“What have you done to my son?” Mom said. She stopped halfway down the basement stairs and grabbed the handrail like she was about to faint.
“Very funny, Mom,” I said.
“What happened to Mason Irving?” Red asked without looking away from the TV. He was playing Xbox.
“That can’t possibly be my son,” she said.
I was folding my laundry. I used to never go near my laundry. But lately when I see my dirty clothes on my bedroom floor or on the kitchen counter or on the stairs or on the couch—I leave my clothes everywhere—I’ll sometimes put them in the hamper or wash. I’ll also take my clothes out of the dryer and fold them.
I don’t know what’s gotten into me.
“If you want me to stop, I will,” I said.
“No, no, no,” Mom said, walking the rest of the way down the steps. “You can do my laundry next, if you like.”
“Mom! That’s disgusting!”
Red laughed. “Mason Irving would love to do your laundry, Rip’s Mom.”
Rip’s Mom. That’s what Red calls my mom.
“Keep talking.” I balled up a sock and chucked it at Red. It sailed over his head. “I’ll seriously mess with your score.”
He rocked his gaming chair. “You couldn’t if you tried.”
“You want to see me mess with—”
“Bam!” Red sank a bank shot off the sidewall of the arena. “Mason Irving would love to do your laundry, Rip’s Mom.” Red laughed again. “Tell her what we were doing with—”
“Don’t go there, Red,” I said.
“Don’t go where?” Mom asked. “What have you two been up to?”
I grabbed my glow-in-the-dark smiley-face boxers and dangled them in front of Red’s face.
He swatted them away.
I definitely didn’t want Mom to know what we’d been up to. Before she came down, we’d found two of her bras mixed in with the sheets and towels. I’d put one on and stuffed it with socks, but I couldn’t get it to stay up. Red had made a slingshot. Then we’d jumped around on the couch with the bras on our heads.
“So tell me about this tournament.” Mom sat down on the Rubik’s Cube table beside Red.
“The Jack Twyman Spring Showdown,” he said, still staring at the game. “Do you know who Jack Twyman was?”
“Blake Daniels does,” I said.
That’s Red’s real name, Blake Daniels.
But the kid who lives and breathes the NBA hadn’t known who Jack Twyman was until he got on YouTube a few minutes ago.
“Jack Twyman played for the Rochester Royals and the Cincinnati Royals in the 1950s and the 1960s,” Red said. “Jack Twyman was an NBA All-Star six times. Jack Twyman was inducted into the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame in 1983.”
“Sounds like he was quite the ballplayer,” Mom said.
“Do you know what Jack Twyman is most famous for, Rip’s Mom?” Red didn’t wait for an answer. “Jack Twyman is most famous for helping Maurice Stokes. Maurice Stokes was his teammate on the Rochester Royals and the Cincinnati Royals. Maurice Stokes suffered a head injury in a basketball game and was paralyzed. Jack Twyman helped take care of Maurice Stokes for the rest of his life.”
“I guess that’s why the Spring Showdown is named after him,” Mom said.
“That’s why the NBA has the Twyman-Stokes Teammate of the Year Award,” Red said. “The Twyman-Stokes Teammate of the Year Award recognizes the league’s ideal teammate, who exemplifies selfless play and commitment and dedication to his team.”
Mom and I laughed. Red was repeating word-for-word what he’d just read. Red does that a lot. He does it with the lunch menu at school all the time.
“Chauncey Billups won the Twyman-Stokes Teammate of the Year Award in 2013, the first year the NBA had the award,” Red said. “Shane Battier won the Twyman-Stokes Teammate of the Year Award in 2014, the second year the NBA had the award. Tim Duncan won the—”
“Is it okay for Diego to play basketball?” I asked Mom, to cut Red off. If I hadn’t, he would’ve shared every last detail about the award.
“It’s not like he’s contagious,” Mom said.
“Cootie Man!” I dove onto the couch.
Last year, when Diego came back to school after being sick, there was a big class meeting for kids and parents. At the meeting, Diego kept touching everyone and calling himself Cootie Man. It’s how he showed everyone we weren’t going to catch what he had.
Mom had helped arrange the meeting. She’s the principal at River West, a middle school a few towns over. All the fifth-grade parents know she’s a principal, so whenever things come up at RJE, they always look to her.
“If Diego’s mom and uncle are fine with him playing,” Mom said, “I’m sure it’s okay. I’ve had similar situations with kids at my school.”
“Diego knows how to play ball,” I said. “I had no idea he was so good.”
“I remember when you two played on the same soccer team back in first grade,” she said. “Or maybe that was kindergarten. He was perpetual motion. The both of you were.”
“That’s what Diego’s like playing basketball,” I said. “He never stops.”
“Diego Vasquez plays basketball like Rip Hamilton,” Red said.
“I play basketball like Rip Hamilton.” I pointed to myself. “That’s my nickname.”
My nickname comes from Rip Hamilton, the old-school Detroit Pistons player who never stopped moving on the court. My number is thirty-two, the same as his.
“You should see the way Diego Vasquez dribbles,” Red said.
“Hopefully, I will,” Mom said.
“He also likes to talk,” I said.
“Talk?” Mom asked.
“Trash talk,” I said. “He’s always chirping. You should hear some of the things he says.”
“Have you two read Coach Acevedo’s email?”
“No, Rip’s Mom,” Red said.
Mom looked at me.
“I’ve been doing laundry.” I grinned wide. “If you want me to sit in front of a screen instead of helping out with—”
“Wow!” She cut me off and pointed a twirling finger at my face. “That charming smile of yours right now reminded me so much of your father. It was uncanny.”
I flinched. Mom hadn’t mentioned my father in at least a couple weeks. He didn’t live with us. It was just Mom and me. I liked it better that way. Much better.
“I know you don’t like me bringing him up,” she said, “but I had to point that out. Anyway, Coach Acevedo sent the tournament packet, or should I say the tournament book. I can’t believe the number of forms they make you fill out and … What am I talking about? Of course I believe it. The amount of paperwork we deal with at my school is absurd. We’re so busy amassing data, we can’t even sit down with students and—”
“Mom,” I interrupted, “you’re having a conversation with yourself.”
“I can always count on you to set me off on a rant.”
“Just doing my job.”
“The two of you need to fill out the forms Coach Acevedo sent. I suggest you don’t wait until the last minute.” She leaned forward so Red could see her face. “Did you hear what I said?”
“‘The two of you need to fill out the forms Coach Acevedo sent,’” Red repeated. “‘I suggest you don’t wait until the last minute. Did you hear what I said?’”
I laughed. “I guess he heard you.”
“Have you decided if you’re going?” Mom asked Red.
He hunched his shoulders and swayed from side to side.
“Staying in a hotel with your teammates sounds like a lot of fun,” she added.
“No, Mom,” I said, shaking my head. “Not now.”
“You’ll be in a room with Rip and two other boys,” she went on. “I’m sure Suzanne will talk to their parents. Before the trip, maybe the four of you—”
“Mom, not now.”
Red squinched his face.
“Ms. Yvonne’s going. I know she—”
“Mom, stop!”
Finally, she listened.
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry,” she said, rubbing Red’s back. “We don’t have to talk about this now. We can do it another time.”
I twisted a lock near my forehead at its root. I didn’t want Mom talking to Red about the tournament. I didn’t want anyone talking to him about it. I had to be the one to convince him to go. People don’t know Red like I do. They think they do, but they don’t.
“Honey, I’m sorry,” she said again. “We can do this another time.”
Red pressed his elbows to his sides and nodded.
Mom stood up and stepped in front of the television. “I must say, I am a little surprised at you two,” she said, her tone brightening. She pinched her thumb and index finger together. “I thought you’d be a teeny-tiny bit more curious about who’s on the team.”
“We’re curious,” I said.
She picked up the sock I’d thrown at Red and behind-the-back-tossed it into the laundry basket. “Then why haven’t you checked Coach Acevedo’s email?”
“He’s not telling us who’s on the team until practice tomorrow,” I said.
“Is that so?” Mom headed for the stairs. “Well, if you do decide to read his email, you may discover someone thought it might be better if families knew who was on the team ahead of time.”
Red and I dove for my laptop.