he was after Antonio to do things with him, but Antonio always put him off. Can’t—going to Green Lake. Can’t—meeting friends at the arcade . . .
Finally, one morning in late August, Curtis laid a Mariners schedule in front of Antonio as he was scarfing down a bowl of Cheerios. “You point to a day you can go to a Mariners game and I’ll buy tickets. And once I buy them, you’re going. No backing out.”
Antonio looked to Mom, and she looked right back at him. “Laz is coming with us. Right?” he said.
Curtis didn’t even glance at me. “Sure, Laz can come. Now pick a game.”
Antonio looked at the calendar. “Tonight’s fine.”
The Mariners were playing the Angels. Curtis tried to get Antonio talking as we drove to T-Mobile Park, but all he got were grunts and a few yeahs and nahs and maybes.
Curtis had used StubHub to get the seats, and he hadn’t cheaped out: third level, right behind home plate, four rows up. Antonio tried to make it so I’d be sitting in the middle, but Curtis didn’t let that happen.
In the early innings Curtis would say normal stuff to Antonio. Trout has one sweet swing . . . The air is dead in this park . . . You got to wonder if the Mariners will ever make it to the World Series.
Antonio gave him nothing back.
“Give the m-man a break,” I whispered to Antonio in the bottom of the fourth.
He got up. “I’ve got to take a leak,” he said as he pushed by me.
Half an inning went by, then an inning. Curtis kept looking at the aisle. Finally he stood and scanned the entire area. “He didn’t get himself lost, did he?”
I shook my head. “N-no way. We’re directly behind home p-plate.”
Right then he spotted Antonio working his way toward us. “Here, Son,” he called out, waving his hand. It was the first time I’d ever heard him call Antonio Son, and Antonio flinched.
The Mariners rallied to win on a two-out ninth-inning hit by some guy just up from Triple-A. Around us, fans went crazy, but the three of us were zombies. We returned to the car in silence.
As Curtis drove back to Jet City, I could feel his fury building. I was waiting for him to lash out at Antonio, but instead he went after me. “Laz, has your mom ever told you about your dad? How he ended up in prison?”
My throat went dry. I hadn’t known my father was in prison.
He chuckled. “She hasn’t, has she? It’s some story. Your old man stole something like thirty-eight dollars from a 7-Eleven over in Spokane. When he came out with his loot, he discovered that his partner had panicked and driven off. So your genius dad decided to—”
“Stop it,” Antonio interrupted.
“What?” Curtis said.
“Leave Laz alone. He hasn’t done anything to you.”
There was a long silence, and then Curtis spoke in a steely voice. “All right. You don’t want me to talk to Laz, then you talk to me.”
“Okay,” Antonio said. “I will.”
And he did. For the rest of the ride home, they talked about the game, about Jet City, about movies and food and Husky football. “Was that so bad?” Curtis asked when he pulled up in front of the trailer.
“No,” Antonio said as he opened the door and stepped out. “It wasn’t.”