32
I WALK AROUND THE CRAPPY BELLMONT STREETS for a few hours before I return to the high school to watch our JV team play.
When I pass him in the stands, Terrell says, “How’s your lil baby doin’?”
I stop and look into Terrell’s eyes. “Don’t call her my lil baby. You know she doesn’t like that. She’s told you hundreds of times. Show some respect,” I say, hearing the anger in my voice. It surprises me.
“Okay, Finley,” Terrell says. “Damn.”
Hakim and Sir exchange a glance, and then continue to watch the JV team play.
Terrell was just trying to be nice, and I feel a little guilty for yelling at him, but I’m also glad that he called me Finley and not White Rabbit, which seems important. So I add, “Don’t ever call Erin my lil baby again. Okay?”
“Relax, Finley,” Terrell says. “Watch yourself.”
I know Terrell means I’m stepping out of line, that I’ve ignored the power structure here in Bellmont, that I should know my place or else I’ll be reminded, but I don’t really care about all that right now. First my starting position was taken from me, and now Erin. What else matters?
I sit down.
Russ slides toward me and says, “Where’d you disappear to during lunch?”
“I was with Mr. Gore,” I say, and then stare at the JV game. Our team is already losing by fifteen. Coach Watts calls time-out and is now screaming at his starters about running an offense. “Any offense!” he yells.
“You all right?” Wes says.
“Yeah,” I say. “I just wanna watch the game, okay?”
Wes and Russ glance at each other, and then they leave me alone. So does the rest of the varsity team.
When the JV squad finishes, we shoot around—I hit every shot I take—and then in the locker room Coach announces the starting lineup, leaving out my name. No one says anything to me about my demotion, and I really don’t care all that much.
During warm-up drills I see Pop and Dad in the stands, and I think about how Dad has his car with him. I could walk right over to him and say, “Let’s go to the hospital to check up on Erin.” He’d say I should play the game, that I made a commitment to the team. But he’d take me if I pressed him.
Russ gets the biggest roar by far when they announce the starters. Terrell looks at his sneakers. Coach’s talk about the team will sound a little different to Terrell now that he’s no longer the number one option.
I’m standing behind Coach as he goes over the game plan—how to beat Brixton, tonight’s opponent—but I’m not really listening at all.
Then I’m on the bench watching Wes win the jump ball, which he tips to Russ, who dribbles toward the basket. He dishes the ball to Hakim, who scores an easy layup.
“Red twenty-two,” Coach yells, and the team drops into a 2–2–1 press.
I think about Mr. Gore saying basketball means nothing to him now. I suddenly realize I don’t care whether we win this game, or if I even play. It’s a game. Erin’s in the hospital. What am I doing here?
I never dreamed I’d stop caring about basketball, but I really couldn’t care less about it right now.
I stand and say, “I’m sorry, Coach. I have to go.”
“What?” Coach says. “Where?”
I stride past the opposing team, right up to Pop and Dad.
“I should be at the hospital,” I say. “I want to be there when Erin wakes up.”
Coach Watts has followed me. “Finley, you best get your butt back on our bench.”
Pop looks at Coach Watts and says, “He’s got a lady in need.”
“You know that there will be consequences,” Dad says.
“Last chance, Finley,” Coach Watts says.
All the people in the stands are staring at me like I’m a complete freak.
The opposing coach calls a time-out to set up a press break, and, as my teammates jog off the court, they stare at me too. I see concern on Russ’s face.
“I should be at the hospital, Dad.”
“Okay,” Dad says.
I push Pop’s wheelchair out of the gym and the night is more than refrigerator cold—it’s freezer-cold now.
We get into the car and Dad drives.
“I’m proud of you,” Pop says. “People are more important than games.”
“I’m sorry,” Dad says, because we all know my leaving means Coach has every right to never play me again. If I had simply asked to miss the game before it started, Coach would have probably let me go spend time with Erin, no problem. But leaving the bench in the first quarter is unheard of. Dad and Coach both know that it means I basically just quit the team.
“It’s okay,” I say, and then exit the car.
“Take this,” Dad says, handing me a twenty-dollar bill. “Call me when you’re ready to come home, but if it’s after I go to work, take a cab.”
We don’t have a lot of money, so twenty bucks is a big deal. It’s Dad’s way of saying he’s okay with my decision—that he supports me.
I tell the hospital people I’m Erin’s brother and I’m allowed in, even though it’s not regular visiting hours.
“Your parents are in the cafeteria,” a woman says and then points me in the right direction.
I find Mr. and Mrs. Quinn staring at coffee cups.
They look up at me with tired eyes.
“Don’t you have a game tonight?” Mr. Quinn says.
“Can I see Erin?”
They nod.
“Just try not to wake her if she’s still sleeping,” Mrs. Quinn says. “She needs her rest.”
Mrs. Quinn gives me the room number and when I find Erin her eyes are closed.
Very quietly I stand next to her bed and watch her breathe.
The swelling in her face has gone down considerably.
The IV drip in her arm means she’s heavily drugged.
Her bad leg is locked in a slightly bent position and—through the sheet fabric—I can see things poking through, which I imagine to be part of the metal skeleton that will hold her leg together as it mends. I don’t want to see the damage just yet, so I don’t peek.
I think about running with Erin, sprinting, climbing out onto my roof—her using her knee in all sorts of ways. Almost anything can be ruined. Everything is fragile. Temporary.
Because I can’t help it, I lean down and kiss her forehead once, and I think I see her smile for a second in her sleep, but it’s dark so I can’t be sure.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” a nurse whispers from the doorway. “She needs her sleep.”
I nod.
I kiss Erin’s forehead once more. There’s a notepad and pen on the table next to the bed, so I scribble a quick message:
I was here.
Love,
Finley
I follow the nurse, who says, “She’s your classmate?”
“My girlfriend.”
She nods once before she says, “You’re a lucky man.”
“I am.”
I want to go sit with the Quinns, but for some reason I go to the waiting room instead, and watch all the people who have kids staying overnight at the hospital or who are waiting for loved ones to wake up from surgeries or whatever. They all look just as concerned as I probably do. I see a mom and a dad holding hands, comforting each other. An elderly woman talks to a priest for a while. And a little kid sleeps with a teddy bear in one arm and his thumb in his mouth. So many people with problems and hurting, sick family members.
Just before they make us all leave, I look in on Erin once more. She’s sleeping comfortably, so I take a cab home.
33
THE NEXT MORNING OVER EGGS and bacon, I ask Dad if I should skip school to check on Erin. Before he can answer, Pop says, “Yes.”
“Have you missed a day of high school yet?” Dad asks.
“Nope. Perfect attendance. So what’s one day?”
Dad looks at me and says, “You sure you don’t want to talk to Coach?”
“I think the team will be just fine without me.”
“Okay,” Dad says. “I don’t like you quitting anything, but under the circumstances… I just wanted to make sure you’re okay with the consequences, that you won’t regret the decision later. I mean, you love basketball, Finley.”
“Erin’s more important. Right?”
Pop pulls two bucks from his shirt pocket, holds the money out to me, and says, “Buy Erin some flowers, will ya? Tell her I’m looking forward to the next game of War.”
“Thanks, I will,” I say, even though flowers will cost more money. It’s a nice gesture and I appreciate it. He’s probably been holding on to those two bucks for years. My dad pays for everything around here, and Pop hasn’t worked a day since he lost his legs.
On his way to school, Russ shows up at my front door, once again looking very terrestrial. It’s like Boy21 really has left the planet.
“I’m going to the hospital today,” I say. “Not going to school.”
“I’m really sorry about how everything’s turned out, Finley. Truly.” He’s cracking his knuckles one at a time.
“I have to help Erin now. Okay? Stick with Wes in school. He’ll get you through.”
“It’s about more than getting through,” Russ says. “Can we talk later tonight?”
“I don’t know.” I have no idea what will happen at the hospital. “I have to go. See you later, man.”
Russ nods once and then heads for school. He looks lonely, walking all by himself, but there’s nothing I can do about that now.
Dad drives me to the hospital and we buy flowers at the gift shop near the cafeteria. I pick out a single yellow rose in a plastic vase because I know Erin likes yellow and the arrangement is the cheapest they have. I use Pop’s two bucks and Dad covers the rest.
We walk to the part of the hospital where Erin’s recovering and tell the woman behind the desk that we’re here to see my girlfriend. I don’t have to lie about being Rod because there are visiting hours in this part of the hospital.
She looks at a chart briefly, runs down a list with the tip of her pen, and says, “Erin Quinn’s not seeing visitors today.”
“I’m her boyfriend,” I say.
“Sorry,” the woman says.
“Can you take this to her and let her know I’m here?” I ask. “She’ll want to see me. She’ll tell you so. I swear.”
“The patient has requested that no one except her parents be permitted access to her. Those are her wishes.”
“She’s not a patient,” I say, fully realizing how ridiculous it sounds, because Erin is a patient. “She’s my girlfriend.”
“Maybe so. But she doesn’t want to see you today. Come back tomorrow. Maybe she’ll have changed her mind by then.”
“Can we send her a note through you?” Dad asks.
“We can do that.” The woman sighs as if we’re asking her to do a hundred push-ups, or something equally insane.
“Do you have any paper?” I ask.
The woman stares at me for a second over her neon-green reading glasses, and then she slaps a pad of paper on the counter.
I hesitate but then say, “You wouldn’t happen to have a pen, would you?”
She shakes her head with enough force to set her neck fat in motion, but she hands me a pen. I wonder why she’s so angry, but then someone behind me says, “This is asinine! Why can’t I go in to see my daughter? I’m tired of waiting here!”
The woman behind the desk probably has to listen to people yell all day.
I write:
Erin,
Pop sends you this flower. He’s looking forward to the next game of War. I skipped school and am in the waiting room. Tell them to let me in and we’ll talk.
Love,
Finley
I fold the note in half and stick it between the stem and the white cotton-looking plant they stuck in with the rose.
When the woman finishes speaking with the yelling man, she gestures to me and says, “Take a seat. When things slow down a little, I’ll have one of the nurses deliver the flowers to your girlfriend. If she wants to see you, we’ll let you know.”
“How long will—”
“Don’t know,” she says without looking up from her lists and charts.
“Come on, Finley,” Dad says, and we sit down in the waiting room, where a half-dozen people are watching Good Morning America. Some singer I don’t know is performing outside in the streets of New York City. When she sings, you can see her breath. She doesn’t look much older than me, and here she is on TV. How does that happen?
Dad falls asleep while we wait, and I wonder if Erin really doesn’t want to see me. I start to worry. I feel confused. I can’t imagine why I was denied access to her.
Finally, Mrs. Quinn appears, looking very tired and unshowered—probably because she spent the night at the hospital—and says, “I’m sorry, Finley, but Erin doesn’t want to see you today.”
“Why not?”
“She’s tired from the surgery, and she’s not looking very well either. You know how girls are about being seen without makeup.”
Mrs. Quinn is lying, trying to soften the news. Erin never wears makeup. She doesn’t even own makeup.
“It was nice of you to bring the rose. It really brightened the room.” She hands me a note, and then leaves.
It’s Erin’s handwriting.
You shouldn’t have left your game last night. You should be in school right now. Forget about me. Apologize to Coach and enjoy the rest of your basketball season. Don’t come back to the hospital. I can’t see you.
Erin
I keep reading Erin’s note over and over again, but it doesn’t make any sense. Just the other night, she practically begged me to be her boyfriend again, and now she says she can’t see me?
I start to feel sick to my stomach.
I don’t know what to do, so I just sit there waiting, hoping Mrs. Quinn will return with a smile on her face and say, “Just kidding!” But Mrs. Quinn doesn’t return.
Good Morning America ends. Some talk show begins and Dad snores through it all, right next to me.
He wakes up around lunchtime and says, “How’s Erin?”
I show him the note.
“She’s probably angry about what happened. She’s not in shock anymore. She’s feeling the full effect. But she’ll come around.”
“Do you mind if we stay here?” I say. “I’d like to stay, just in case she changes her mind.”
“I can sleep anywhere,” Dad says, and then shuts his eyes.
After school ends, Mrs. Battle and the girls’ team come with balloons and cards, but they aren’t allowed in either, which really makes me worry about Erin.
When I tell her Erin wouldn’t see me, Mrs. Battle says, “Well, then, we might as well get back to the gym for a late practice.”
Erin’s teammates look sort of pissed off, which makes me angry, because it’s not like Erin invited them to a party, right?
They leave all the get-well gear at the desk and file back out to the bus.
Dad and I eat dinner at the cafeteria.
“You know,” Dad says, chewing a bite of hamburger, “Erin’s family might be trying to protect you, Finley.”
“What do you mean?”
“Whoever hit her, well, maybe they’re watching,” Dad says, and then he glances around the cafeteria carefully.
“I don’t care about any of that. I’m done with that stuff, Dad.”
“You can’t just be done with it,” he says. “It doesn’t work like that.”
“Erin and I didn’t ask to be a part of that world.”
“Neither did I,” Dad says, which makes me feel bad, because Dad’s life has been pretty bleak, and through no fault of his own. “All’s I’m saying is to give it time, and don’t do anything stupid. You and Erin can leave Bellmont someday. You can go far away. Like I should have done with your mother.”
This is the first time Dad has mentioned Mom in years. “I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about Mom.”
“We’re not.” Dad finishes his hamburger, and the conversation ends, because I don’t know what else to say.
There’s a different nurse at the desk now, so I try one more time to see Erin. I’m denied access again, so I let Dad drive me home.
Pop’s drinking a beer and watching the Sixers game. “How’s Erin?”
“She refused to see us,” Dad says.
“We sent a yellow rose in to her with a note,” I say. “I told her the flower was from you, Pop, and that you wanted to play her in War.”
“It’s a lot to take in, a loss like that. She’ll come around,” Pop says. “Here’s some strange news for you. Russ is up in your bedroom, Finley.”
“What? Why?” I ask.
“Something about stars,” Pop says, and turns his attention back to the TV.
Dad and I exchange a confused glance before I jog up the steps and into my room.
When I open my bedroom door, Russ is standing on my desk chair, with his hand in the air like the Statue of Liberty.
It takes a second to register, but then I realize he’s in the process of turning my bedroom ceiling into a galaxy. He’s already covered two-thirds of it with glow-in-the-dark stars.
“Surprise?” Russ says halfheartedly when he sees me.
“What are you doing?”
“I wanted to do something nice for you,” Russ says. “So I bought you your own cosmos.”
In spite of all that has happened, I smile. No one has ever purchased and arranged a galaxy for me before.
“Wanna help me finish?” Russ says.
I nod, and then we’re taking turns standing on my chair, arranging constellations. It feels good just to have something to concentrate on. And when we’ve covered the entire ceiling, Russ shuts off the lights. We stretch out on the floor and bask in the weird green glow.
“So how’s Erin?” Russ says.
“Not good,” I say. “She wouldn’t see me.”
“Why?”
“Dunno.”
“Give her a few days. Sometimes people need time and space.”
For a few minutes, we just look at the weird constellations we made.
“Coach says you come to practice tomorrow, all will be forgiven,” Russ says. “No questions asked. No punishment for missing today’s practice or for leaving the game.”
“Is that why you came tonight? To deliver Coach’s message?”
“No,” Russ says. “I came to put up the stars. I came to make you feel better.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I mean, thanks. I appreciate the kind words. But I feel like Erin needs me now. I wish there was something I could do for her.”
“When I was in the group home a woman used to read to us at night. I would just sit and listen. I couldn’t even tell you the names of the books, but it helped. I never told that woman I liked it when she read to us, but I did. Maybe you could read Harry Potter to Erin? Maybe she’d like to escape to Hogwarts?”
“Maybe,” I say.
It feels nice to hang out with Russ—especially after all that’s happened. It’s almost like we can pretend we’re still kids or something—and I wonder if that’s also why we like reading kids’ books like Harry Potter. I don’t know.
I’m glad Russ came to my house.
I’m glad he made me a galaxy.