True (. . . Sort Of) (3 page)

T
he old Hennepin place was on the River Road, just outside of town.

The house was gray, with a gray drive and gray stoop. A basketball hoop hung on the gray garage. Woods surrounded the yard, so even when the sun shone, the house stayed in shadow.

The green Impala with the trailer behind it squeaked to a stop in the drive. The driver's door creaked open and whumped shut. Squawk, then thump went the passenger's side.

The man opened up the house. Ferris Boyd opened the trailer. They carried their things inside, without a word between them.

The birds were talking, though. They were everywhere, chirping and chattering like the Welcome Wagon on wings.

It was almost dusk when they were done. The man went into the house, and a light came on in the back of it.

Ferris Boyd reached into the trunk of the green Impala. She pulled out a backpack and an old basketball. She shuffled up the drive.

As she got to the steps, there was a tiny rustle, a sound so small nobody'd notice.

Ferris Boyd stopped. She tilted her right ear toward it.

There was a crackle.

Slowly, Ferris Boyd turned. Her eyes traveled along bushes and between trees, till she found the one who'd called her. It sat in the shadows at the edge of the woods. Its eyes glowed golden.

Ferris Boyd blinked.

The eyes blinked back. “Mahowrrrr?” it wondered.

And Ferris Boyd answered, without saying a word.

It flicked its tail twice, All right.

The girl went into the house. In a minute she was on the stoop again. She set a bowl in the grass. She sat on the steps and waited.

As the creature crept across the lawn, the girl stayed still. When it put its head in the bowl, she didn't move.

When it was finished, it walked past her, bumping her shins with its body. Ferris Boyd raised one hand, so her fingers brushed its back, and it purred.

It ran across the lawn and stopped at the edge of the brush. The tail flicked twice, Good night.

Ferris Boyd nodded.

Then the black cat disappeared in the darkness.

The pale, skinny girl slipped into the house. A light came on in the upstairs window.

A
t dinner Delly was still thinking about her sur-present. But now there was no smiling. Now, instead of hoping for a puppy, or a magic wand to make Galveston disappear, she was wondering, Was the tingle just teasing me? And worse, Will anything good ever happen to me again?

It felt bad, the kind of bad she'd need a fight to forget.

Clarice was occupied with other things. It wasn't that she forgot about the surpresent, but with Montana dogging her “Ma, I need money for my date,” and Tallahassee begging, “Can I stay at Fern Teeter's, pleeeease?” there was no room to remember.

“Ma, we need more beans,” RB announced.

While Clarice was up filling the bowl, Galveston quit chewing her potatoes to chew on Delly. “So,” she sniped at her. “Where's that surpresent? Is it in the garage? Or does Verena have it locked up?”

The other children held their breath. Dallas and Tallahassee got ready to squeeze.

But Delly stared at her plate, like she hadn't heard a word.

The others sighed and went back to their food.

And Delly was flying across the table. She was gone before Dallas and Tallahassee could touch her.

She landed on Galveston's chest and got her by the hair. She was yanking it left, then right, like it was the reins on a bucking bronco.

Gal was making strange sounds—“Woo-oooooo”—and Delly was yelling, “That's so funny, Gal. How come you're not laughing now?”

Clarice got to them first. “Let go!” she hollered as she pried off the tiny, terrible fingers.

Galveston was clutching her scalp, screaming, “Am I bald? Did she bald me?”

Dallas threw Delly over his shoulder and started up the stairs. “GAL-VUH-STUHHHN!” she howled.

“You stay in your room till I tell you!” Clarice shouted after her.

“Rowr rowr rowr,” Delly growled.

“But Ma,” Gal cried, “she has dishes.”

In a flash, Clarice was in her face, fuming. “You'll do dishes tonight. And you'll do them every night for a week.”

Gal thought about whining some more, but Clarice was too close. “Yes, Ma,” she whimpered.

Clarice was waiting till she calmed down to talk to Delly. That didn't happen till two hours later.

Delly was on her bed, facing the wall, when her mom walked in the room.

“Don't leave this house till Monday morning,” Clarice ordered. “And you've got dishes next week. With your sister.” She turned to go.

“Ma,” the rasp called.

“What is it?” Clarice said, still hard.

“It didn't come.”

“What didn't come?” she asked.

And the rasp was so filled with sadness it almost couldn't speak. “My surpresent.”

Then Clarice remembered. “Oh,” she sighed. She sat on the edge of Delly's bed. She watched the tiny back breathing. “I thought you were going to meet it,” she said softly.

“I did.”

“Well, where'd you go?” she wondered.

Delly told her all the places she'd searched for the surpresent.

“There's your problem,” Clarice said. “That sur-present couldn't catch you, moving around like that.”

Clarice's words sent little sparks of hope to Delly's heart. She turned toward her mom. “You think?”

“Yep. You got to stay in one place. Which is good, because tomorrow you're grounded.”

But Delly needed more than that to get her hope back. “Ma, are you sure?”

And Clarice, remembering Delly's smile that morning, said, “Sure.”

That did it. Hope flickered in Delly's heart; then it went to full flame. She lay there in the warmth of Clarice's “Sure.”

“Good night, Delly,” Clarice said as she got up off the bed.

“Good night, Ma,” the rasp replied, because now it was.

B
rud Kinney lived out the River Road, about a half mile past the old Hennepin place. He was in the fifth grade at St. Stanislaus, the boys' school two towns away.

Brud Kinney loved basketball. He played before the bus picked him up; he played at night with the porch light shining. He played all day, in his head, while his teachers talked.

And on Sundays he was at the park, playing with the other River Bluffs kids. He played till his arms ached and his fingertips rubbed raw.

Because what Brud Kinney wanted most was to play basketball like nothing nobody'd ever seen, only better.

Brud's two front teeth were fake. They glowed white in the light. He got those teeth making a basket, so they were like tooth-shaped trophies.

They'd been playing at the park: Brud, Gwennie, Tater, the Dettbarns, and Novello. It was a close game, and it was getting mean.

Tater got the ball in to Gwennie. “Brud,” she hollered, and hurled it down the court.

With Novello breathing down his back, Brud grabbed it. He took a step and jumped high in the air. His hands sent the ball soaring into the sky.

As he came back to earth, Brud's eyes watched and his ears listened for the swish of the score.

So he didn't see Novello's elbow coming at him. He didn't hear Gwennie shout, “Watch out!” He hardly felt the bone hammer his mouth.

Brud's body hit the ground with a thud. His mouth started shooting blood, like a crimson geyser.

Danny Novello was dancing around the court, screaming, “There are teeth in my arm! His teeth are in my elbow!”

Tater and Gwennie leaned over Brud.

“Wow,” was all Tater could say.

“You all right?” Gwennie asked him.

But Brud only wanted to know, “Did I m-m-make the sh-sh-sh-shot?”

“Yep,” she told him.

Then Brud passed out, smiling.

S
unday morning, early, Brud was heading into town to practice.

In real life, he had his basketball under one arm, and he was riding his bike down the River Road.

But in his head, Brud wasn't on a bike at all. In his head, he was already at the park, playing ball. He was shooting from the inside, the outside, and every shot was a swish. In his head, Brud was playing like nothing nobody'd ever seen, only better.

And today, Brud didn't just see it in his head; he was hearing it, too. There was the
thump, thump, thump
of a ball bouncing, the
clang
of it against the rim. For the first time ever, Brud's vision had a sound track.

By the time he got to the bridge, though, the
thumps
and
clangs
had almost disappeared. “H-h-hey,” he said, like somebody'd messed with his movie. He stopped his bike.

But the
thumps
and
clangs
kept coming. From behind him.

So Brud rode back out the River Road. The sounds got louder as he came to the old Hennepin place. He set his bike and ball in the ditch.

And between trees he saw it.

At the end of the drive was a boy, a pale, skinny one. He had short hair like Brud's. He wore a Lakers shirt, like the one Brud had at home. And he was running, dribbling a ball between his legs and behind his back like it was nothing. Then he jumped and sent the ball to the hoop.
Swish
, it made the sound of perfection.

It was Brud's vision. Without Brud.

Now some people, seeing somebody steal their vision, might get mad. Not Brud Kinney. Maybe if I watch this boy, he thought, I could learn to play like that, too. That got him so excited his mouth whistled,
whewwwweee
.

The whistle stopped the boy.

Brud slapped his hands over his mouth. “Sh-sh-shoot,” he mumbled, and ducked behind the brush.

The boy held the ball tight to him. His scared eyes searched along the bushes.

Now some people, after almost getting caught, might hightail it out of there. Or they might say, “Hey, I was watching you. Want to play?”

Not Brud. He loved basketball too much to leave. And he didn't want to ruin it with trying to talk. “Don't s-s-s-stop,” he whispered.

Finally, the boy got back to playing.

“Yes,” he breathed.

But that wasn't enough for Brud. I need to get closer, he decided.

So he snuck, behind trees and bushes, till he was across from the boy. He peeked between branches. Don't mess me up again, his head told his mouth, and he watched.

Up close, the boy was even better. He could dribble backward, forward, and zigzagging. He could shoot from inside, outside, and everywhere in between.

Brud was taking it in. In his head, he talked to himself like a teacher: Look how he holds the ball. Look how low he goes before he jumps. His head was so busy teaching, it didn't notice what the rest of him was up to.

Because Brud's body was already trying it out. When the boy dribbled down the drive, Brud's hands pushed an invisible ball. When the boy crouched with the ball over his head, Brud's knees bent. And when the boy sprang into the air, Brud did, too.

He came crashing through the bushes with his arms over his head. He landed in front of the boy.

They stared at each other for a second. The boy's eyes were filled with fear. He turned, ready to run.

Brud knew what to do. He had to tell the boy, fast, Hey, I'm Brud. I was just watching you play. You're good.

As the boy sprinted to the stoop, Brud took a deep breath. “H-Hey,” he hollered, “I'm B-B-B-”

Now the boy was at the door.

Please work, just this once, Brud begged his mouth.

His jaw jerked. His lips opened wide. Then he yelled, “Hey, I'm B-B-B-B-!”

The door slammed. The boy was gone.

Now, some people, after scaring somebody like that, might go to the door and explain things. But at the door, Brud'd still be saying, “B-B-B-”

And some people, Brud's head said, after seeing a stranger jump out of the bushes, might CALL THE POLICE.

“Sh-shoot,” he stammered, and sped down the drive.

As Brud rode into River Bluffs, his head cussed his mouth: You're always messing me up. You wrecked it, and there's nothing to show for it.

But he was wrong about that.

Because when Brud got to the park and started playing, he was better. He could feel it in the way he dribbled the ball. He could see it, the way the ball went to the basket.

“You're playing real good today, Brud,” Gwennie told him.

He didn't try to say “Th-Th-Thanks.”

Danny Novello watched him, squinty-eyed suspicious. “Think you're going pro or something?” he sneered.

Brud just shrugged.

That night, Brud Kinney lay in bed with the moon shining in his window. He thought about the boy, dribbling and jumping and shooting like that. He thought about playing at the park, and how sweet the swish of the net sounded.

Then Brud Kinney smiled. The two teeth twinkled in the moonlight, like stars.

D
elly spent Sunday on the front porch, staying in one spot like Clarice had suggested.

She sat on the steps, spinning her head so she wouldn't miss anything. All the while her mouth was mumbling, “Come on, come on, come on . . . ,” even when she ate her meals.

After lunch, RB sat down beside her. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting . . . come on . . . for my surpresent . . . come on,” she answered.

RB thought for a minute. “Are you grounded for fighting with Gal?”

With her head twirling like that, it was hard to tell if she was nodding. “Del?”

She stopped for a second. “We moved around too much yesterday,” she explained. “I'm staying here so the surpresent can find me.”

“Oh.” RB watched her head whirl for a while, but it wasn't any fun. “I'm going,” he told her.

Without Delly, though, there wasn't much to do. He threw rocks at the side of the house till Clarice yelled, “Who's hitting my house?” He was picking up worms with a stick when the idea came to him. “I'll bring it to her,” he breathed.

“Delly, is this your surpresent?” he said as he stuck a half-eaten candy bar in her face.

Delly waited for the tingle to tell. “Nope,” she told him, and went back to mumbling.

After a while he returned. “Is this it?” It was Tallahassee's trick quarter.

“No,” she sighed.

He found it under the back porch. He covered it with a cloth and carried it to her. “Delly, Delly, Delly!” He was bouncing on the step and singing.

Her head quit swinging.

“What about this?” He pulled the cloth away, and there it was: a squirrel carcass. There was no fur on it, just dark skin stretched over bones, with the tail still sticking out.

Delly sucked in air so she whistled. “A bawlgram squirrel mummy,” she whispered. She touched the skin with her finger.

“Well, is it? Is it? Is it?” RB grinned.

Delly closed her eyes and wished for the tingle, because that squirrel was as good as any sur-present she ever got. She waited and waited, but nothing happened. When she opened her eyes, she didn't say anything.

RB covered it up again. “I'll save it for you,” he said.

“You go play with Cletis,” she rasped. Because it hurt, watching him lose his hope, too.

“You sure?” he asked.

Her head twirled.

All the way to Cletis's, RB chanted, “Come on, come on, come on.”

It was dark when Clarice came to get her. “Delly, time for bed,” she called.

“Come on . . . Can't . . . come on,” she replied. If she got up, the hope would go for good.

Clarice sat beside her. “Delly,” she said softly, “I know you want a surpresent. But you don't need one. You got good all around you.” She put her hands out like she was holding it for her.

Delly shook her head hard, because she knew about the good all around her. She needed to know there was good in her. She needed something in the world to say, “Delly Pattison, you're not just trouble. Here's a surpresent to prove it.”

“Ma, I'm . . . ” She tried to tell her, but there wasn't a word for feeling so sad and close to hopeless. “Tired,” she sighed, and got up off the step.

“Good night, Delly,” Clarice told her.

“Night,” she said, because that's all it was.