Swagger (9 page)

Hartwell's stood and stuck out his hand. “I owe you. If down the road there's anything I can do for you, just ask.”

A
COUPLE OF WEEKS INTO SEPTEMBER
, I got an e-mail from Coach Richter asking me how school was going. His question forced me to take a good, hard look at myself. Was I going to meet Monitor College's academic requirements? As I sat staring at my computer screen, I evaluated myself the way I'd evaluate a player on an opposing team.

Richter had said I'd need a 3.0 grade point average this year. The health textbook looked like something for fifth-graders; I'd have a chance for an A in that class. In Spanish, Mr. Contreras mainly talked about Spanish culture and then had us practice conversations. I've got good pronunciation and can roll my
r
's. A B in Spanish looked like a lock.

Algebra II with Wunderlich was manageable. All the extra work with Mr. Nutting back at Redwood High had paid off. It was early, and the work was review, but I had a good feeling.

My English and American government classes were going to be time eaters because of the reading and the homework. If I wasn't playing basketball all the time, I was pretty sure I could pull a B in both. I
was
playing basketball, though, so making Bs was going to be hard. Still, I had a chance.

That left chemistry with Butler. When Butler wrote chemical equations for us to copy down, he'd pound his chalk into the blackboard (he was probably the last guy in the school to use one), making white pieces fly in all directions. In the lab, he assumed everybody knew grams and liters. On the first quiz, I'd gotten a sixty; on the first lab, a D.

In my reply to Richter, I was honest. I told him the good stuff, the in-between stuff, and—at the very end—I admitted that chemistry would be a battle. Better to let him know the truth than to pretend. The next day I got an e-mail back. “I checked with the admissions office. A C in chemistry will be fine, but Monitor College doesn't accept Ds.”

H
EALTH WAS THE ONLY CLASS
I had with Levi, but I often saw him during passing periods and at lunch. Most six six guys strut in the halls. A freshman or sophomore gets in his way, and he'd better get
out
of his way. Levi moved—there's no other word—
gently
through the school. He held doors for freshmen who were fumbling with their backpacks. If somebody dumped his books, he'd stop and help him pick them up. Harding has its guys in wheelchairs, its kids with cerebral palsy, its kids who can't talk right. I avoid them—I know I shouldn't, but I do. Levi went out of his way to prop open a door or move a desk to make a path wider—little things that were big things for those kids.

It didn't seem fair. Here's this guy with a huge heart, always looking for ways to make life better for every single person he meets, and life was so hard for him. Every day in health class, he filled pages of his notebook, drowning himself in details, writing with a dull pencil, and pressing down so hard that the blank pages underneath turned crinkly.

I tried not to look at his quizzes when Ms. Fleming returned them, but it was like coming up on an accident while driving on the freeway—you can't keep from peeking at the crumpled cars. Levi's scores were never higher than seventy and were usually lower. If he was floundering that badly in an easy class like health, what were his other grades like?

I wanted to offer to tutor him, but I was too worried about my own grades. Even with all the hours I spent studying, chemistry still looked like a disaster. One good thing had happened: Butler had made Celia my lab and study partner. We made a good team. She was better than me at understanding the concepts, but I had the better touch in the lab.

I
WAS TENSE ALL OF THE
time, thinking about Monitor College or chemistry or Brindle or Coach Knecht. After dinner I'd study in my room for at least an hour and usually two. If I finished my homework and it wasn't absolutely pouring rain, I'd borrow my mother's car and drive to the Good Shepherd Center, where I'd shoot around by streetlights. It was often windy or drizzly, so I didn't make many shots. Still, dribbling the ball, banking in a few jumpers, sinking a free throw—doing those things soothed me—until the next day when the battle would start over again.

Levi was struggling too. In mid-October he told me he had to quit the after-school basketball workouts. “You can't quit,” I said. “We're doing great out there. You know we are. All the things Hartwell taught us are coming together.”

“I'm failing my classes, Jonas. I need that time to study.”

“There's got to be some other way.”

“What way?”

He stared at me, waiting. My mind raced. “Listen. Here's what we'll do. We'll scrimmage after school, just like we usually do, but we'll skip the weightlifting and instead go straight to my house. That'll save us at least half an hour, maybe more if we walk fast. Once we get there, I'll help you with your homework. Okay?”

He winced. “You don't know how dumb I am.”

“You're not dumb, so don't say that. People thought Einstein was dumb and look what he ended up doing. You can pass your classes, Levi. Just let me help you.”

 

So instead of pumping iron in the weight room the next afternoon, we sat side by side at my kitchen table reviewing for a health quiz we were having the next day. Levi laid his insanely long class notes on the table, and I read through them with him, highlighting in yellow the important things.

“How do you know what's important and what isn't?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I don't know; I just do.”

I glanced at the clock. Prepping for the health test had taken thirty minutes. On the table was his math book. I'd planned on reading a Ray Bradbury short story before eating dinner. After dinner I had some algebra problems to do. If I didn't cut my time with Levi, I was looking at a really late night.

Levi sensed my tension. “I'll go. You've got your own homework.”

“No,” I insisted. “Stay another thirty minutes.”

We moved to the front room so my mom could make dinner. Levi was taking some sort of simplified math class, and the word problems were killing him. One was about a guy who spent half his money on shoes and then half of what he had left on a shirt and half of what was left after that on socks and at the very end had four dollars in his pocket. I must have explained it to him five times. He finally got it, and just then my mom came out. “Why don't you stay for dinner, Levi? We're having spaghetti; there's plenty.”

“No, thank you. We always eat together; our whole family.”

“Always?” my mother said, disbelief in her voice. “Your whole family?”

“Always,” Levi repeated.

After Levi left, my mom and I sat down to eat. She told me about how much she liked the people at Great Clips. “This move is going to work,” she said, “that is, if the rain doesn't get to us.”

I thought I was my normal self, but halfway through the meal she put down her fork and stared at me. “What's wrong, Jonas?”

“Nothing's wrong.”

“No, something is. Why don't you tell me about it?”

I started with Levi, explaining how important he was to my performance on the basketball team and how badly he was struggling in class. I described his incredible drawings and how he was a walking encyclopedia on birds and plants and animals. “If I don't help him, he'll flunk his classes. He won't play, which means I probably won't play, and I can kiss Monitor College goodbye. But if I do help him, then
my
grades will be shot—especially my chemistry grade—and I have to get at least a C.” I frowned. “I don't know what to do.”

My mom thought for a long moment. Then she straightened in her chair. “Jonas, have you told your coach any of this?”

I shook my head.

“Go to your coach tomorrow. Tell him exactly what you've told me. I bet he'll find a way to help both Levi and you.”

T
HE NEXT AFTERNOON I FINISHED
Ms. Fleming's health test in twenty minutes. The test took Levi the full period, though he was smiling afterward. “You were right about what to study,” he said, amazement in his voice.

In the games after school that afternoon, Levi rebounded like a demon, filled the lanes on fast breaks, and even slammed down one thunderous dunk that shook the backboard.

Ten minutes before we had to give up the gym, Hartwell stopped in, shouted out some advice, and then headed to his office. When the JV volleyball team took over the court, I told Levi I had to check out a chemistry book from the library.

Once he'd left the gym, I headed straight to the coaches' office. I planned to give Hartwell a short version of what was happening, but Hartwell asked question after question, so I ended up telling him not only about school, but also about Levi's drawings and his knowledge of animals and plants. Then Hartwell asked me what Levi's family was like. I gave him a puzzled look. Why would he want to know about Levi's personal life? “I'm not being nosy,” Hartwell explained. “The more I know about him, the more I can help him.”

Hartwell was like that—he always had an answer.

I ended up telling him all about Levi's father and mother and sisters, about Arkansas and their religion. Eventually we worked back to the main topic. “He tries to learn everything, so he gets overwhelmed. At least that's how I see it. I'd like to help him, but—”

“But you've got your own classes to study for,” Hartwell finished for me.

I nodded. “You know about Monitor College. I can't keep up my grades and help Levi, too.” I paused. “I was hoping you could find somebody who could tutor him.”

Hartwell leaned back in his chair. “You came to the right person. I do know someone who can tutor Levi.”

“Who?”

He smiled. “Me.”

Hartwell explained that Harding's principal, Mr. Diaz, required every teacher to mentor a needy student. “Levi will be my project. He'll be helping me while I'm helping him. Once the afternoon scrimmage ends, he can bring his books in here. I'll go over his assignments with him and then give him a ride home. He'll miss weightlifting, but he's already a bull.”

“I can still help him with health,” I said, relief washing over me.

“All right. You're his health tutor; I'll cover everything else. Together, we'll keep him eligible.”

As I stood up to leave, Hartwell also stood. “I'm glad you came in, Jonas,” he said, walking me to the door. “This confirms what I've always thought about you.”

“What's that?”

“That you're a natural leader. My hunch is that before the season ends, you and Cash will be co-captains of this team.”

I gulped. “You've got to be kidding. I'm just hoping I don't spend the entire season on the bench watching Donny Brindle.”

He waved that off. “Things have a way of working out. You'll see.”

As I walked home, I kept hearing Hartwell's words.
Natural leader and co-captain . .
.
You'll see
. He sounded so sure. Was he trying to tell me something? My mind ran through different possibilities. Maybe Knecht wasn't the real coach. Maybe Hartwell had been hired to ease Knecht out. Schools do that sometimes with old guys who don't know when it's time to quit.

L
EVI WAS OKAY WITH TAKING
Hartwell's help, so we settled into a new schedule. We'd play basketball with the other varsity guys until the JV girls' volleyball team took over the side gym. Then Levi would go to Hartwell's office for tutoring. When I headed home, I'd see them in the office, shoulder to shoulder, Levi's head over a book, his pencil working across the page. Once in a while, Levi would skip his time with Hartwell and instead come to my house to study health.

One Saturday at noon, I met up with Celia at Zoka, a coffee shop right in the heart of Tangletown, for a study session. Each of us bought a mocha and a pastry, and then we worked through the chemistry book. After an hour and a half, we were both brain-dead. We got a second mocha and sat in the overstuffed chairs in the corner and talked.

Celia told me that she was headed to Central Washington University. “I'll be the first person in my family to go to college,” she said.

“That's great. Way to go.”

She smiled. “How about you? What are your plans for next year?”

I explained my chance for a Monitor College basketball scholarship. “I submitted my application last week. There's another guy the coach is looking at. I don't know his name or where he plays, but I've got to beat him out. It's a weird kind of competition, being up against somebody whose name you don't even know.”

“You'll do fine,” she said, and she smiled again.

It was her smile that gave me the idea. I sucked up my courage. “You feel like playing miniature golf or going bowling or something? I've got my mother's car.”

She shook her head. “That's nice of you to ask, but I don't think so. Maybe some other time.”

“No problem,” I said, knowing my face had turned bright red.

 

Monday when I entered Harding High's lunchroom, Levi wasn't at our regular table. I scanned the room until I spotted him sitting with Coach Hartwell in a back corner. He had a book open and was looking intently as Hartwell pointed at something on the page.

Levi needed all the tutoring Hartwell could give him, but suddenly I felt lost. Cash and DeShawn were sitting with a bunch of black guys—I didn't fit in there. I sort of knew Gokul Gowri, a tennis player whose locker was next to mine, but not well enough to take the seat next to him. Until that moment, I hadn't realized that Levi was my only real friend at Harding.

I went through the food line, paid, and took my tray over to a table where a kid from my algebra class was sitting. He was playing some game on his phone, but he nodded to me as I sat down.