Boy21

ERIN




“If you have the words, there’s always a chance that you’ll find the way.”

Seamus Heaney





29


MR. ALLEN DROPS RUSS, WES, AND ME off at the emergency room and then goes to park his car. The automatic sliding doors close behind us and I throw up in the waiting-room trash can.

It feels like I’m turning inside out.

When I come up for air, half the room is looking at me. There’s maybe twenty or so sick, weary people sitting in chairs, and one homeless man pacing at the far end of the room, yelling, “Whenever I get help, I’m gonna be thankful! Whenever I get help, I’m gonna be thankful!” The other half is watching a show about sharks on the TV that hangs in the corner. I glance up just in time to see the massive jaws of a great white clamp down on a sea lion.

Russ puts his hand on my back and says, “You all right?”

I puke again and just look up at my teammates when I finish.

I don’t know how I am.

“Listen,” Wes says, “you’re going to have to lie and say you’re family, or they won’t let you in. I know, because when my sister had her baby her friends tried to come in during the birth, and the hospital people said only immediate family could visit. So tell them you’re Rod. They’re probably not going to let Russ and me in, so you have to get yourself together.”

Wes’s hand is on my back now too. He says, “You need to be strong for Erin. Be a man. Okay?”

I nod because I’m supposed to, but I feel like I’m going to throw up again.

At the main information desk, Wes tells the woman that I’m Erin’s brother and, just like he predicted, he and Russ are made to stay in the waiting room, while I’m led to what the check-in person calls the trauma center.

I stand in the doorway for a few seconds before I enter Erin’s room.

It’s like a nightmare.

Her left leg is in a soft cast and there’s a plastic neck brace holding her chin in a very rigid position.

Her right arm’s all wrapped up.

There are red bandages on her face that were once white.

The skin around her eyes is purple and black.

Her face is really puffy and shiny; it looks like someone smeared Vaseline under her eyes.

Mrs. Quinn’s sitting next to the bed, which has wheels on it, so maybe it’s not a bed. I don’t know.

They’re holding hands.

Erin’s moaning and her cheeks are wet with tears.

“I’ll leave you alone with your family,” the nurse says.

I stand frozen for a long time, just watching, wondering if this can be real.

Erin looks ruined.

Mrs. Quinn’s hair is all frizzy and wild and her eyes look small and scared. She’s staring at the window even though the blinds have been pulled. Neither Erin nor her mother notices me at first.

I walk around to the far side of the bed and take Erin’s other hand in mine. She doesn’t squeeze.

When we make eye contact, it doesn’t even look like her, because of the swelling, but I recognize the shamrock-green eyes.

She starts talking really quickly. “Finley, my leg’s shattered. I’m never gonna play basketball again—ever. It’s over. That’s it. My season’s ruined. My basketball career is over. No chance for a college scholarship now. When they hit me, they knew it. They saw my face. I flew up onto the hood of their car. I was thrown onto the street—and they just left me there like I was a dead animal. It seemed like they even sped up when—But that can’t be true, right? Who would do something like that? And now I can’t play basketball. What am I going to do about college? How are we going to get out of Bellmont now? I should have made my decision and committed earlier. How could they leave me there? I don’t want you to see me like this, Finley. I must look so ugly. Maybe you should leave. No, don’t leave. And the paramedics cut through my brand-new sports bra too—I just got it two days ago—and that bra cost a lot of money, and—”

“Shhh,” Mrs. Quinn says. “You’re in shock, honey. You’ll be playing basketball in no time. We’ll get you a new sports bra. It’s going to be okay.”

So many thoughts are running through my head, but I can’t seem to make sense of any of them.

“It hurts, Finley. It hurts so much. I can’t move my leg.”

When Erin starts to sob, she looks like a little kid who’s been tortured to the point of exhaustion. I can see the pain tunneling its way through her face and body.

It hurts for her to even cry.

I want to tell her it’ll be okay—that she’ll be playing ball again soon.

I want to ask her how she got hit—what happened?

Will she ever be able to walk again, let alone play basketball?

I look to Erin’s mom for help.

“She can’t have painkillers until they rule out any possible head injuries. They’re going to scan her brain soon, and then—once they rule out brain damage—they’ll give her drugs,” Mrs. Quinn says. “You just have to hold on a little longer, Erin.”

“What about her leg?” I ask. “What did the doctor say about that?”

When Mrs. Quinn doesn’t answer my question, I study her face. She looks very scared herself. Suddenly, I understand that it’s probably worse than I initially thought.

“Finley,” Erin says.

Her eyes are red, but the green shines even now—even amid all the swelling and bruising—maybe even more so.

“Will you please be my boyfriend again?” she says. “I need you to be my boyfriend now. I’m scared. I’m really scared. Please be my boyfriend again. I can’t go through this alone. Please. Please.”

I nod.

Of course I will.

“I need you to say it,” she says, and her voice sounds tiny and childlike and so unlike Erin that I really start to worry.

“I’m your boyfriend again now,” I say.

“Then talk to me. Tell me something else,” she says.

“Like what?”

“Anything to take my mind off the pain.”

“I just threw up before I came in here.”

“Really? Are you okay?”

“Wes and Russ are in the lobby. Boy21 made us lie on his bedroom floor in the dark and listen to this jazz CD about using music to travel through outer space and then I was confused and suddenly I’m at the hospital and I was so worried about you that I just threw up. I puked twice. I puked yellow bile even.”

“Very romantic. You really know how to make a girl feel special, Finley,” she says, which makes me feel good because she smiles for a second. “I’ve missed you. Look what I have to do to get your attention.”

She tries to laugh, but the attempt hurts her and she starts crying again.

I’m afraid that Erin might die, because she looks that bad. “It’s going to be okay.”

“No, it’s not. It’s really not going to be okay, Finley.” Erin tries to laugh, but only starts to cry harder.

Her mom strokes her forehead and says, “Shhh. It is okay. Everything’s fine.”

Because I don’t know what else to do, I start to pet Erin’s hand like it’s a cat or something. After a minute or so, she yells, “Just everyone stop touching me—okay?”

Mrs. Quinn flinches.

I try to make eye contact with Erin, but she’s staring fiercely at the ceiling; I can tell that she doesn’t want to look at me all of a sudden and that I should just be quiet.

We wait around silently for a long time, until they take Erin into a room where they will scan her brain.

Mrs. Quinn’s allowed to accompany her, but a nurse tells me to stay behind.

Being alone in a hospital freaks me out so I return to the ER waiting room to see if Wes and Russ are still there.

I find them with Mr. Allen, watching a show about snakes. On the hanging TV a snake with a head as big as a football is in the process of swallowing what looks like a dog, although I can only see the hind legs sticking out of the snake’s mouth. I wonder why they play these types of shows in the ER waiting room, where people are already feeling depressed about hurt loved ones. Couldn’t they find more lighthearted programming?

Mr. Allen, Wes, and Russ stand when they see me. Russ is no longer wearing his cape.

“How’s Erin?” Mr. Allen says.

I shake my head and say, “Not good.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Russ says.

“Her leg’s shattered and she has bruises all over her face. They’re scanning her brain for damage now. She was rambling for a time and then she got really angry and started yelling at me like I did something wrong, when all I was doing was holding her hand.”

“The girl’s in shock,” Mr. Allen says. “Won’t last. She’ll be back to normal soon.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Wes says. “Damn.”

Boy21 says nothing.

I look up and the snake has finished swallowing. Its midsection is now the shape and size of the dog; it almost looks fake.

“I’m gonna stay here,” I say. “You guys can leave. Thanks for waiting.”

“You sure?” Wes says.

“Yeah. I can catch a ride home with the Quinns if I need to.”

“Tell Erin we’re pulling for her,” Russ says.

“Yeah,” Wes says, “please do.”

“We’ll pray for her tonight,” Mr. Allen says.

“Thanks.” I go back to the trauma center, but Erin and her mom are still in the brain-scanner room.

Alone in the hospital, I think about how fragile people are, how anyone can disappear in a second and be gone forever—how close I’ve come to losing Erin—and I start to remember things I don’t want to remember, so I bite down on the triangle of skin between my left thumb and forefinger until it hurts enough to stop my brain from dredging up any of the garbage that sits at the bottom of my memory.

When Erin’s wheeled back into the room, she has an IV drip in her arm and is semiconscious.

“Her brain’s okay,” Mrs. Quinn says. “She’s on morphine now.”

I pull up a chair and hold Erin’s hand.

“I’m your boyfriend again,” I tell her.

“That’s good,” she says, and then smiles once before she closes her eyes.





30


EVENTUALLY COACH SHOWS UP with the girls’ coach, Mrs. Battle, a large squat serious lady who always wears a tracksuit. Tonight she has on a navy-blue number with three silver stripes running the length of her arms and legs. Erin’s mother and father repeat all the information we know.

Hit-and-run.

Shattered leg.

Major reconstructive surgery.

After the Quinns explain the metal external fixator—a super-skeleton on the outside of Erin’s leg that will hold the bones in place—there’s silence.

What else is there to say, really?

Erin’s season is over.

Coach shakes his head sadly.

Mrs. Battle frowns and says, “Tell Erin the team will visit,” as if that will really help.

Everyone nods sort of dumbly and then Coach says, “Finley, I’ll drive you home. Let’s give the Quinns some time to themselves. Erin’s drugged and out for the night. There’s nothing for you to do here.”

I look at the Quinns and see that the wrinkles around their eyes are pink and raw. It does look like they want to be alone, so I nod and follow Coach out of the hospital.

We say good-bye to Mrs. Battle in the parking lot and then get into Coach’s truck.

The Bellmont streets silently pass by the passenger window. I see a man sleeping on the sidewalk. A small abandoned bonfire in an oil drum makes an alley glow. Hookers in wigs, short skirts, and fur coats are pacing under the overpass.

“I have to take care of my pop,” I say, just to break the silence. “I have to put him to bed.”

“I’m taking you home,” Coach says, but that’s it; he doesn’t say anything else, which makes me feel sort of strange.

It’s late, so Dad’s already left for work.

Coach tells Pop about the hit-and-run—how Erin was walking home from practice and a car came around the corner just as Erin was crossing the street, hit her, and then sped away.

Pop just shakes his head, grabs onto the crucifix at the end of Grandmom’s rosary beads, and says, “I hate this neighborhood.”

I get the old man’s diaper changed, carry him upstairs, and then put him to bed. When I turn out the lights, Pop says, “What did Erin tell you about the accident—anything that Coach left out?”

“Just what we told you.”

“Nothing else? You sure?”

I think about it, replaying Erin’s words in my mind. “She said they might have sped up before they hit her.”

“That’s what I thought.” The old man shakes his head and blows air through his broken, jagged teeth.

“What?”

“Maybe this wasn’t an accident.”

“What are you saying, Pop?”

“You’re not stupid, Finley. Stop pretending you don’t understand what’s going on.”

I think about what the old man means and immediately dismiss his words as crazy. Why would anyone want to break Erin’s leg?

Back in the living room, Coach has helped himself to one of Pop’s beers and is sitting on the couch.

“Wanted to speak with you,” he says.

Before I can think better of it, I say, “Do you think that maybe someone hit Erin intentionally to get back at Rod?”

Coach opens his eyes really wide. He looks at me for a moment, and then he says, “Don’t know, and I don’t wanna know, either. You don’t wanna know that, Finley. Haven’t you lived in this neighborhood for eighteen years? Don’t go there. Useless information. Not a damn thing to do with thoughts like that. You hear me?” He takes a sip of Pop’s beer and says, “Sit.”

I sit.

“I’m real sorry about what happened to Erin. It’s a shame. A damn shame.” Coach looks down at his hands for a few moments, but when he looks up, he’s smiling, which makes me feel very weird. “In other news, the cat’s out of the bag. You don’t have to keep Russ’s secret anymore.”

In other news? Did Coach really just make that transition?

“I’m already getting calls from top programs. Coach K phoned just this morning. Coach K himself. Duke basketball. Russ really has a shot to go far, and your helping him get through this tough period is commendable. I want you to know that I appreciate it very much and that you’ll be getting your minutes, don’t you worry. I know this is a tough night for you, Finley, and that’s why I wanted to say I’m proud of you. You did a good thing, helping Russ. But the job’s not done yet.”

I just stare at Coach. I know that he’s trying to make me feel better about losing my starting position, that he’s thanking me, but with Erin in the hospital—with my having just seen how bad she was hurt and understanding that her hopes for a college scholarship are now over—this hardly seems like the appropriate time to be discussing Russ.

My hands are balled and I can feel my face getting hot.

“I just wanted to take that off your mind, in light of all you have to think about now, with Erin in the hospital,” Coach says. “I’m not displeased with you. Quite the opposite. And the doctors will fix Erin’s leg. Don’t worry about the rest. You can’t control the rest. So just forget about those questions you were asking earlier. Okay?”

I nod, because I don’t want to continue this conversation.

Coach sips his beer once more before he places it on the coffee table and says good-bye. Then I’m alone.

I stretch out on the couch and wait for my father to come home so that he can advise me, but I fall asleep somewhere around three.

I sit up when I hear the front door open.

I blink.

“Finley?” Dad says. “Why are you sleeping on the couch?”

My face must look terrible, because Dad sits next to me and says, “What’s wrong?”

After a minute or so of waking up and thinking and remembering, I tell him what happened.

Remembering is bad, but it feels even worse to say the words.

My stomach starts to churn.

I feel guilty, but I’m not sure why.

It’s confusing.

Finally I say, “Do you think that someone hurt Erin because of who Rod is and what he does? Do you think that it might not have been an accident?”

Dad looks scared. His left eye is sort of twitching. “Someday you and Erin are going to leave this neighborhood and never come back. May that day come soon.”

He didn’t answer my question directly, but I know he’s talking in code, the way people do around here. So he’s confirmed my suspicion.

“Go get your pop ready for his day, and I’ll put on breakfast.”

And so I do.





31


BOY21 EMERGES FROM HIS grandfather’s Cadillac looking very much like an Earthling. He’s wearing dark jeans, a Polo rugby shirt with the huge oversize polo-player-on-a-horse symbol, and a cool leather jacket—no robe, cape, or helmet. Judging by the look on his face I don’t think I’m going to hear anything about outer space today.

“Hey, Finley,” he says. “You okay?”

I nod.

“You hear anything more about Erin?”

I shake my head.

“My grandparents are praying for her.”

“Thanks,” I say, even though I’m not sure I believe in praying, mostly because Dad, Pop, and I stopped going to church when I was a kid.

“I’m sorry that Erin’s hurt so bad and won’t be playing basketball.”

“Me too.”

“Do you want me to sit tonight’s game out?”

I look at Russ and say, “Why would I want you to do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“I heard Coach K called about you.”

“I’ve met Coach K a half-dozen times,” Russ says, as if Coach K were just any old person and not the head of perhaps the best collegiate basketball program in the country. “At camps.”

This means that Russ has been to summer invitation camps for the best high-school players in the nation. They get to go for free and meet all sorts of basketball celebrities.

“Why are you here?” I ask. “I mean, you could be anywhere. Any prep school in the country would take you. What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to be near my grandparents,” Russ says. “Besides… maybe I need to be in Bellmont.”

“This hellhole? Why?”

“To be your friend,” he says.

I don’t understand why he would say that, so I just let it go.

I’m tired, and we’ve reached the high school. As we go through the metal detectors, people start asking me questions about Erin. I return to silent mode.

All day long I think about Erin and how strangers are operating on her leg, cutting it open, inserting pins or whatever to mend the bones. I worry that the surgeons won’t get it right and Erin will have to walk with a limp, or even worse. I can’t pay attention in any of my classes. And when I receive a slip that says to report to guidance during my lunch period, I don’t even mind the fact that I’ll have to speak to Mr. Gore, because it means I won’t be around Russ. He keeps asking me if I’m okay and it’s getting really annoying.

When I sit down across from Mr. Gore I notice the Duke bumper sticker above his filing cabinet and start to get mad, although I’m not really sure why.

“You okay?” Mr. Gore says.

I shake my head.

“You want to talk about anything?” His Jheri curl is looking a little flat on the left side—like maybe he slept on it and didn’t have time to do his hair this morning.

“I’m tired of Bellmont,” I say.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m tired of seeing graffiti every day. I’m tired of drug dealers. I’m tired of people pretending that they don’t see what’s going on in the neighborhood. I’m tired of good people getting hurt. I’m tired of basketball. I’m tired of doing nice things for people and being punished for it. I just want to get out of here. I just want to escape.”

The words simply popped out, which surprises me. Mr. Gore seems surprised too, especially since I never talk to him about anything important. He’s trying not to smile, but I can tell he thinks he’s making progress with me. Maybe he is.

“Are you tired of Erin?” His eyes are all excited now.

“No.”

“And yet you broke up with her for basketball.”

“What does that have to do with her being in the hospital?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Why did you call me down here?”

“Because I care about you.”

Mr. Gore’s leaning forward. His forehead is damp, like he’s nervous—or maybe like he really does care. When I look into his eyes, I see something that makes me feel as though maybe I was wrong about him all along. It’s hard to explain. It’s been a strange twenty-four hours, and I didn’t sleep much last night.

“You know, I played high-school basketball,” he says.

“Really?” I find it hard to believe, because Mr. Gore is very thin and fragile-looking, but he is tall.

“Played in college too, until I hurt my knee. I used to be able to dunk.”

I try to picture Mr. Gore dunking and the little movie I create in my mind makes me laugh.

“As a young man I dedicated my entire life to basketball, and you know what basketball does for me now?” he says.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

I think about what I’ll be doing when I’m Mr. Gore’s age and I can’t see myself playing ball. Even if I went pro, I’d be done playing. For some stupid reason, I see myself with Erin—maybe we’re married. We’re all old and silly-looking—somewhere far from Bellmont, somewhere decent—but we’re still together. I wonder if we really will be.

“You don’t owe anything to Coach,” Mr. Gore says.

I just look at him for a second. He seems different to me, like he’s on my side. Maybe I’ve had him all wrong. And his saying that about Coach makes me feel better, for some reason.

“You look tired, Finley.”

“I didn’t sleep much last night.”

“You want to catch a few z’s in my office?”

“Are you serious?”

“I’m in meetings this afternoon. If you want to take a nap, you can do so here. I’ll let your teachers know that you’re with me. Just don’t go telling anyone my office is a hotel.” Mr. Gore shoots me a corny wink, and then adds, “We good?”

I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep in his office, but I would like some time alone, so I say, “Thanks.”

“No problem. I’ll be in the conference room next door if you need me.”

He pats my shoulder twice before he exits, and then I’m alone.

I stare out the window for two hours and think about Erin.

Halfway through the last period, I slip out of the building before Russ or anyone else can find me.





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