heading to bed. But even the comfort food didn't make his stomach feel any better, and there was nothing he could do to ease his conscience.
Sleep didn't come easily that night. Matt was restless in bed, thinking about what Jackson had done and feeling like he had been a part of it too. Part of him wanted to wake his mother and tell her what had happened, just to get the awful secret off his chest. But another part of him didn't want to tell her anything. He was too ashamed and afraid of what she would think. Although his mom was sleeping in the bedroom just next door, as Matt finally drifted off, he had never felt more alone.
The next morning, Amar came to the door, holding his beat-up outdoor basketball in his right hand. “Want to go shoot some?” he asked.
Matt nodded, pulling on the old Nike high-tops that he used for playground hoops. Maybe hitting a few jumpers would make him feel a little better about himself.
“You missed some great pizza last night,” Amar said. “I took on all my uncles in PS-2 NBA and I dominated. Where did you have to go, anyway?”
Matt swallowed hard. “My Mom wanted me to do some stuff around the house,” he said, hating to lie to Amar. “I wish I could have come over.”
The last part was no lie. If he had been at Amar's place last night, hanging out with his friend's uncles and eating pizza, he wouldn't have had anything to do with the incident at Phil's store.
Although it had snowed the night before, the sun had already dried up the streets nicely as the two boys walked toward Anderson Park. It was January, but one of those winter days when playing basketball outside was still possible as long as you kept moving. A long, brown-paneled station wagon pulled up slowly beside the duo and Jake Piancato hopped out the back door. His parents were in town from the lake to get some groceries and supplies as they had plenty of business from hunters at this time of year. So Jake had some time to play ball too.
The three buddies had just begun playing H-O-R-S-E out on the asphalt court where they had practically grown up, when Phil arrived. “Let's get some twos going before we freeze to death,” smiled Jake.
Phil nodded and the game began. But it wasn't much of a game. Jake and Matt absolutely crushed Phil and Amar even though Amar was by far the tallest, and likely the best, player of the four. Phil had no energy, no jump, this morning. And his shot was badly off. Normally a frenzied whirlwind on the court, he just didn't seem into it. “What's up with you?” asked Jake.
Phil's face grew serious and his eyebrows furrowed below his close-cropped hair. “Aw, last night some kids tagged our store,” he said. “My grandma's pretty freaked out. She doesn't want to stay in the store on her own anymore. And I don't blame her. The stuff they wrote on the wall was pretty bad.”
Matt felt a large lump in his throat. He began to sweat and he suddenly felt sick again. Playing basketball, he had almost forgotten about last night. Now it all came rushing back and it felt even worse because he could see that Phil and his family had been hurt.
Phil said that he had to go keep his grandmother company in the store for the afternoon. Jake and Amar talked briefly about the graffiti, shaking their heads. “Wonder who would do that kind of crap?” Amar said to nobody in particular.
It was the worst weekend of Matt's life. Nothing could get his mind off the graffiti and the store or keep him from thinking about how he and his supposed friends had hurt the Wongs. Nothing could ease the shame he felt.
He had to do something. But what? What could possibly make this right? And how could he explain why he was hanging out with those guys? Why had he gone along with them in the first place? How could he explain it to his mother? He needed to talk to somebody about it, but who? He couldn't think of a single person he would dare tell.
The ringing of the telephone interrupted his thoughts. It was Mark, making his usual Sunday call from Eton, a conversation which often involved asking for a loan until payday or for his mom's chili recipe. She talked with him for a half hour, catching up on the latest news and girls in Mark's life. Usually, Matt loved to close his eyes and just listen to the sound of her voice when she was talking to his older brother on the phone. She seemed so happy, so proud. But today even that wasn't enough to make him feel better.