The Crossover (4 page)

a hottie or a cutie,

a lay-up or a dunk,

I finish my vocabulary homework­—

and my brother's vocabulary homework,

which I don't mind

since English is my favorite subject

and he did the dishes for me last week.

But it's hard to concentrate

in the lunchroom

with the girls' step team

practicing in one corner,

a rap group performing in the other,

and Vondie and JB

waxing poetic

about love and basketball.

So when they ask,

What do you think, Filthy?

I tell 'em,

She's pulchritudinous.

[
PALL-KRE-TOO-DEN-NUS
]
adjective

 

Having great physical

beauty and appeal.

 

As in: Every guy

in the lunchroom

is trying to flirt

with the new girl

because she's so
pulchritudinous.

 

As in: I've never had a girlfriend,

but if I did, you better believe

she'd be
pulchritudinous.

 

As in: Wait a minute—

why is the
pulchritudinous
new girl

now talking

to my brother?

Coach reads to us from

The
Art of War:

A winning strategy is

not about planning,
he says.

It's about quick responses

to changing conditions.

Then he has us do

footwork drills

followed by

forty wind sprints

from the baseline

to half court.

The winner doesn't

have to practice today,
Coach says,

and Vondie blasts off

like
Apollo 17,

his long legs

giving him an edge,

but I'm the quickest guy

on the team,

so on the last lap

I run hard,

take the lead by a foot,

and even though I don't plan it,

I let him win

and get ready to practice

harder.

Hey, JB, you think we can win

the county championship this year?

I don't know, man.

Hey, JB, why do you think

Dad never had

knee surgery?

Man, I don't know.

Hey, JB, why can't Dad eat—

Look, Filthy, we'll win

if you stop missing free throws.

Nobody likes doctors.

And Dad can't eat foods with too much salt

because Mom told him he can't.

Any more questions?

Yeah, one more.

You want to play

to twenty-one

when we get home?

Sure. You got ten dollars?
he asks.

In the driveway, I'm

SHAKING AND BAKING.

You don't want none of this, I say.

I'm about to TAKE
IT
TO
THE
HOLE.

Keep your eye on the ball.

I'd hate to see you

F

A

L

L

You shoulda gone with your GIRLFRIEND

to the mall.

Just play ball,
JB shouts.

Okay, but WATCH OUT, my BROTHER,

TARHEEL LOVER.

I'm about to go   
UNDER

COVER.

Then bring it,
he says.

And I do, all the way to the top.

So SM
OOOOOOOO
TH, I make him

drop.

So
nasty,
the floor should be mopped.

But before I can shoot,

Mom makes us stop:

Josh, come clean your room!

Dad takes us

to the Rec

to practice

shooting free throws

with one hand

while he stands

two feet in front

of us,

waving frantically

in our faces.

It will teach you focus,
he reminds us.

 

Three players

from the local college

recognize Dad

and ask him

for autographs

“for our parents.”

Dad chuckles

along with them.

JB ignores them.

I challenge them:

 

It won't be so funny

when we shut

you amateurs down,

will it? I say.

OHHHH, this young boy got hops

like his ol' man?
the tallest one says.

Talk is cheap,
Dad says.
If y'all want to run,

let's do this. First one to eleven.

The tall one asks Dad if he needs crutches,

then checks the ball to me,

and the game begins,

right after JB screams:

 

Loser pays twenty bucks!

I see the pink

Reeboks–wearing girl

shooting baskets

on the other court.

She plays ball, too?

JB walks over to her

and I can tell

he likes her

because when she goes in

for a lay-up,

he doesn't slap

the ball silly

like he tries

to do with me.

He just stands there

looking
silly,

smiling

on the other court

at the pink

Reeboks–wearing girl.

Didn't Mom say no more doughnuts?
JB asks Dad.

What your mother doesn't know

won't hurt her,
he answers, biting

into his third chocolate glazed cruller.

Good shooting today. We beat

those boys like they stole something,
he adds.

Why didn't we take their money, Dad? I ask.

They were kids, Filthy, just like y'all.

The look on their faces

after we beat them

eleven to nothing

was enough for me.

 

Remember

when you were two

and I taught you the game?

You had a bottle in one hand

and a ball in the other,

and your mom thought I was crazy.

I WAS crazy.

Crazy in love.

With my twin boys.

 

Once, when you were three,

I took you to the park

to shoot free throws.

The guy who worked there said,

“This basket is ten feet tall.

For older kids. Kids like yours

might as well shoot

at the sun.” And then he laughed.

And I asked him if a deaf person

could write music. And he said,

“Huh?” then

took out his wrench and told me,

“I'm gonna lower the goal for y'all.”

 

We remember, Dad.

And then you told us Beethoven

was a famous musician who was deaf,

and how many times do we have to hear

the same—

And

Dad interrupts me:

Interrupt me again and I'll start all over.

Like I was saying,

I handed both of you a ball.

Stood you between the foul line

and the rim. Told you to shoot.

You did. And it was musical. Like

the opening of Beethoven's Fifth.

Da da da duhhhhhhhhhh. Da da da duuuuuuuuuuh.

Your shots whistled. Like a train

pulling into the station. I expected

you to make it. And you did.

The guy was in shock.

He looked at me

like

he'd missed

the train.

Never let anyone

lower your goals.

Others' expectations

of you are determined

by their limitations

of life.

The sky is your limit, sons.

Always shoot

for the sun

and you
will
shine.

The Red Rockets,

defending county champions,

are in the house tonight.

They brought their whole school.

This place is oozing crimson.

They're beating us

twenty-nine to twenty-eight

with less than a minute to go.

I'm at the free-throw line.

All I have to do

is make both shots

to take the lead.

The first is up, UP, and—

CLANK!—it hits the rim.

The second looks . . . real . . . goo . . .

MISSED AGAIN!

But

Vondie grabs the rebound,

a fresh twenty-four on the shot clock.

Number thirty-three on the Rockets

strips the ball from Vondie.

This game is like Ping-Pong,

with all the back-and-forth.

He races downcourt

for an easy lay—

OHHHHHHH!

Houston, we have a problem!

I catch him

and slap

the ball on the glass.

Ever seen anything like this from a seventh-grader?

Didn't think so!

Me and JB are stars in the making.

The Rockets full-court-press me.

But I get it across the line just in time.

Ten seconds left.

I pass the ball to JB.

They double-team him in a hurry—don't want to give

him an easy three.

Five seconds left.

JB lobs the ball,

I rise like a Learjet—

seventh-graders aren't supposed to dunk.

But guess what?

I snatch the ball out of the air and

SLAM!

YAM! IN YOUR MUG!

Who's
Da Man?

Let's look at that again.

Oh, I forgot, this is junior high.

No instant replay until college.

Well, with game like this

that's where me and JB

are headed.

comes up to me

after the game,

her smile ocean wide

my mouth wide shut.

Nice dunk,
she says.

Thanks.

Y'all coming to the gym

over the Thanksgiving break?

Probably!

Cool. By the way, why'd you cut your locks?

They were kind of cute.

Standing right behind me, Vondie giggles.

Kind of cute,
he mocks.

 

Then JB walks up.

 

Hey, JB, great game.

I brought you some iced tea,
she says.

Is it sweet?
he asks.

And just like that

JB and the new girl

are sipping sweet tea

together.

Each night

after dinner

Dad makes us

shoot

free throws

until we make ten

in a row.

 

Tonight he says

I have to make

fifteen.

If you miss

enough of life's

free throws

you will pay

in the end.

is good when she rescues you

from free-throw attempt number thirty-six,

your arms as heavy as sea anchors.

But it can be bad

when your mother

is a principal at your school.

Bad in so many ways.

It's always
education

this
and
education that.

 

After a double-overtime

basketball game I only want

three things: food, bath, sleep.

The last thing I want is EDUCATION!

But, each night,

Mom makes us read.

Don't know how he does it, but

JB listens to his iPod

at the same time,

so he doesn't hear me

when I ask him

is Miss Sweet Tea his girlfriend.

He claims he's listening to French classical,

that it helps him concentrate.

Yeah, right! Sounds more like

Jay-Z and Kanye

in Paris.

Which is why when Mom and Dad start arguing,

he doesn't hear them, either.

Get a checkup. Hypertension is genetic.

I'm fine, stop high-posting me, baby, Dad whispers.

 

Don't play me, Charles—this isn't a basketball game.

I don't need a doctor, I'm fine.

 

Your father didn't “need” a doctor either.

He was alive when he went into the hospital.

 

So now you're afraid of hospitals?

Nobody's afraid. I'm fine. It's not that serious.

 

Fainting is a joke, is it?

I saw you, baby, and I got a little excited. Come kiss me.

 

Don't do that . 
.
 .

Baby, it's nothing. I just got a little dizzy.

 

You love me?

Like summer loves short nights.

 

Get a checkup, then.

Only cure I need is you.

 

I'm serious about this, Chuck.

Only doctor I need is Dr. Crystal Bell. Now come here . . .

 

And then there is silence, so I put the pillow over my head

because when they stop talking,

 

I know what that means.

Uggghh!

[
HI-PER-TEN-SHUHN
]
noun