at Laurelhurst High, but I didn’t go back that Monday. Instead I went with my mom to get my leg checked at the Ballard Clinic. When the doctor took the bandage off, the hole in my thigh looked like something a snapping turtle would cause. “No sign of infection,” he said. “You’ll be back to normal in no time.”
Next we went to Ballard Hospital. Antonio was in a new room, hooked up to only one monitor, and his voice was stronger. All that was good, but I could sense Mom growing angrier as he got stronger. She held it in with him, but on the drive home, she let me have it again.
“See something, say something. You ever heard that?”
“I’ve h-heard it.”
“And?”
“I g-get it. It’s j-just that—” I stopped. “I screwed up. I’m s-sorry.”
Silence. Then, in a clipped voice, she said, “It’s over, Laz. Finished. I won’t beat you up over this again.”
No more putting it off—I had to return to Laurelhurst High on Tuesday. Monday night, my stomach churned at the thought of facing everybody. Then I caught a break. Curtis had a job trimming trees in Montlake, a neighborhood close to Laurelhurst. He could give me a ride, which saved me from a miserable bus ride.
His work started early, so he dropped me off at the high school thirty minutes before first period. I was tempted to hide behind the greenhouses and wait for the bell, but that would have been cowardly. So I tried not to limp as I made my way up the front stairs and headed to the library, hoping to find a corner where I could sit down and pretend to be studying.
I didn’t make it.
Coach Vereen was heading down the hallway in my direction. As soon as he saw me, he pointed to a classroom. “In there,” he said.
I opened the door and stepped inside. A female teacher I didn’t know looked up in surprise. “Can I help you?”
Coach Vereen was one step behind me. “Mrs. Garrigan, could I use your classroom for a few minutes? It won’t take long.”
“Mr. Vereen, I’ve got a class—”
“Just a few minutes, Mrs. Garrigan.” His voice was sharp.
She frowned, sighed, then grabbed her purse and left. “I’ll wait right outside the door,” she said.
Once we were alone, Coach Vereen pointed to a chair. “Sit down, Weathers.”
I sat. He folded his arms across his chest and stared at me. “I’ve never misrepresented a player to a major-league team in my life, and I’m not starting now, not in my last week on this job and definitely not for you. So here’s what I did, and I want you to hear it from me, up-front. I sent an email to every major-league scout on my contact list. I told them exactly what happened Friday night. That you were supposed to start the title game. That minutes before the opening pitch, you walked out on your teammates. That later you were shot in a drug deal gone wrong.” He paused. “Mr. Thurman took you out of North Central High and brought you into his home and into the Laurelhurst community. You had the chance of a lifetime, young man. We got you onto the big stage, but you blew it.”
He stared at me, waiting for me to respond, but I wasn’t going to stammer out any sort of excuse. What good would it have done? Finally he turned, opened the door, and stepped into the hallway. “We’re finished, Mrs. Garrigan. Thank you.”
All morning, it was as if I had cotton in my ears. I could hear words, but they were muffled and made no sense. At lunch, I grabbed two slices of pizza and found some empty steps behind the gym where I could eat alone.
If I hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have seen Tommy Zeller pull into the parking lot and climb out of his white Ford Explorer. The back door of the gym opened and Coach Vereen and Ian walked out to greet him. They were smiling—all of them.
Tonight was the night—the beginning of the major-league draft. The baseball draft isn’t as big a deal as the NFL or NBA drafts; still, ESPN was televising the first two rounds. Zeller being at Laurelhurst had to mean the Mariners were planning to draft Ian.
I dreaded facing Coach Vereen again at gym class, but he had a substitute teacher, a young guy, who opened up the equipment box and then stepped aside. “You can do whatever you want,” he said, “so long as you don’t get in a fight and you don’t get hurt.”
I couldn’t run, so I wandered over to where some kids were playing Frisbee, stood by a tree and caught Frisbees that came right to me, which weren’t many, and then flicked them back.
It was a long bus ride home to an empty apartment—Mom and Curtis were at the hospital. I was bored, and I’d heard Mom complain that the front windows were dirty, so I washed them, but when I finished, they didn’t look much better.
I microwaved a Salisbury steak dinner, sat down at the kitchen table, and ate. After I cleaned the dishes, it was six o’clock. The major-league draft was starting. I didn’t want to watch, but somehow I had to. I flicked Curtis’s TV to ESPN and flopped down on the sofa.
Each team had four minutes to make a pick. As the clock ticked, the announcers would evaluate the highest-rated players. Then somebody from the team would phone in the selection, and a guy in a suit would step to the microphone and announce the choice. After that, ESPN would show a camera feed from the kid’s home. The player and his family would be jumping around, hugging one another. I could picture the Thurmans in the game room, tense, waiting to hear Ian’s name.
The Mariners had the sixteenth pick. At 6:45, the Twins—picking thirteenth—chose a catcher from Biloxi. When a commercial came on, I went to the kitchen and scooped chocolate ice cream into a bowl. I was limping back into the front room as a man stepped to the microphone. “With the fourteenth pick, the San Francisco Giants select Ian Thurman, outfielder, Laurelhurst High School, Seattle.”
The TV filled with a feed from Ian’s house. His mother, wide-eyed, was hugging him while his father was shoving a Giants cap onto his head. That lasted about twenty seconds and was followed by highlights of Ian hitting and fielding. Then it was the ESPN anchor again. “Next up, the Milwaukee Brewers.”
I flicked off the TV and headed outside. It was a warm night. No breeze. Big blue sky with cotton clouds. It was the kind of night that—when you’re feeling good about yourself—makes you feel even better. But when you’re down, it’s as if the world is laughing at you.
I picked up the Interurban Trail, crossed over Aurora Avenue, and walked to the Jewish cemetery. As I turned back, my phone vibrated: a text from Suja.
I didn’t have the energy to talk to her. I typed:
I hit send and then returned to Woodacres. When I stepped inside the apartment, Mom was unloading groceries. I helped her put things away and then went into Antonio’s tiny room.
A couple of minutes later Curtis knocked on the door and stepped inside. “Hey, I saw that Thurman kid got drafted by the Giants.”
I nodded. “First r-round.”
He sort of smiled. “Two more days, Laz. Every team needs pitching, and you know that’s true. Don’t give up.”
What good would it have done to tell him about Vereen’s email?
“I won’t,” I said.
“And listen. If nothing comes through, I can get you a job with the tree service while you figure out what you really want to do. Or you could just stay with tree work. It’s honest work and pays a decent salary.”