Rules For Becoming A Legend Part 5

"How should I know?" Johnny Opel-Mr. O the kids call him-is leaning back in his springy chair, two bites into his customary morning Mcm.u.f.fin.

McCarthy runs his hand over a nearby grease-shined keyboard, tickling the keys, and the machine beeps back at him. Everything in the computer lab is greasy because of Mr. Opels morning Mcm.u.f.fins. Its disgusting, but theres no one else in town qualified to teach computers. "I thought only you and I had access to that room."

"I know I have a key. I dont know who else does."

"Put a new tape in, and change the locks. Let me know if anything else turns up." McCarthy wouldnt put it past Mr. Opel to have stolen the tape himself, but then again, given the mans tremendous slothfulness, there is no way he would have been at school early enough.

"Aye-aye," Mr. Opel says, the idiot saluting him ironically.

Johnny Opel cant believe his s.h.i.tty luck. Being the computer teacher meant he was also in charge of the surveillance cameras placed in five spots around school. In all the seven years hes worked at Columbia City High, this is the first time hes actually had anyone ask to see a tape. The cameras are on a twelve-hour loop. Anything more than half a day old is erased by the future. He only checks up on the cameras once every two weeks to clean the lenses and make sure all is running. He supposes the last time he checked, he left the door unlocked.

He takes a pull on his Big Gulp, swishes the Pepsi around in his mouth, and finally swallows. He gathers Jimmy Kirkus-son of Todd, a guy who used to tell him he had a rock-star name when they were back in high school together-did something bad in the gym last night and now the tape is gone.

Of all the s.h.i.tty luck.

Jimmy spends the day on those backwoods trails that connect the town in startling ways. Kids so knowledgeable he could run a smuggling business. Through backyards and across the occasional road, but mostly in the woods, he goes from court to court like him and Dex used to. But its different now. Colder than he remembered it being. When he and Dex ran them-in all kinds of weather too-they were too hopped up on the prospect of hoops to feel cold. Now, the temperature takes up most of his awareness.

Everything is dripping. The noise seems huge. He slips often, his mind still so fuzzy. He vomits ropey slime-Top Ramen he ate last night before he went down to the Brick House-and it slides into the fallen leaves, steaming wildly. Jimmy takes an orange leaf encased in ice and licks it to get the taste off his tongue. He slips again and mud streaks his sweats. Thankfully, he avoids landing in his own vomit. His knee will be bruised badly by tonight. Add it to the list. His head rings in pain. Headache? More like headbreak.

He wipes his hands off on the front of his sweatshirt and feels something there. He reaches in and pulls out that card the nurse gave him in the hospital. Not as bad as it seems. Jimmy laughs aloud. Sarah Parson, RN. Pretty for an older lady. Weird, how shes the daughter of his dumpy English teacher. Breath so bad you tasted it even before you smelled it. English cla.s.s was the worst.

So this was her daughter. Do nurses have business cards? Jimmy doesnt know, but theres something in it that seems a reach. Not as bad as it seems. He rips it in two, and then he rips it again. Lets the flakes pepper the wet gra.s.s cupping his vomit.

Hes talking to himself, under his breath. Just ordering my thoughts, not crazy, he tells himself. He really could hitchhike to Mexico. He imagines his life there like a beer commercial. Hammocks and hot chicks and lime crowning bottle tops-always dressed stylish, always headed to great waves or live music. Get away and stay away. h.e.l.l, they dont even play basketball down there-all soccer. He practices the Spanish Pedro has taught him over the years. Cabrn, puta, senorita, mam chula. Pedro. Where the f.u.c.k is Pedro?

His imagination takes him to another place. Hes older, coming back to Columbia City for a ten-year reunion. Slick clothes, nice car, hot wife. All the other things checked off. Basketball? Naw, he could have ran with it, but he decided instead to start a company/be a lawyer/write a novel. Hes fit while Pedros put on a few pounds and lost his hair. At the bar he orders wine. Something with an accent in the name. Later, he corners his old best friend, or, better yet, catches him hitting on his wife. Then its all, what the f.u.c.k? But Pedro isnt cool about it, so bang, a punch in the gut . . .

Jimmy is shaken out of his thoughts by sounds. Dribbling and shouts. From the woods he spies people playing basketball in the middle of the day. People just shooting around. High school dropouts and overweight men on lunch breaks.

And then he decides, all at once, a snap in his head that cracks his brain in two. f.u.c.k ball.

At school his absence is adding weight to the rumors. Everyone has a theory. Kid was high. Kid was deranged. Kid actually was jumped. And finally: Kid just did it so thered be no question of him playing this year-the Fishermens last in the talent-heavy 6A Division-and come back next year when he can push around the little guys in 4A, have an easier go. Jimmy Soft-c.u.m-Kamikaze Kirkus never was good with pressure.

Princ.i.p.al McCarthy makes an announcement on the intercom. "For students upset by the recent events regarding a certain cla.s.smate"-he sounds on the edge of tears-"Mrs. Cole will be available during periods one, four, and seven in the guidance office, as well as all breaks, to talk."

Soon there is a line to see Mrs. Cole. All boys. Shes blond and shes curvy and they swear to G.o.d that if you can get tears going sh.e.l.l put your head on her epic chest and hug you till the lights blink. Sure beats geometry.

And all because of crazy Jimmy Kirkus.

Mr. Kirkus gets home and sits on the couch. He allows himself something hes not had in all the months since the accident: time. For so long hes been filling his head and his hands with whatever they come across that his real thoughts feel like ghosts to him.

He stares straight ahead, puts his hands in his lap, and watches the frozen leaves still left on the trees outside drip, drip, drip. The heater is pinging. The refrigerator whirs to life. He has the state of mind that all good athletes have. Complete concentration. It comes in those too stupid to juggle more than one thought in their head at a time, or those so highly trained that thoughts levitate. Mr. Kirkus started as the first and has become the second.

Then abruptly there are the memories he almost convinced himself were gone. They are huge and so skittish that if he tries to grab them, theyll flee, bury themselves claws-up in the sand, wait until hes weaker to strike. So he leans back into the couch and lets them come.

He feels silly. Not a man to cry and here he is, crying for the second time this morning with the names Suzie, Dex, and Genny Mori running through his head. They jockey for s.p.a.ce, they elbow and shout to be heard. Then the phone rings. Its Teresa Ha.s.s from the high school.

"Jimmy didnt come to cla.s.s today, Mr. Kirkus," she says in that nasally whine of hers. "I have in the record that he was due back today." When they were both in high school she used to always be snapping gum. Popped it like it was the punctuation on her sentences. She doesnt do it now on the phone, but Todd imagines it anyway.

He kicks over the coffee table. It skids and then stops. Where the f.u.c.k did Jimmy run off to? "Well, yeah, hes sick," he tells her. "So thats why he didnt come."

Before he was with Genny Mori, he and Teresa used to take lunches together and hook up in the van. It was how he got gum stuck on the hair around his s.c.r.o.t.u.m one day. When he moved it pulled so painfully, he skipped practice. Pretended he had pulled a muscle. James had laughed himself blue when he heard the story.

"Hes sick? Oh, Im sorry to hear that, Mr. Kirkus."

She lets out a breath where Todd imagines the pop of gum. Gummy Ha.s.s, he and James started calling her after that day. Todd cant help it now, he is too drained from the morning hes had, so he laughs a little breathily as he remembers taking the scissors with him into the bathroom, giving himself a little below-the-belt haircut.

"Are you laughing?" Teresa asks. "I dont think that after all your boy put himself through you should be laughing. You should be getting him some professional help."

Todd stops because there it is. Gummy Ha.s.s already knows about what Jimmys done. h.e.l.l, the whole town probably woke themselves up by hollering down phone lines like, "Youre never gonna believe what that Kirkus kid did." Worst part is that at the heart of it, theyre probably talking basketball. About how with Jimmy crazy, the Fishermen arent gonna be any good this year. Last year in 6A and its going to be a fiasco. Like thats the thing that matters the most.

"Hes got a G.o.dd.a.m.ned headache, Teresa, and NO, I cant G.o.dd.a.m.n speculate on if hes gonna play ball this season or not!"

As Todd recalls, Teresa hated him after he stopped their lunchtime dates. He had started going with another girl and then after that, Genny Mori. Thats the way it always was for Todd-anyone who couldnt have him, hated him.

"I didnt ask about basketball, Todd. Youre not the only one who cares about Jimmy. You should see the line we got here to see Mrs. Cole. Students are really taking this hard."

"The guidance counselor?" Todds voice is thin and bitter. "Kelly Cole? And Ill bet shes wearing a low-cut shirt too. Let me guess, its mostly boys lined up."

"Todd, thats no way to talk."

"Whatre you vultures gonna do when there arent no Kirkuses left? Huh?" And then more bitterly, "No way to talk!" He slams the phone down.

Later that day Teresa takes a concern to Princ.i.p.al McCarthy. The man is shocked by the accusation that what these boys are doing with Mrs. Cole is anything but profoundly mourning the almost loss of their dear friend. That is until he walks in on one counseling session to see that weird Pedro kid getting hugged fiercely into Mrs. Coles enormous chest, his b.o.n.e.r making a micro tent in his sweatpants.

Walk-in counseling is shut down.

The next three days Jimmy doesnt come to school. Teresa doesnt bother calling the Kirkus household. She just fills in the forms herself. Absent-Jimmy Kirkus-headache.

Rule 6. Have Something to Prove.

Monday, September 9, 1996.

JIMMY KIRKUS, FIVE YEARS OLD-ELEVEN YEARS UNTIL THE WALL.

All day Jimmy hadnt said a word to Mrs. Lilly or anyone else in the cla.s.s, out of an instinct for self-preservation. Even when Mrs. Lilly promised Jimmy the honor of leading the lunch line he refused to speak. He was still spinning from the events of the morning. Father walking him to cla.s.s, not saying a word. His mother at home sleeping off last nights shift at the Seaside hospital. Taste of strawberry yogurt and toothpaste mixing ugly in the back of his mouth. One squeeze on the shoulder and then the big man gone. People looking at his father, whispering to each other. The other kids all with their moms, or their moms and dads, getting three, four hugs. Some of the parents even camping out on the sidelines of the cla.s.sroom during morning meeting, there just in case. Jimmy with no one. No just in case for him.

Speak? Naw that wasnt for him. Not on this first day of kindergarten. He needed every bit of himself and giving away words counted.

Then at lunch, as he pulled out a peanut b.u.t.ter and banana sandwich, an apple and a baggie of chips, the black hair clip he had taken from the many in his mothers nightstand fell out of the bag too. His mothers hair. Such a symbol of her. Every night she sat at her bedside table and combed her hair while the news of the day was grimly told over the radio. When it was all combed out she clipped it in place with clips-so many clips! To have one with him was to have her with him, even when she wasnt, even when it was becoming clear to him that she didnt want to be.

The kids at the table laughed at his clip, at him. Arent those for girls? So he threw it in the trash-a thin, rare thread that connected him to a deeper part of his mother, gone.

Then recess and salvation. Outside, he saw two cla.s.smates pa.s.sing an orange ball-a basketball-back and forth. Of course hed seen basketball played from the back seat of his fathers van driving through town, flickers of it while flipping through channels on TV, but hed never actually played it himself. If someone were playing it at the park his father led him into a new game, if it came on the tube, his pops turned the dial.

Right then though Jimmy was alone, and couldnt help but be drawn in. That ball, suspended briefly in the air, seemed magical-something worth chasing until he could hold it. Once held, it seemed big enough to anchor him, at least until he was home again. He was a year older than Dex, but more comfortable drafting off his wisecracking sibling than leading things himself. The background was a place Jimmy preferred. It was from there he was let into his mothers affections most often. From a quiet game played on the floor he could watch her as she talked on the phone, sucked salted edamame skinny, discarding the green husks until a small mountain crowded her plate, crossed off check numbers in her checkbook, one ear to the phone, painted her nails or watched daytime television-Judge Judy her favorite. Through this study from his blind of shyness he had spotted the rare flash of her smile on occasion, stalking across her face like the deer that sometimes high-stepped into their yard, trembling and ready to bolt. A thrilling peek into what it might be like to always be loved by your mother. And with boisterous, banging, always talking Dex in the picture, Jimmys contrasting quietness went unnoticed all the more. Alone and trained for anonymity, basketball suddenly seemed like a tempting way out. Just shoot the ball, just pa.s.s the ball, just dribble the ball and you were doing it right. It seemed perfect and it overrode his instinct for shyness. He walked right up to boys hed never met before in his life.

"Let me," Jimmy said.

The little blond-haired boy looked at him, shaking his head. "We arent letting you, right Pedro?"

Pedro didnt miss a beat, as if it were all planned out. "Yeah, yeah! Come on, pa.s.s it to me, David!"

This boy was even browner than Jimmy, about the same shade as Dex. It made Jimmy like him even as he was being mean.

"You dont talk, so youre dumb," David said and pa.s.sed to Pedro. "We only like people who talk."

"I can talk," Jimmy said. "Look, Im talking."

They ignored him and his una.s.sailable logic. Pedro accordioned his body down, and then unwound in a burst that pushed the ball up toward the hoop. He missed badly.

Jimmy felt itchiness in his nose and around his eyes. He might cry. All morning he carried an aching loneliness at being away from his pops and Dex, at seeing everyone elses mom come and drop off their kids, at the hair clip thrown in the trash, and now this? Also, he felt-no, our kid Jimmy knew-these two little boys were doing this magical thing wrong. He knew their playing was a sacrilege, even before he learned what a sacrilege was. Like farting in church, p.i.s.sing in the pool, stepping on cracks and breaking grannies backs. There was an itch in his bones to step up and show them. Correct it. But he couldnt because these kids wouldnt let him play. It hurt. He shifted his weight back and forth and stayed at the edge of the court while the rest of recess boiled around him.

Pedro and David kept missing badly. They shot blindly, trusting strength over aim. On one heave from David, the ball careened off the back of the rim-a "brick," Jimmy would soon learn-and flew right into Jimmys hands.

"Hey!"

"Give it."

And. Well. Jimmy gave it all right. h.e.l.l, our kid was born with the dribble, dribble, drive pumping in his veins. He was a natural-he was the natural. So Jimmy shot two-handed, somehow still beautiful with no form, and the ball arced up and into the hoop, straight and true. Dropped so clean it took the bottom off all three of their little worlds, in different ways.

"Sweet," said Pedro. Jimmy noticed something for the first time on his lips-an accent.

"Bet you cant do it again," David said.

"OK."

So Jimmy teed off again. And he made it again. Our kid was lights-out. He dropped two in a row, and then extended the string to five, then seven, then eight shots in a row. With each shot he made, he got his change-another shot. A rhythm developed. Pedro kept yelling, "Give em his change!" and they pa.s.sed the basketball back to Jimmys tingling hands and he made another; but also each time he made a shot, David became more angry. Soon he was jumping up and down, screaming, "No fair! No fair, youre cheating!"

It wasnt clear how exactly David thought Jimmy was cheating, but he was red-faced and adamant. By the time the bell rang at the end of recess, Jimmy was squaring up for his last shot, his ninth, and David simply couldnt take it anymore. He ran headfirst into Jimmys stomach just as the ball left his fingertips . . .

Back at the Kirkus house, over on Glasgow Street, Dex sat beside one of the big front windows. His parents and Jimmy were the only stars in his sky, so right then, his pops at work, his mom flickering in the bathroom, drawing a bath, and Jimmy gone for his first day of school, the sky was dark. He tapped on the window. He knew eventually Jimmy would come back home, through the front door, and hed see him first through this window. He tried to imagine the things that were happening to Jimmy at school. He couldnt though. He could only see the things that were really there. The tree. The sidewalk. The mailbox. So he just kept tapping on the gla.s.s, waiting for his brother. Tapped one, two, three. And again and again.

Genny Mori lay on her back in bed. Today would be the same as the last-spend all afternoon putting the house in order with Dex underfoot, then head off to her night shift at the hospital just as Todd was getting home. Come home later as Todd was leaving, sleep through the morning and then do it again. All told she spent maybe twelve real hours with her husband each week. She complained to Bonnie, but then Bonnie had just said, "Welcome to real life," so shed hung up on her.

And then there was the fact that today was Jimmys first day of school. Todd had taken him on his way to work. Didnt even ask if she wanted to go. He was good like that, not putting guilt on her, not weighing in on what she should do, how she should divide her time. Ever since Suzie it had been like this. Fine. Just fine. But that was all. A small part of her wished he would push a little harder, demand a little more. It was too easy to hang back. She had started to feel Todd preferred it this way. Had he asked her to be there, she would have probably said no. Still, to be asked.

Shed be angrier if she hadnt just gotten out of a very hot bath. Genny felt the heat unfold off her in wave after paralyzing wave. Light-headed from the effort of getting out of the tub and walking the short distance to her bedroom, she could picture her heart beating in that particularly strutting way hearts have when seen on monitors in the hospital. Fingertips and toes numb, mind dipping and vision blurred, she gave in, fell asleep.

. . . the ball splashed through the net as Jimmy and David tussled on the cement. Kids gathered around, taking up the universal chant, "Fight, fight, fight!" It was the last fight Jimmy Kirkus would win in a very many years.

Meanwhile, Pedro was hopping around yelling in his little accent that squished the o on each word, "WOW! WOW! WOW!" For he was the only one to witness the miracle of the Ninth Shot while Jimmy and David fought. For even as Jimmy was getting piled into by Davids huge head, the ball was dropping through the net. An improbable, impossible, incredible, nine baskets in a row.

The Ninth Shot of Jimmy Kirkus.

It was Princ.i.p.al Berg who pulled them apart. Father to James and grandfather to David, he was a skinny, crooked old man whose interior spring had gone shoddy with age. Hunched and lilting slightly to the left, he gave the impression of constantly being suspicious.

Princ.i.p.al Berg bent at the waist until he was sure the boys felt his hot coffee breath on the tops of their heads. "Against the wall," he said. He pointed at Pedro, who had stopped jumping around, but still had his mouth wide open, like another "WOW" could possibly escape. "You too." While the rest of the students lined up to go back into school, whispering about the fight, Princ.i.p.al Berg made the three boys wait in silence. Silence was the best discipline trick hed ever learned.

He tightened the knot of his tie. The incident had made him feel loose, undone. He b.u.t.toned his suit jacket. More trouble between a Berg and a Kirkus.

When the playground was empty, he finally spoke. "Well?"

Pedro went first. "He made nine shots in the row!" He pointed at our kid Jimmy, finger trembling. "And the last one, David hit him." Pedro patted his own head. "With his head. And he made it still!"

"Hes lying, Pop-Pop!" David shouted.

Princ.i.p.al Berg ignored his grandson. He knew he should think the world of little David, but he couldnt get over it-kid was a whiner. Actually, hed always taken a weird pleasure in denying David. He was sure it was evilness inside him and so he chose not to think about it.

Princ.i.p.al Berg eyed Jimmy. "Did you make nine shots in a row?"

"I dont know." Jimmy looked away. "I didnt see. He hit me."

"He made nine in a row," Pedro said with the firmness of a true believer.

"Pedro cant count, Pop-Pop," David said. "He speaks Spanish."

Princ.i.p.al Berg stomped his foot and the boys flinched. "Shut your mouth, David." He took a moment to gather himself, turned and patted Pedro on the head. "Its great youre multilingual."

Pedro ducked. "Huh?"

Princ.i.p.al Berg thought for a moment. "Do it again, Jimmy."

"What?"