Two black men stood on the steps outside Cooley High School in Detroit. Tyrone Gage was a recruiter, an assistant coach for Southern Arizona State. His wallet bulged in his back pocket, although he kept his cash separate, in the front. It began to drizzle and Gage offered to give Jamal Davis a lift.
Jamal Davis, more a boy than a man—and State’s top recruit—said Vanessa was sick that morning, had missed seeing the game that just concluded.
Who the hell is Vanessa? Gage wondered. This was the first time he’d heard her name, but Gage said he hoped Vanessa got to feeling better. She must have been Jamal’s sweetheart. The two continued talking over the roof of the rental car even as the rain picked up.
Jamal finally noticed the car. “Wow,” he said. “Is this yours?”
Gage told him this was a rental; his own ride was back home. That’s what he liked about Jamal Davis, his innocence. That’s what everyone liked about Jamal. He was a nice religious boy with big hands and feet, and lots of growth ahead. Gage unlocked the car.
“I got y’all’s Christmas card,” Jamal said when he’d settled in. “Thanks.” Seated in the car the kid was Gage’s height, but his knees angled way up. Jamal pointed him to the parking lot exit. “Your team’s not doing so good, huh?”
“Our team, baby,” Gage said. “We’re just surviving.” Until you save us, he nearly added. “Plus,” Gage said, “Nate Wilkerson has transferred to State. You remember him, right?”
“He got in trouble over that girl. My mom don’t like him. She says—”
“He’s changed a lot. Tell your Mom that, and tell me when to turn again.”
Jamal ran his hands over the digital climate control, twirling it down five and ten degrees, like a kid with a new toy. He brought the temperature back up, raising it five degrees, testing the air with his palm. Gage let him play with the controls without comment. Kids were funny.
Jamal took a deep breath and folded his hands. “I think I made a mistake by signing with State.”
It was all Gage could do to keep from stomping on the brakes. “Come on,” he said. “It’s going to be perfect.”
“Something’s come up,” Jamal said. “Something happened.”
“What’s wrong?” Gage asked in a tone he’d use with a child.
“You can’t tell my mom.”
“Man, please, like I’d discuss this with your Mom,” Gage said, as though he and Jamal were friends. Traffic slowed, then stopped. Two ragged men argued on the sidewalk, waving their arms as if trying to fly.
Every last brother on State’s team was mad at Tyrone Gage because he held the black players accountable for the team dropping four in a row. Somebody had to demand some goddamn accountability. He was now a thousand miles from home on a recruiting trip, a trip he thought of as an escape, a sprint from the burning building that their basketball season had become.
A trip to see Jamal Davis should have been uplifting. Yet Gage had sensed Jamal was in trouble a week ago when he sounded upset on the phone. “I better get up there,” Gage told Jack Hood, “talk about his ACT score and make sure his transcript is in order.” Like somebody should have done for Gage back when he was eighteen.
Gage had attended a state school in Wisconsin with dubious academic requirements, a school he opted for over the humiliation of junior college. By the time he was twenty, his knees had buckled, he’d lost his shooting touch, and his game fell apart. He wasn’t even a very good small college player in the end.
Because he hadn’t played at Duke or Indiana, he had to scrap to begin his coaching career, taking on full-time school security work—shaking down high school thugs for weed or cigarettes, checking IDs—jobs he damn sure didn’t need a bachelor’s degree for. After work he drove to Chicago State to get his indoctrination in coaching, and he stuck around for night classes to earn a diploma.
The Chicago State gig led to a coaching spot at a teacher’s college in Chicago, a job he’d held for a decade. He got lucky there with a couple recruits who’d powered the team to a winning record; by chance, they happened to be the only team in Chicago that year with a winning record, a fact that became a headline in March of 2002 in the Chicago Sun-Times. A week later, Jack Hood began wooing Gage, offered him a raise and the title Recruiting Coordinator. Hood represented all the things Gage had missed as a player and now wished for as a coach: the big time. Publicity. Gage had gotten, as dumb as it sounded now, star-struck. He hadn’t been patient enough to wait for a better offer, meaning a school on the rise.
“Gage, you married up”—he’d heard that comment four times at his own wedding. Celysha—it sounded like “delicious,” that was his first line to her. She was lighter skinned, from the suburbs, and valedictorian of her mostly-white high school class. By age twenty-four she’d earned her master’s degree. She had an expectation of success in her voice that, at first, soothed Gage. Plus, she didn’t say fuck and nigger every third word, like the girls he’d grown up with around 63rd Street.
Celysha reminded him of his career path almost daily. Her success in advertising was part of his problem. No coaches had wives who were more successful than they were. She pushed Gage to push himself, move up, demand a raise, apply for better jobs.
Now, in Gage’s second season at State, the program was unraveling. He was supposed to be the go-between to help playercoach relations, typical shit for the black assistant. Only black men could talk to black kids? The fact that he no longer liked the players compounded Gage’s frustration. They didn’t give a fuck about his old school work ethic, didn’t want to hear about his upbringing in Englewood. They mocked him behind his back, he was almost certain, in the same way he and his boys would have talked shit about Celysha if she’d attended Englewood High School.
The team was struggling and the fastest relief was to take off, go recruiting, and avoid the gloom. Jamal Davis was their silver lining, an oxymoron in size eighteen sneakers—an untainted and gullible city kid.
Being in Detroit to avoid the team’s collapse meant Gage would miss road games in Wyoming and Colorado. All that fun, hours of videotape. Any hope for this season was gone, but things would be better next year, with Jamal.
At Christmas, the word around the Midwest was that Gage and Steve Pytel were geniuses for signing Jamal. Now it was February and the talk had shifted—Jamal had been foolish to sign at State, a Detroit sportswriter had written; he could have done quite a bit better if he’d waited. No doubt Jamal had read that article.
Whatever was troubling the boy, Gage would inspire him with his own story: how he’d led the city of Chicago in scoring when he was Jamal’s age. Nobody mentioned anymore that his high school team had hardly won a game; the city’s leading scorer was still the city’s leading scorer. A lot of the other dudes who had done that wound up as NBA stars. Gage never got tired of describing the hurdles he kicked over.
“Vanessa is pregnant,” Jamal blurted. Then he leaned forward, head in hands, and sobbed.
The outburst came so suddenly and dramatically that for a hot second, Gage was certain that it was an act. Gage had to check himself from asking Jamal if he was sure it was his baby. Instead he said, “She’s been tested?”
Jamal didn’t answer, just bawled louder. Okay, she was definitely pregnant and Jamal was definitely the father. Gage had to distract him, get him back to thinking clearly. He said, “Look up. Don’t I need to turn here?”
Jamal sniffled. “No, go straight.”
“How old is your Vanessa?”
“She’s eighteen. Older than me, but she’s just a junior. Her mother goes to our church.”
Gage needed time to stall, time to think. He had barely gotten to know Jamal during the kid’s forty-eight-hour recruiting visit to campus in October, despite staying close by most of the weekend. Jamal was such a pleasant boy that Gage didn’t want to leave him alone with the black players for fear they’d frighten him off. Instead he turned Jamal over to the three white players, who were more suited to Jamal’s let’s-rent-a-nice-movie personality. Sure enough, they did rent a movie: My Giant.
The streets they were driving could have just as easily been his Chicago as Jamal’s Detroit—currency exchanges and liquor stores, take-out-only restaurants—but of course Gage didn’t recognize any of it. “You can’t just quit playing ball,” Gage said. “What’re you going to do, get a job at McDonald’s and not play for us?”
“I don’t know.” Jamal was about to start crying again, then wiped his eyes, sat up, and took a deep breath. “I heard that I could ask you guys to release me out of my National Letter of Intent.”
Appear calm, Gage thought. Be a friend. “Son, how’s that gonna help?”
“Vanessa says I could go to a school that’s closer to here and help raise my baby. I been praying about it.”
“I don’t think we’re allowed to let you out of the scholarship. It’s like a contract, it’s binding.” That wasn’t exactly true, but he said it anyway.
“Or,” Jamal said, “I could just go to a junior college nearby. At least until the baby’s born.”
“You don’t want to do that—throw away your future?” Gage braked hard. A boy with a bicycle balanced on his shoulder had stepped right in front of them. It was a lemon-yellow Schwinn ten-speed, exactly like Gage had bought as an eighth grader. He’d shoveled snow all winter in the University of Chicago neighborhood, a thirty-minute trek on foot from Englewood. He rang the doorbells of the college faculty his entire Christmas break, yessirring everybody, pleading for the honor of shoveling their sidewalks. He’d bought the ten-speed the day the weather changed in April. The bike had been stolen after he’d owned it for just a month.
“We missed our turn,” Jamal said. “Sorry. You gotta go back.”
“Can’t I just turn up here?”
“This one doesn’t go through.” Jamal seemed certain.
Gage cut into an alley to get turned around. “You got to think about what’s important for your family now,” he said.
“My mom won’t even—”
“Your family means Vanessa now. Ain’t that right? I’ve been down this road,” Gage said. He knew he couldn’t say what he thought: Vanessa was the one with the problem, not Jamal.
Jamal shifted in his seat, his back now to the passenger’s door to face him. Gage had to be careful what he said here. Jamal might be too frail for a question like, “Are you sure you’re the father?” Instead, Gage asked, “What’s the best thing you can do, for you and the baby? Huh?”
“Get my degree?”
“Alright, that’s a start,” Gage said. “But the biggest thing is to make yourself marketable, be a provider for your family. How are you going get that done?”
“Get my degree?”
“No, man,” Gage said, “by playing ball for a living. And the place to do that is with us. Initially, I mean. Then you’re off to the League or else to Europe.”
“Can’t I do all that close to home?” Jamal wiped his tears again with the heel of his hand.
Having a player interested in what he had to say for a change felt good. “If you go to junior college, you’re just slowing down the process. If you go to some small college,” Gage added, “you’re fucked, excuse me. I mean your career is through. You won’t get where you want to be sitting on some bus with a bunch of dudes eating Whoppers after playing in front of a hundred fans.”
“I didn’t say anything about a small college,” Jamal reminded him.
Even after doubling back on the same street toward their missed turn, none of it looked familiar to Gage. The boy with the yellow bicycle had disappeared.
Jamal’s tears stopped. This was one kid you couldn’t joke with or tease, because he’d take you seriously and absorb every word.
“Actually, Vanessa wants me to stay around here,” Jamal said.
So that was it. This stupid bitch wanted Jamal Davis to piss away his whole life, the entire opportunity. Gage would’ve given anything to get this kind of offer as a high school senior. It was hard to listen to a player—a boy, really—toss State’s future away with a dumb-ass decision. No point in fooling myself, Gage thought—my future.
“I didn’t say it was going to be easy,” Gage said. “You’ll have to be apart from her for a year. Then she can join us on campus. With the baby. You’d be on your own for just nine months, really.”
Gage eased the car into a tow-away zone to talk Jamal through his imagined future: Vanessa would get a job right on campus, Jamal’s sophomore season. The university had a free day care. They would live in married student housing, with a closed-in back yard where their son could play. He wanted a son, didn’t he? When Vanessa was ready, she could even start classes, too. What did she want to major in?
“Entomology,” Jamal said.
Gage froze, like a bad shooter with an open three-pointer. Then he pulled the car back into traffic too quickly. Someone honked at him from behind. “We’ve got a great program in that. Remind me, and I’ll send you a catalog.” More than likely, this Vanessa would forget Jamal before the year was out. One cold winter day, Jamal would figure that shit out.
When Jamal spoke again, his voice lifted for the first time. “Hey. Coach Gage. Would you talk to Vanessa about that stuff?”
“Sure, man.” He offered a pen from his coat pocket. “Just write down her number.”
“I mean right now,” Jamal said. “Just the three of us.”
It was gratifying to have Jamal trust him, and Gage needed to keep their best recruit, but he damn sure wasn’t going to get that intimate. Jamal’s invitation made it sound like a Sunday picnic. Next Jamal would ask him to be in the delivery room for the birthing, then he’d ask Gage to be the godfather.
Gage asked, “Tonight?”
Jamal nodded. “Why not?”
“I guess so,” Gage said. “I think you’re right about not telling your mom just yet. I’d wait a bit on that.” At least until he got out of town.
“Then we’re headed the wrong way again,” Jamal said. “We just passed Vanessa’s street.”
“You think Vanessa’s mother is going to be home?” Gage asked. That’s all he needed.
Vanessa lived in a twelve-unit building. Most of the names on the mailboxes were secured with tape. None of the hallway doors were locked, just like where Gage was raised. Jamal led him upstairs and let himself in with his own key. The jiggled lock woke Vanessa. She was on a couch, covered with a plaid blanket, the TV on low, and she woke up with a stern look. She was barefoot and wild-haired.
Jamal bent down to kiss her forehead. “Meet one of my coaches,” he said. “This is Coach Gage.”
“Coach from where?” Vanessa asked.
“From my college,” Jamal said.
She wouldn’t look at Gage. Not yet. She pushed the blanket back. Narrow hips, lean muscles in her arms. No earrings. A tomboy. She wasn’t showing yet.
“He wants to talk to us about everything,” Jamal said. “He has some good ideas.”
Gage took his cue and sat down. “I want what’s best for the both of you.”
She sat up and turned to Gage for the first time. He hadn’t seen a girl whose hair was in a natural since he was in high school himself. “There’s not no both of us now,” she said. “There’s three of us.” Her voice was deeper than Jamal’s and there was an edgy attack in it. She was trying to get in the first punch, put Gage on his heels.
“Well, the best thing for all three of you,” Gage continued, “is for Jamal to be a success.” He leaned forward and clasped his hands, trying to look respectable. “On the court and off. And his best chance of that—”
“His best chance of that,” Vanessa said, “is not to be fucking some lil’ old college girl with all her Tommy Hilfiger clothes on the floor.” Jamal flinched a little when she cursed. She’d planned the pregnancy, Gage thought, used Jamal as her ticket to a better life. Was it too late to tell him he could do better than this alley cat?
“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” Gage said. “But if he’s here in Detroit working at Burger King, in the long run that doesn’t help either of you.”
“What’s wrong with Burger King?” Vanessa said, kicking off the last of the blanket. “I work at Burger King.”
“Nothing,” Gage said, backpedaling fast. “That’s not what I’m saying. Jamal and I talked about a one-year period, right, Jamal? Really only September to May. Then you and the baby come down and join us.”
“Oh,” she said, “so now there’s four of us? So nice of you to join the family.”
Jamal pitched in, giving Gage a moment to gather himself. “I can just concentrate on my grades for the first year,” Jamal said. “And ball.”
She turned to Jamal, and her tone sweetened for the first time. “That’s what you were doing this year, baby.” There was a hint of a smile and she seemed feminine, finally. “Now I have to wait eight more months.”
Gage tiptoed back into the fray. He hated to tiptoe. “You have to think of the three of you as a team.”
Vanessa stood up. She was built like a lightweight boxer. “You teaching him to run away from his problems. You not going to step on me.” This was the second time she pointed right at Gage. “Why you making him choose between basketball and me?”
“Basketball and us,” Jamal reminded her.
“The choice I’m saying would be the harder road for Jamal at first,” Gage admitted. “I want him to see into the future, though, and not throw away his chance of playing major college ball.”
Vanessa didn’t answer for a long while. Thank God he had Jamal there as a buffer. He needed to get gone before Vanessa’s mother arrived. The mother might be worse—pushy and religious—if she already knew about the baby.
Gage could feel it coming. Any minute now, Vanessa would say she wanted to come to State with Jamal when he did, and wanted a good-paying job in her major field, too. She was going to ask for a car, too, something Jamal hadn’t even done. Gage wasn’t even sure what etymology was. Or whatever Jamal called it. She certainly didn’t look anything like a pregnant woman. Could she have made this whole scheme up? When Vanessa returned to the couch, Gage stood and examined the family pictures on the TV, careful not to get fingerprints on the glass. She looked presentable when she got cleaned up. In one photo her dark brown skin was set off by a strapless yellow dress, what looked like ladybug earrings, a matching flower behind her ear.
“Jamal,” she said sweetly, “did you bring me my Orange Crush?”
“You didn’t ask for no Orange Crush.”
Gage nearly volunteered to get it for her. Something told him not to.
“Yes I did, baby. It won’t take you but five minutes to go to the corner.”
Gage dug in his pocket for change, but Vanessa had a solid dollar. Jamal kissed her cheek and asked Gage if he wanted a soda too. Gage didn’t. She lay back down.
Gage stood at the window and waited to see Jamal below. “How long have you lived in this building?” Gage asked.
“I want to get me an abortion,” she said. “You heard me,” she added, before Gage could ask her to repeat it. “But Jamal can’t find out. You know how he is. All devout.”
“I’m not stopping you,” Gage said. That was for real. Maybe he just needed to get out of her way.
“I need a ride to the clinic. Jamal don’t have no car. Yet. And I’m not taking the bus when it’s over.”
“You want me to drive you to a clinic?” Gage said.
“And back. You have to wait there for me. We going tomorrow morning.”
“What are you going to tell Jamal?”
“That he should go on, take his sweet ass to your university and play. That’s what you want anyway, right?” she sneered.
“Sure. But what are you going to tell Jamal about the—”
She sounded it out, slowly, nodding in time to each syllable, as if Gage were stupid: “Miss—care—edge.”
Gage woke the next morning in a mild panic: he hadn’t played this Vanessa deal smart. It wasn’t like she couldn’t take a taxi, which he would have gladly paid for. Maybe she needed him to sign a waiver of consent or something because she wasn’t twenty-one. He couldn’t put his signature on any document that had her name on it. NCAA rules. In any case, she needed more than a driver.
Gage chauffeured Jamal to Cooley High and backtracked to get Vanessa. He parked a little ways down from her apartment complex to collect his thoughts. The morning paper said that State had won at Wyoming, a very rare road victory. Gage called Pytel to get the details, and they giggled like children. State had gotten hot from beyond the three-point stripe. Maybe Colorado State could be beaten as well. Gage didn’t give Pytel any details, just told him Jamal was going to be fine.
Vanessa appeared just as Gage stepped out of the car. She’d been waiting, watching him while she smoked.
“You didn’t think I could find your door?” Gage asked. Who waited outside in this cold?
“Lots of folks scared to come into our building alone,” she said. “I was seeing if you were, too, without Jamal to protect you. Why you laughing like a fool so early in the morning? We got serious business to attend to.” She had a backpack slung over her shoulder. She slammed the car door, directed him ahead, and coughed hard. “How many kids you got? What’s your name again?” She held her cigarette palm-up, between her thumb and forefinger.
“Tyrone Gage. My wife and I have one girl.”
She cracked her window, blew smoke out. “And? What else?”
“And,” Gage said. “And I have a son from a previous relationship.”
“What kind of relationship was it?” she said pleasantly, and indicated again with her cigarette.
“He’s a junior in high school now.”
“Ain’t that sweet? Just like me. Who’s his momma?”
“She lives in Chicago,” Gage said. It had been years since Gage had been able to speak to the woman without her screaming at him through the phone. Celysha took the news of a previous child reasonably well; they’d hardly been dating a month when it came up, and now they only spoke of his son during Christmas week, birthdays, and arguments.
Vanessa said, “You all have shared custody, I’ll bet. He stays with you every summer, and he’s in Chicago the rest of the year. Get together every Thanksgiving, is that right?”
Gage cursed, then honked at a car ahead of him that turned without a signal.
“When was the last time you saw this son in Chicago?”
“Long time.”
“I thought so,” she said. “A long time. A long goddamned time.” Her backpack was at her feet, her hands on her knees. She looked much younger than the night before, much more like a schoolgirl. Except for the cigarette. “Pull in here,” she said.
“Not quite.”
Gage wheeled into the First Independence Bank lot and let the engine run. She’d better be fast here. This wasn’t the kind of field trip he wanted to spend the whole day on. But she didn’t budge, just sat and looked dead ahead. Here we go, Gage thought.
“I need six hundred dollars.”
“What you telling me for?” Gage finally said, his voice more tentative than he’d intended.
“Cause you need this procedure done worse than me. Jamal won’t go to no school a thousand miles away and leave a baby here in Detroit, can’t you see that?” she said. “If I have the baby, I have Jamal.” Then, for emphasis, “You ain’t the only motherfucker in the world with six hundred dollars, by the way.”
She was a real box of chocolates. Alright, as long as we’re speaking bluntly. “I had you pegged as a someone who was using Jamal to get ahead in life. Climb on his back.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Just like you?”
“Why you cutting him loose, then?” Gage asked, and pulled at his collar. They always made the collars on these shirts so tight. “I don’t get it. Next fall he’ll be smiling for the team picture at State.”
“Look, coach.” She bit on the word. “I don’t need nobody’s help. I can get ahead on my own. Anyway, Stevie Wonder could see me and Jamal don’t fit together. Jamal would’ve seen it too. Maybe in ten years, but one day. He’s a precious boy but I can’t be tied to nobody. You and Jamal aren’t the only ones with plans either. I have to choose my career, which is not as no mother.” She snorted. “I’ll wait here. Leave me the keys for the radio.”
“I can’t get five hundred from a cash machine,” Gage said. It flashed on him again that maybe she wasn’t really pregnant at all.
“Six hundred. Not on no debit card you can’t. You have to use your credit card. Try the machine and if it don’t work, you go inside to a real live teller and sign for it.”
“I’ll get you two-hundred.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “Two-hundred means we going to K-Mart to pick out some baby clothes. They got nice kid stuff there. Pajamas with feets.”
“Three hundred then,” Gage hedged.
“I think it’s a boy, I can feel it, so we should get mostly blue, huh? Hurry then, cause K-Mart opens at nine. We can be first in line.” She turned to him with a phony smile.
The wind nearly blew Gage’s car door shut on his leg. He shouldered it back open and went in the walk-up lobby, just inside the double doors. He didn’t want to show his driver’s license to anybody if he could help it. Three people were ahead of him. The woman at the cash machine had an infant under her arm and another child pulling her coat. She hissed desperately at the screen every so often, as if using voodoo, then started the process again. Gage dialed in Pytel’s phone number on his cell, but the call went straight to voicemail.
In the car, Vanessa was having a conversation with herself, or that’s how it looked. The reflection of the windshield made it difficult to see. Was she going through his daytimer or changing the radio station? He pulled his wallet out.
The woman at the front of the line turned around and announced, “Please excuse me,” and began again, poking keys. Her older child broke free and ran to the door. She bolted from the machine, grabbed him by the hood, and pulled him back to the front of the line. The boy hollered in protest. Outside, Vanessa had her hands on top of her head. Was she still talking to herself or laughing? The lobby was hot. Gage took off his coat and waited his turn.
The reception area of the Planned Parenthood Center was pleasant enough. They could just as easily have been there for a sore throat. Gage whispered to Vanessa that he wasn’t going to sign any papers. NCAA rules—he couldn’t have his name on any documents. She took Gage by the arm and sat him down, kicking her backpack under a chair.
“Fool, don’t nobody need your name on anything,” she said, a little too loudly. Then she whispered, “I got me a fake ID. You must’ve just got off the farm. You a country nigger.”
“Fine,” Gage said. “Let’s just get through this.”
“Alls you need is to do what I say. You’re doing fine sitting there looking stupid. You almost halfway done. Try your best not to lose your car keys.”
Gage reached for some magazines. When she returned from the registration window, he offered her one. It was either the summer food issue or the world at war. She looked at the cover of the food magazine, back at his, and switched with him. He flipped through a section called “Poolside Drink De-Lites,” then leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He needed to be back at the high school before 3:30 to make sure Jamal’s core classes were in order, get the guidance counselor excited about Jamal being awarded a scholarship, and ask her to help register Jamal for another SAT exam. Gage opened his eyes when he felt Vanessa lean against his side. He thought she might be asleep, but she was reading—an article about Baghdad on the brink of collapse.
“Sondra James,” a nurse announced, and Vanessa stood up. Gage grabbed for her before recalling the fake ID. The door locked behind Vanessa.
A woman crossed the waiting room to sit next to him. She wore a pink pillbox hat and matching outfit, Sunday clothes, and smelled of something. Candy maybe. Gage stood for a moment, adjusted his pants, and sat back down. She was plump and had the fuzz of a mustache barely visible against her black skin. For all Gage knew, the woman could have been Vanessa’s mother. She looked like a kook.
“I tried to talk mine out of it until the last minute,” she whispered to Gage. “Told her I’d help with the raising. My daughter’s in there too,” she said, nodding at the door. “Our children are beyond us now. It’s in God’s hands.” She smiled.
“She’s not my daughter,” Gage said matter-of-factly.
“Oh. What is the nature of your relationship?”
How to explain Jamal Davis to this woman? And how his hopes—all of their hopes—were tied to Jamal? Let her think whatever, he didn’t want to explain how great a player Vanessa’s boyfriend might be in two years, so he spoke to the woman as if she were a sportswriter. “No comment,” he said.
The woman gave him a surprised look and shuffled back to her seat.
Vanessa jarred him awake when she pulled her backpack from beneath his feet. He didn’t know how much time had passed. She looked…smaller. Of course. Or paler, if that was possible.
“You ready?” she said, and walked away gingerly.
Gage followed, unlocked the passenger door, and took her elbow. She weakly karate-chopped his forearm, zipped open her backpack, took out a pillow, placed it squarely on the seat, and sat down. Gage closed her door.
He eyed her every few blocks. She seemed almost serene, hands on her thighs, singing faintly to herself. At a stoplight she took out the bank envelope and flipped it into his lap. “Your six hundred dollars,” Vanessa said.
Gage let it sit, keeping both hands on the wheel. What was the catch?
“I paid last week during my exam. You got to pay first, fool. This isn’t the dentist. I got me a credit card that matches the ID. Don’t ask me how.” She lifted her slim hips. “This pillow don’t help me one bit, I don’t know why I brought it.”
“What did you need me for, then?” Gage said, and nodded down at the sealed envelope. He slowed the car to a crawl.
“What difference does it make?” She powered down her window and groaned. For a moment, Gage was certain she’d vomit. But she coughed, spat hard, turned to face him, and winced as she adjusted herself. “I told you, I needed a ride.” She waved him back into traffic. “You was willing to do anything to get Jamal down there, and I wanted to know what he was worth to you. Now it’s like you was paying me to have this procedure done, and I’m not about that.”
She began to weep, but not like Jamal. Her tears were bitter. “This ain’t me,” she said and pointed to her wet cheek. “I’m saying shit that don’t make sense because they got me full of painkillers and tranquilizers. Just drive. Don’t believe nothing I say, I’m high on pills. You’re driving like a damn old lady. Can’t you see all those folks behind us?”
“So what are you going to do?” Gage asked. “When Jamal comes to State, I mean.”
“I’m already enlisted in the Army.”
“But you’ve got one more year of high school.”
“I’m going through basic, going overseas, get my GED. Germany first, they say. I get my twenty years in, be studying business all the time, see? And maybe I’ll go to college on the GI bill. Collect my Army pension and open my own store. A restaurant or something.” Then, after a pause, “They not letting pregnant girls enlist.”
Gage cut the engine outside Vanessa’s. On the pavement in front of her building, three little boys were riding their bikes in a tight circle. They leaned into their turns and their own speed seemed to cause a sudden rush of wind. Trash swirled upward around them. Gage moved to get out of the car, but she backhand slapped his shoulder. “Leave me be,” she said. She forearmed the door open, stood, and gathered up her pillow, stuffed it inside her pack, and kneed the door shut. Gage followed her in his rearview mirror, until she was at his side. Before Gage could roll it down, she planted a kiss on his window.