“N-N-North Central.”
His mind worked for a moment. “Oh, the team that forfeited. No wonder I didn’t recognize you.” He nodded. “Well, you’ve got a golden arm there. Take good care of it.”
Twelve
We played four games in the next two weeks, and they all followed the same pattern. Mr. Leskov drove us to some nice field. We piled out of the van, and our opponents snickered at our raggedy pants and our bright orange T-shirts. Then I took the mound, fired a few fastballs past them, and the smirks disappeared.
I wasn’t perfect on the mound. Some ground balls got through; some fly balls fell in. And if a ball was hit hard to somebody other than Antonio, the chance for an error was pretty good. But we scratched out at least three runs in every game, and I never gave up more than two, so we won them all.
On the rides back, we drank the orange soda—Mr. Leskov’s joke—that he always had for us. Antonio and some of the other guys took turns telling stories, keeping everybody loose. It was all so much fun that I could almost convince myself that playing for Leskov was better than playing with a select team.
Almost.
When I wasn’t working or pitching, I’d go to the community center and play foosball or pool or just hang out. Every so often I’d log onto one of the computers to check how Ian Thurman and the rest of the Seattle Marauders were doing.
While I’d spent the Fourth of July driving the Gator back and forth at the driving range, Thurman had been banging out doubles and home runs at a tournament in Boise. He’d played in another tournament in Missoula in the middle of July, and the Marauders would later play at Cannon Beach, Oregon, before finishing the summer with three games in Vancouver, British Columbia.
Thurman was the biggest star on a team of stars. A picture of him crossing home plate after a grand slam was at the top of the Seattle Marauders homepage. He was batting over .400 and was the leading RBI guy on the team.
So what if I’d struck him out? So what if I’d shut down the whole team? No scout had seen it. No reporter had written about it. It might as well have happened in an ice cave in Antarctica.
Thirteen
I hung out with Antonio during our baseball games, but that was it. He had his morning job at Home Depot; I worked afternoons at the driving range. As soon as Antonio was out of Leskov’s van, he headed to the back fence.
As I swept up golf balls in the John Deere, I’d see him with Garrett and the others. They’d be leaning against the fence or sitting on old plastic chairs just outside an abandoned toolshed. It looked like nothing—Antonio hanging out, telling stories, making other kids laugh. And that’s what it was most of the time. Nothing. But every once in a while a guy would wander back. Then everything would stop as he bought pills from Garrett. The guy would leave, and the stories would start again.
As the weeks rolled by, though, every once in a while became every hour and then every half-hour. Some of the guys were from Jet City. Others walked in off Aurora Avenue or rode in on bicycles. They’d work their way down Jet City’s gravel lanes to where Garrett and Antonio were hanging. There’d be talk and then an exchange. After a handclasp, the guy would pedal or walk away. About every tenth person was a female.
The first time a car drove in was on July 20. I know the exact date because we’d beaten Stanwood the day before. I was replaying the game in my head when a black Kia came in the side entrance of Jet City, drove slowly to the back fence, and pulled to a stop.
The driver’s window rolled down, and the exchange with Garrett was made. The window closed; the Kia backed up and then glided out of Jet City. The next day, two cars pulled in. The Tuesday after that, I counted four cars—and that was just while I was driving the John Deere.
When Antonio left for his job at Home Depot the next morning, I walked out of the trailer with him. He’d gotten me to agree not to say anything to Mom, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t speak my mind to him.
“What’s up?” he asked as we headed toward Aurora Avenue.
“G-Garrett.”
He rolled his eyes. “Suja again?”
“No. Not Suja. I c-can s-see what’s going on with m-my own eyes. You s-say it’s n-nothing, but G-Garrett is selling more and m-more.”
He blew out air. “Laz, Garrett is so smalltime that he doesn’t exist. He’s like a fly surrounded by jets at SeaTac. Nobody cares about a kid selling a few pills at Jet City.”
“I d-don’t g-get it. Why hang with h-him?”
His face clouded. “Look, you’re happy playing Ping-Pong at the community center with Leskov watching. But I’m not you. The walls just push in on me there. I feel like I’m going to suffocate. But when I’m at the fence with Garrett and Jasmine and the rest of them—I can breathe. I don’t sell; I don’t buy; I don’t use. I just hang out and tell stories with my friends. Have some laughs. So stop worrying about me.”
Fourteen
Mom had been getting home late lots of nights that summer. I figured she was working overtime, but a few days later I found out the real reason. Coming back from the driving range, I spotted a GMC pickup parked behind her Corolla. Cleated logger boots were outside our front door, and the music pouring out of the trailer was Megadeth, not Pearl Jam or Nirvana or any of the old rock Mom listens to.
I opened the door and stepped inside. Stretched out on the sofa, his feet up on the cushions, was a burly guy with dark hair and a thick black beard. He was wearing a muscle shirt that showed off tatted biceps.
“Laz,” Mom said, standing up to meet me, her voice strangely high-pitched. She motioned with her head toward the guy. “This is Curtis Driver, Antonio’s dad. You remember him, don’t you?”
I did, sort of.
He’d lived with us in an apartment in the Central District when I was in preschool, the year before Mom bought our trailer in Jet City.
Curtis stood and stretched a hand toward me. His handshake was so strong it hurt. “Good to see you again, Laz.”
“G-G-Good to s-s-see you,” I said.
“Last time I saw you,” he said, grinning, “you were having trouble keeping the sheets dry at night. You better with that now?”
Blood rushed to my face.
“Don’t tease him,” Mom said. She looked at me. “Do you know where Antonio is?”
I shook my head. “I’m g-going to change.”
I stepped into my room, closed the door, and dropped onto my bed. I belched, and it tasted like puke.
I didn’t want to go back out and face Curtis, so I just stayed there. Finally, I heard the front door open—Antonio.
The walls in the trailer are about as thin as a cracker. Mom did most of the talking. Sometimes Curtis would say something, usually followed by a big laugh. When Antonio spoke, his voice was so quiet I couldn’t make out his words.
I started to feel like a spy so I switched on my radio, plugged in headphones, and tuned to KJR. I’d been listening to fans rip the Mariners for about ten minutes when Mom tapped on my door. “Laz, Curtis is taking us to Northgate Mall for dinner.”
* * *
We went in Mom’s Corolla, but Curtis drove. Mom asked questions about how the day had gone, and I answered. Antonio stared out the window, grim.