Sasquatch in the Paint Page 5

  “How’d things go at Ground Zero?” Brian asked.

  “What?” Theo asked.

  “The basketball courts at Palisades.”

  “It was okay. No wedgies in sight.”

  “Make any new friends?” Brian asked, a hint of a smirk in his voice.

  “Yeah. We’re all going to the movies next week in matching Justin Bieber T-shirts.”

  They both laughed. But Theo felt guilty about not telling Brian the truth about the fight. Crazy Girl. Motorcycle Guy.

  They talked awhile about a couple girls at school who seemed to be developing faster than the others. And about their favorite zombie television show, The Walking Dead, wondering which main character would be killed off next. Brian told Theo to call him when he got back from L.A., and Theo said he would.

  Theo went to bed, but he couldn’t fall asleep. Too much had happened, and images from the day just kept flying through his mind like a deck of cards tossed up in the air. He flipped on the light, wide-awake. He knew he should study science facts for the upcoming Aca-lympics competition. Since he’d started playing basketball, he’d fallen behind in his preparation. Instead, he propped open his laptop and started reading about basketball. Strategies, basic skills, plays. He watched game highlights on YouTube. Especially Dr. J (Crazy Girl was right about him, he was awesome). Maybe, if he studied basketball enough, he’d get better at it. Like math.

  Suddenly Theo heard something strange. His dad was talking on the phone. He looked at the clock. Almost midnight. His dad was never on the phone this late. Theo’s stomach clenched. Was there some sort of police emergency? Was his dad going to be called out to someplace dangerous?

  Theo slid quietly out of bed, crept to the bedroom door, opened it a crack, and listened. His dad sounded frustrated and upset.

  “…I tried. It’s just not working out.… No, I’m not going to say that. I don’t care.… This is stupid, a bad idea. I’m sorry I let you talk me into it.…”

  Then his voice got lower and Theo couldn’t make out what he was saying. But he could hear typing on a keyboard. His dad was talking on the phone while using a computer. Two things he hated to do separately, let alone at the same time.

  Theo went back to bed, but he couldn’t sleep. What was his dad so upset about?

  A few minutes later, his dad shuffled down the hallway to his bedroom.

  Theo waited half an hour. His dad usually fell asleep quickly. But he was a light sleeper, had been since Theo’s mother died. It was as if he thought he had to be always ready to jump up in case of an emergency. Like he blamed himself for not protecting Mom, even though he hadn’t been there when the car crash happened. Even if he had, how could he have stopped a drunk driver from running a red light?

  Theo poked his head out into the hall. Listened. His dad snored.

  He tiptoed past his father’s door and down the stairs. He stepped over the two stairs that creaked and slipped into his dad’s study. The computer was asleep, but not off, so it quickly popped open to the desktop photo of ten-year-old Theo running with his mother into the waves at Newport Beach. Theo lingered on the photo a moment before typing in his dad’s password: Angelatheo3. Theo had figured that out a couple years ago after only ten minutes. His mom’s name, Theo’s name, and the three of them as a family.

  Theo hesitated. Who was this kid suddenly breaking into his father’s computer? What was happening to him? Growing a few inches couldn’t explain all this. What kind of crazy thing might he do next? He was actually kind of scared to find out.

  But that didn’t stop him.

  Theo checked his dad’s history. He clicked on the most recent site: Why Wait Mate.

  A dating site!

  The screen filled with a profile page of his dad: Marcus Rollins. There was a photo of him, taken with the computer camera, looking stiff and nervous. Like a wanted poster. He was looking for a woman who liked to stay active, loved children, and appreciated conversation. Favorite music: Anything Motown, especially Stevie Wonder and Marvin Gaye. Also, songs by Joni Mitchell.

  Joni Mitchell? Who was that? How could it be that Theo didn’t know that about his dad but strangers would?

  About Family: Just me and my son, Theo, 13 going on 25. He’s smart, funny, loving. I couldn’t have wished for a more perfect son.

  Theo’s face burned with shame. A perfect criminal.

  “Theo?” His dad’s sleepy voice echoed from upstairs. “You up?”

  “Yes, Dad. Just getting some water.”

  “Okay.” Pause. “You all right?”

  “Fine, Dad. Just thirsty.”

  His dad’s concern, even when only half awake, made Theo feel even guiltier. Not to mention he was adding lying to spying. Some “perfect son” he’d turned out to be.

  On the other hand, his dad should have told him about this whole online dating thing. Was he shopping for a new wife? A mother for Theo? Theo had a right to know.

  It looked like Theo wasn’t the only one with a secret identity. Theo would have to keep an eye on him.

  “CIGARETTE?” Gavin asked, expertly shaking his pack so a single cigarette poked out about an inch. He offered it to Theo.

  They were walking to the park to shoot baskets while Theo’s dad and Grandma Esther made lunch and argued about politics.

  “Pass,” Theo said, waving the pack away.

  “Still playing the role of Good Negro.” Gavin said “Negro” sarcastically, which Theo guessed was the only way anyone said that word these days.

  “I’m not playing any role, Gavin. I just don’t want to suck on a burning stick stuffed with poison. Especially just because a bunch of wrinkly old white dudes in shiny suits who never were cool a single day in their lives tell me that it’s the cool thing to do. Feel me?”

  Gavin laughed. “Yeah, I feel you, little cousin.”

  Gavin had been calling Theo “little cousin” since they were little kids, even though Theo was now half a foot taller. However, Gavin was about forty pounds heavier than Theo, and every single one of those pounds was chiseled muscle. The muscles were even bigger than the last time Theo had seen him. His biceps strained against the sleeves of his too-tight black T-shirt. When he walked, his pecs shifted around as if he had ferrets under his skin fighting to break out.

  “What’s with the muscle-head thing?” Theo asked. “You on steroids?”

  “I don’t need steroids, just hard work. Grandma bought me a set of used weights at a yard sale. Plus I do sit-ups and push-ups three times day.” He dropped to the ground and did ten perfect push-ups. He jumped up and grinned. “Your turn.”

  “What’s the point?” Theo said dismissively, though he was a little jealous.

  “Showbiz, cuz, and simple mathematics. LL Cool, Kanye. All those guys perform with their shirts off. Girls go thermal. Sells downloads. I’m getting ready for my career as a world-famous recording artist. Kinda like you studying for your SATs.” He looked over Theo’s skinny body and laughed. “I can show you how to bulk up some. Right now you look like a strong fart will send you into orbit.” He stuck a cigarette between his lips and lit it.

  Theo didn’t like the way Gavin had made him feel like a little kid so easily, so he started in again with what he knew best: facts. He pointed at Gavin’s cigarette. “Did you know that there are over four thousand chemicals in tobacco smoke, sixty-nine of which cause cancer? Each cigarette contains chemicals found in batteries, industrial solvents, insecticide, toilet cleaner, sewer gas, and rocket fuel.”

  “Rocket fuel?” Gavin nodded, pleased. “Guess that’s why I like it so much. Gives me energy. Better than Red Bull.” He took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke out. “Or it could be the sewer gas. I’ll get back to you on that.”

  That was Gavin. Never took anything seriously.

  Theo ignored him, bouncing the basketball as they walked. On every previous visit, Gavin had tried to get Theo to go to the neighborhood park to play basketball. Theo usually refused. For one thing, G
avin’s friends thought it was great fun to pick on Theo. For another, Gavin was always suggesting things that could get them in trouble. The last time he’d tried to talk Theo into getting a tattoo with him. “Or better yet,” he’d said, “we should get branded. That’s really badass.”

  “Branded? As in shoving hot metal against your skin until it fries?”

  Gavin had nodded enthusiastically. “I hear your skin smells like bacon.”

  “Isn’t that what they used to do to slaves?”

  Gavin had retorted, “It’s what slaves had done to them. This is a choice.”

  “Yeah,” Theo had scoffed, “a really dumb choice. Plus, your mom and Grandma would kill you.”

  “Once it’s done, nothing they can do about it.”

  That was Gavin, too. Acted like he didn’t care what anyone thought. Yet Theo noticed he had no brand or tattoo, nor had he had his name shaved into his hair or lines shaved into his eyebrows like he’d also talked about doing. He was mostly bluster.

  Theo dribbled the ball harder, faster. This time he felt ready to face Gavin’s friends: he was taller and knew a few more moves. And he needed the practice. Since Coach Mandrake announced that Theo was going to be the core of the team’s offense, Theo felt like he should be practicing every moment.

  “So you’re on the basketball team now, huh?” Gavin said.

  “Yeah.”

  “They teach you anything useful?”

  “Guess we’ll find out,” Theo said, hoping he sounded cool and confident.

  Suddenly Gavin snatched the ball from Theo’s hands and ran ten feet in front of him. His cigarette dangled from his lips while he dribbled. “Guess they didn’t teach you how to hold on to the ball at your white school.”

  “It’s not a white school. In fact, whites are the minority. The principal is Asian.”

  “Always with the facts and stats. It’s not about the number of whites, it’s about the attitude, son. Don’t you get that? Even if it isn’t mostly white, they’re still teaching you to be white.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “Fancy computers and SMART Boards and all that junk is just meant to make you a mindless consumer. Ya gotta stay true to who you are, son.”

  “Like you? A gangsta wannabe who’s failing at school and who’s probably going to be stacking boxes at Costco the rest of his life?”

  “See, that right there is white attitude. Nothing wrong with honest hard work.”

  “I didn’t say there was. I just said that you don’t have to limit your opportunities just because you’re lazy. All your race crap is an excuse for you to do nothing but lift weights. Try lifting a book once in a while.”

  Gavin frowned and flicked his cigarette in Theo’s direction but not really at him. “You could always talk, little cousin. I’ll give you that.” He started dribbling the ball across the street to the park. “Let’s see how much good talk does you here.”

  Theo followed him across the street, through the park, and to the basketball courts. The park wasn’t as nice as Palisades Park. There were a few brown patches of dirt where there used to be grass; some of the trees looked worn down, like they’d been climbed often and roughly. The basketball courts were also more worn: the pavement had long, jagged cracks, making the surface look like it was divided into continents. The line paint was faded and chipped. The nets sagging from the rims were torn, and one rim had no net.

  A group of four guys, all black, waved at Gavin and called his name. That was another thing that was different: most of the people in the park were black, like the neighborhood. Theo’s park and neighborhood were models of ethnic diversity, with whites, Hispanics, Asians, Indians, Muslims, and even a few Sikh guys in turbans. Sometimes Theo thought the place was like a movie set for some futuristic America where everyone got along. But here, nearly every face was some shade of black. Gavin had once asked Theo if being here “among his own” made him feel more at home. It didn’t. He didn’t feel intimidated either.

  Gavin introduced Theo to the other players. Then, without any small talk, they jumped right into playing. The play was different than at Palisades Park. More fancy dribbling. More fouling. More shoving.

  More trash talk:

  “Take off your skirt and play like a man.”

  “You call that guarding? I wouldn’t let you guard my fries at lunch.”

  “You need GPS to find the basket, son.”

  A couple of others that were way more colorful.

  And several that involved body parts in unusual situations.

  More than a few of these comments were directed at Theo.

  Gavin was on the other team, of course, and volunteered to guard Theo. He played rough, but no rougher than the other kids. A teammate would lob the ball to Theo for an inside layup and someone would jump up to block, slamming Theo just enough so he’d miss the shot. The first time, Theo let it go. The second time, he called a foul, but everyone just laughed, even his own teammates. “No blood, no foul,” they said.

  They didn’t really mean that, because a few plays later Theo got knocked down by one of the players and skinned his elbow. Blood seeped through the shredded skin. But still, no foul.

  “You need an ambulance, little cousin?” Gavin smirked, helping him to his feet.

  “I’m fine, dude.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, no one around here says ‘dude.’ That’s surfer talk, dude.”

  Theo continued to play, getting elbowed in the ribs, stomped on both feet, hip-checked in the crotch (that felt like he might need an ambulance). After about an hour, Gavin told them he had to leave. Theo said nothing, but he was relieved. He felt as battered as if he’d been whirled in a blender. The rest of the guys complained and tried to talk Gavin into staying, but he pointed at Theo and shrugged, as if to say, “I’m babysitting, nothing I can do.”

  On the walk home, Theo said, “You didn’t have to quit on my account. I was doing fine.”

  Gavin snorted. “I don’t want Uncle Marcus giving me a hard time about his baby boy getting hurt.”

  “Did you hear me complain?”

  “Nope. And you surprised me with some skills. Still, you’re like a toddler wandering into traffic. Not one of the real players.”

  “Real players? All they did was shove and foul. In a real game they’d all have fouled out.”

  “That was a real game. What real game are you talking about?”

  “In a gym, with referees.”

  “That’s just one kind of ‘real’ game. Not the only kind.”

  “Oh, I see. It’s not a real game when you have to play by the rules. Right, gangsta?” Theo said “gangsta” as sarcastically as Gavin had said “dude.”

  Theo expected Gavin to get angry. But he didn’t. That was new.

  Gavin laughed. “Look, I’m just saying, your problem is you don’t play basketball to win. You play to not look stupid.”

  Theo stopped walking. He could feel his skin heating up with anger. His cheeks actually burned. “What are you talking about?”

  “The way I see it, little cousin, there are three types of jammers. First, you got your average player with no particular talent who enjoys hanging with his boys. That’s me. I can play okay, but the game don’t mean nothing to me. Win or lose, same deal to me. Next, you got your guys who are always watching the clock or the score or whatever, just praying for the game to be finished because they think everyone’s judging them every second. They’re panicking the whole time they’re on the court, thinking they don’t have what it takes. That’s you, man. Finally, you got those who never want the game to be over, because each minute is like living on some planet where you got no problems. They feel like they’re flying, or driving a hundred miles an hour with no chance of crashing. Winning for them isn’t even a question. They know every time they grab a ball that they’re going to win. Even when they don’t win, they still feel like they did, because they were, for that brief time, in a place where everything they thou
ght or did mattered. That’s who you wish you were.”

  Theo grabbed the ball out of Gavin’s hands and started home alone. “You see me maybe once every six months and you think you know all about me. You don’t know anything.”

  Gavin didn’t say anything. No dig, no joke, no insult. That, too, was new.

  “ISN’T this game too white for you?” Theo asked sarcastically. Since they’d arrived back at Grandma Esther’s house, everything Theo had said to Gavin was snide. He knew he was acting childishly, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. There was a gnawing in his stomach that only sarcasm seemed to soothe.

  Gavin laughed. “Only color I’m interested in right now is red. As in blood.” They were playing Call of Duty in Gavin’s room. The room was a mess, with dumbbells scattered in one corner, a desk buried under comic books and dirty clothes in another, the TV and video games in a third, and his piano keyboard and computer in the fourth. The keyboard and computer were where Gavin supposedly wrote his music. For years he had been telling everyone what a major hip-hop star he was going to be one day, only he never let anyone hear any of his songs.

  Theo had considered sulking by himself, but his dad would soon have pulled him into the kitchen to look at photo albums, mostly filled with faded Polaroids of his grandmother in low-cut, slinky outfits from back when she was a popular blues and jazz singer (she’d actually made a few albums). People always expected his grandma to look like some short, chubby version of Madea, in a flowery housedress and apron, always laughing and calling people “folks” or “child” (“You folks jes set yoselves down. Ain’t that right, child?”).

  But Grandma was slim, dressed in jeans and flannel shirts, and had thick black-and-gray dreadlocks that hung to her butt. She divided her days between visiting her old musician friends and participating in her various political activities. Back in the sixties, she’d been involved in some radical protests. Now she just wanted to make sure everybody got a chance to vote. Theo had heard all the stories, seen all the yellowish photos, heard Grandma’s political speeches. He’d rather shoot zombie Nazis, even if it was with Gavin.