7
WHEN HE PARKS, Coach says, “There’s one other thing.”
He gets this look on his face like he has to use the bathroom or something. He looks way uncomfortable. He’s strangling the steering wheel.
“Russell isn’t exactly going by the name Russell at this moment in his life.” Coach glances out the windshield with this vacant look on his face. “Russell now likes to be called Boy21.” He nods a few times, as if to say he isn’t joking.
“Why?” I say, noting that twenty-one is my basketball number. Could this night possibly get any weirder?
“The people at his group home and his local therapist have both recommended that we all call him Boy21 out of respect for his wishes. They say he now needs to exert control over his environment in some small way, or something like that. I don’t know anything about therapy, but I think after all that’s happened the boy could sure use a kindhearted friend. That’s what this is about. We’ll call him Boy21 tonight and work on getting him back to Russ before school starts.”
I nod, but I imagine my expression says something different. Am I kindhearted? How can I be a friend to this kid when I don’t really even talk to people, and I don’t have any true friends besides Erin? Will he want my basketball number?
Coach’s eyebrows are pushing the skin on his forehead into folds and he’s swallowing every five seconds now.
He reaches across the truck, puts his hand on my shoulder, and says, “I’m doing this out of respect for my late friend. And, Finley, no matter how this goes, thank you for coming. You’re a good kid. I’m only asking you to give tonight a shot. Nothing more. If it doesn’t go well, we’ll just forget about it. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Well. Here we go.”
We get out of Coach’s truck. The Allens’ street is much worse than mine. Broken bottles and fast-food wrappers litter the sidewalks, a few houses are boarded up, and just about every building is tagged with graffiti curse words, but the Allens’ place is actually pretty nice. The lawn’s cut, the bushes are shaped, and the house itself looks well kept and inviting. It’s even been freshly painted, which is a rare sight in Bellmont.
Coach rings the doorbell and soon a white-haired couple answers.
“Timothy!” The old woman is wearing a black dress. She wraps her arms around Coach’s neck so that he has to bend over. “Thank you so much for coming.”
“Pleasure, Ms. Allen.”
Mr. Allen—who’s wearing a gray suit—shakes Coach’s hand very formally and says, “Thank you again for what you said at the funeral. You’re a poet, a good friend, and a kind soul.”
“I only spoke the truth,” Coach says. Everyone’s eyes are suddenly glistening. “This here’s Finley McManus. One of the finest young men on my ball squad. Good people here. I promise you that.”
I’m a little embarrassed by Coach’s introduction, but I’m also a little proud.
Mr. Allen looks at me and says, “Thanks for coming.”
I know Mr. Allen is probably surprised that I’m white, but that doesn’t bother me. I’d probably be surprised if I were him too. Actually, I’m surprised that Coach picked me for this job. I’m not a therapist, nor do I have much in common with the Allen family at all. They’re probably thinking I won’t be able to relate to their grandson, that I might even be a liability for him in the new neighborhood, and I completely agree. Black kids with white best friends are not common in Bellmont. Maybe that’s blunt, but I’ve found that being blunt sometimes makes life easier for everyone.
“Come in,” Mrs. Allen says.
8
IT’S AIR-CONDITIONED INSIDE.
Pictures of Jesus hang all around the house. Jesus cuddling lambs. Jesus in a garden. Jesus wearing a purple robe. The furniture is very old, but the rooms are the cleanest I’ve ever been in. Everything wooden is polished, the rugs are fluffy and freshly vacuumed, and you couldn’t find a single speck of dust even if you moved around the picture frames. It’s like being in a museum, compared to our messy man-house.
I’m sitting next to Coach on the couch when Mrs. Allen hands me a glass of lemonade.
“So where’s Russ?” Coach says.
“Up in his room,” Mr. Allen says. “I’m afraid I couldn’t get him to come down. I told him you were coming, but, well, you see”—he lowers his voice here—“the social worker told us that we shouldn’t push the boy just yet, but let him acclimate to the new setting, so—”
“Would you go up and talk with him?” Mrs. Allen asks me.
She’s a tiny thin lady, but her eyes are forceful, piercing, so I simply nod because I always do what my elders ask of me. That’s how Pop and Dad raised me.
“Might as well let the boys meet,” Mr. Allen says a little too hopefully, as if he’s trying to hide his true expectations, but maybe I’m just being paranoid.
“You okay with that, Finley?” Coach says, resting his hand on my shoulder again.
I nod.
A good ball player always listens to his coach, especially when his coach is as smart as mine.
“Upstairs, second door on your left,” Mrs. Allen says.
I place my glass on a coaster and stand.
“Did you tell him about the outer-space fixation?” Mr. Allen says to Coach.
When I give Coach a questioning glance, he says, “Go on upstairs, Finley. Say hello. Okay?”
I wonder what any of this has to do with outer space, but Coach’s eyes beg me not to ask him anything in front of the Allens, so I don’t.
As I walk across the room and make my way to the stairs, I can feel my elders watching me, but once I’m out of sight I go slowly and study the pictures on the wall that leads up to the second floor, trying to figure out just what kind of a mess I’m in.
There are black-and-white pictures of Mr. and Mrs. Allen taken when they were young, and I recognize different corners of Bellmont even though the cars and clothing styles are outdated and the town looks much cleaner and safer.
There’s an old wedding picture and Coach is the best man; he’s rocking a huge Afro, wearing a powder-blue tuxedo, and looking more like my classmates than an adult, which makes me smile.
The photos of Boy21 begin when he was a baby and go all the way to the present day.
It’s obvious his family had money. His clothing looks expensive in all the school photos, and there are pictures of him and his parents taken in foreign places: in front of the Eiffel Tower and also that leaning tower in Italy—even one by those pyramids in Egypt.
I start to feel a little jealous of this kid, because I’ve never been anywhere but Bellmont and he’s been all over the world, which doesn’t really seem fair. Why is it that some people are born into fantastic situations and others wait their whole lives for a break?
Russell’s smiling nicely in all of the shots. He looks like a good kid, which makes it hard for me to hate him.
And then I see his high-school basketball team photo: He’s the only black kid. His squad’s wearing cool brand-new Nike uniforms, like a college team. They even have matching sneakers.
Maybe Coach knew that Boy21 was the only black kid on his team like I’m the only white kid on my team, and that’s why Coach picked me for this job.
But I also see Russ is wearing number 21—my number—and I can’t help but feel threatened.
At the top of the steps there are no more pictures. I walk down the hall, where an entire room’s contents are in boxes. I have to turn sideways as I pass a big chest of drawers and a desk. A mattress and bed frame are leaning against the wall.
Behind the only closed door in the hallway, someone is talking.
I put my ear up to the door and hear a man’s voice say, “Perseus! Perseus the hero! Slayer of Medusa! There you are, my friend! A road map to a new existence. Space is the place! Space is the place!”
Whoever is behind the door sounds absolutely insane.
But for Coach, I do as I was instructed to do.
Good basketball players execute the game plan.
Always.
I raise my fist and knock.
9
THE VOICE STOPS TALKING and after a long few seconds the door opens inward and I’m looking up at a shirtless man-child.
His body is incredible.
The perfect basketball body.
Tall, lean, strong—it looks exactly like Kobe Bryant’s.
He has four-inch braids that are unlike what my teammates wear—those neat Manny Ramirez braids. Boy21’s braids are so nappy, they almost look like Bob Marley’s dreads.
“You are an Earthling?” Boy21 says to me.
I swallow and nod.
“I am programmed to treat all Earthlings with kindness. Greetings. I am Boy21 from the cosmos. I am stranded here on Earth, but I will be leaving soon. Enter into my domestic living pod.”
He turns his back on me and resumes what he was doing.
I step into the empty room and see that the ceiling and walls have recently been painted black.
Books are open all over the floor. They’re all about outer space. Hundreds of constellations and galaxies and universes are spread out at my feet.
When I look up, Boy21 has a book in his hand and is arranging constellations on the wall using those glow-in-the-dark plastic stars—what little kids stick on their bedroom ceilings.
He’s already filled an entire wall with constellations.
“I just finished Perseus. That there is Algol—the demon star. This here is pretend outer space—or fantasy outer space—so we’re not really interested in arranging the constellations the way they usually appear.” His expression is blank—completely alien. “We’re just putting up our favorites so we’ll feel more at home in our domestic pod here on Earth. What’s your favorite constellation? And do you have a name, Earthling?”
This isn’t a game or a joke. He’s crazy.
“Earthling, is your audio intake system damaged? Can you hear me, Earthling?”
“Um…” is all I can manage. What am I supposed to say to this insane kid who thinks he’s from space?
“Is your audio output system damaged? What you English-speaking Earthlings call the tongue—is yours working?”
“Yeah.”
“So you are just parsimonious with your words?”
“Parsimonious. Yeah. I guess.” I note the proper use of the SAT word. Is this some sort of game? Is Coach playing a practical joke?
“I respect your parsimonious nature,” he says, and then continues arranging constellations his own way as he mumbles facts about outer space.
I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing, like always.
After five minutes or so, Boy21 turns and says, “Is it okay if I call you by your Earthling name—Finley?”
His grandparents probably told him my name, but his using it without my telling him what it is sort of surprises me.
“May I?” he says.
“Sure.” What the hell is with this kid?
“My name is Boy21. I’m a prototype. A test model. I was sent to your planet temporarily to gather scientific information on what you Earthlings know as emotions. But I will only be with you for a few more months. Soon my makers will come for me and take me back into the cosmos, where I will be studied and disassembled and ultimately freed. I realize that these are strange ideas and are therefore probably hard for your brain to process, because you are merely an Earthling. So perhaps we should nourish your system with sustenance at this juncture?”
I just look at him blankly.
“Would you like to consume atoms?” he says. “What you refer to as eating dinner.”
Realizing that this will get me back into the company of sane people, I nod. “I’m starving.”
“Very well,” he says, and then slips into a white undershirt on which he has written with Magic Markers.
The rainbow lettering on his shirt reads:
N.A.S.A.
(Nubians Are Superior Astronauts)
“Do you like my shirt, Earthling known as Finley?” he asks when he sees me looking at it. “Black man and the cosmos. Two great things that go great together.”
I’m speechless.
He says, “Am I not using your Earthling language effectively?”
Holy crap. What on earth is going on here?
Boy21 smiles knowingly and says something with his eyes that I don’t quite understand.
When he descends the stairs I follow and somehow I find myself eating a delicious meal with Coach, Boy21, and the Allens.
Roast beef.
String beans.
Garlic mashed potatoes.
None of the adults say anything about Boy21’s shirt, and he remains silent through the entire meal.
“How’re you liking Bellmont so far?” Coach asks.
“Russell,” Mr. Allen says. “Coach is talking to you.”
“It’s okay,” Coach says. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. There will be time for talking.”
All the adults exchange glances, and I’m glad that they don’t glance at me.
“You like the food?” Mrs. Allen says.
“Yes. Thank you,” I say, and then it’s just the sounds of knives and forks scraping against the plates, chewing, swallowing, glasses of water being sipped and set down on wood.
Boy21 keeps his eyes on his food until it’s gone, which is when he says, “May I take Finley back up to my room?”
“Are you finished eating?” Mrs. Allen asks me.
I nod, even though I’m not, and say, “Thanks.”
“You boys go have your fun,” Coach says, and then I’m back in Boy21’s room watching him arrange glow-in-the-dark sticker constellations.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” Boy21 asks, looking over his shoulder.
“No.”
“Did something happen to you?” he asks.
Truth is, many things have happened to me, both good and bad, stuff that would take a lot of words to explain, too many words for me.
There’s a part of me that wants to discuss my past, why I don’t talk much, outer space even, everything, but it’s like my mind is a fist and it’s always clenched tight, trying to keep the words in.
Boy21 faces me and says, “Do you believe I’m from outer space?”
I shrug.
“You will when I ascend, but until then I’ll need someone to help me complete my mission here on Earth. You seem like you are quite emotional, and I am very interested in studying emotions. Are you trustworthy?”
I nod, because I’m generally trustworthy, but I also smile, because I’m not emotional at all. At least, I try not to be.
He smiles back.
“Will you show me the ways of your culture?” he asks, and then adds, “Please.”
“You playing basketball this year?”
Boy21 turns his back on me and says, “I am programmed to be an excellent basketball player. No Earthling can beat me. But I think I’ll be long gone before the season rolls around. I’ll be back in the cosmos well before the time period that you Earthlings call November.”
I feel relieved when he says this because if he’s gone by November, it means he’ll miss basketball season, and then I remind myself how crazy this whole situation is.
He’s absolutely nuts.
There’s no way he’d be able to get through the demands of an organized basketball season, especially claiming to be from outer space. Basketball is a game of rules that you must submit to for the good of the team, and Boy21 is already not playing by the rules.
I start to think about what’s going to happen to Russell if he pretends to be from outer space once school starts.
At lunch he’ll be relegated to my table. Students will dump carrots on his plate.
I don’t like the way things are in Bellmont.
“You can’t tell people you’re from outer space,” I say.
“Why not?” he says with a genuinely curious look on his face. “Do people enjoy hearing mistruths in this sector of Earth?”
Bellmont’s too complicated for me to explain in a sentence. The drugs, the violence, the racial tension, the Irish mob—how do you explain who runs the town when you could get killed just for saying the words Irish mob? I keep my mouth shut.
Boy21 faces me and says, “Why do you care about what happens to me, Earthling?”
I shrug, but then I say, “I guess I just sort of care about everyone.”
He smiles at me—I know this will sound weird but his expression sort of warms my chest, removes the jabbing finger from my throat; his teeth sparkle and wink—and then he returns to his glow-in-the-dark stickers.
I sit down on the floor and watch him arrange constellations. He peels off the little dots of two-sided tape, places a sticky dot in the center of each star, places the star on the end of his forefinger, and then presses it onto the wall or ceiling. He hops into the air like Superman to affix the stars above him, and lands gracefully without shaking the house too much, mostly because he’s so tall that he doesn’t have to leap that high, but also because he’s obviously athletic. There’s a very determined look on his face—it’s like his eyebrows are trying to meet for the first time at the top of his nose.
After ten minutes or so, he pulls the blinds, turns out the lights, and sits next to me.
“Pretend you are in outer space,” he says.
It’s so absurd; I almost want to laugh.
I have no idea what it’s like to be in outer space, but I know that I’ve never felt quite like I do at this very moment. Maybe I should feel scared or at least alarmed, but Boy21 seems pretty harmless, so I just sit and stare.
What else can I do?
After a few minutes of absolute quiet, I think about why Boy21 might be arranging stars in his bedroom. Maybe he likes being in control of his own little universe, being able to arrange things how he wants, like a god or something? Maybe he likes pretending, like a little kid would. I’m not sure, but I don’t mind either.
The only other person I have ever sat alone with in the dark is Erin, and since I always want to kiss her, I never get to just enjoy the quiet shared silence.
It’s nice to sit with another person, although I’m not sure why.
As crazy as this will sound, I’m really enjoying just being with Boy21.
There aren’t many people my age who will join me in voluntary silence. Most kids in my high school talk nonstop and are always moving.
The stickers glow an otherworldly green and I have to admit that I like looking at them.
We just sit silently for a long time, which feels kind of right somehow, even though my skin is sort of tingling in this weird way.
“Boys?” Coach says as he opens the door, letting in the hall light and breaking the spell. “What are you two doing in the dark?”
“Stargazing, Earthling,” Boy21 says.
“Oh,” Coach says, swiveling his head to admire Boy21’s many constellations. “Time to go, Finley.”
“Where is your dwelling pod, Earthling known as Finley?” Boy21 asks when I stand.
“Five twenty-one O’Shea Street,” I say. “Across town.”
“I will appear to you later tonight.” Boy21 offers me his hand, which is twice the size of mine.
I shake it and give Boy21 a questioning squint, but then Coach says, “Nice to see you again, Boy21. I look forward to our next meeting.”
We say good-bye to the Allens and then Coach is driving me home.
Watching the neighborhood go by—the sagging row homes, potholed roads, trash blowing around, tree bark tagged with graffiti—I wonder if Boy21 will really visit me tonight.
Just for a laugh, I imagine him landing in our tiny front yard, maybe in a personal-size flying saucer, which would probably just fill the center circle of a basketball court. His spaceship has a green dome on top that opens up like an Easter egg. “Hello, Finley!” Boy21 says in my mind. “Let’s go cruise the galaxy!” I have to hide my smile from Coach.