I was in the kitchen on a Saturday morning eating breakfast. The school year had ended. Mom was at the sink washing dishes. "Have you thought about what you're going to do this summer?" she asked. It was at least the tenth time she'd asked that question in the last week.
"I told you. I'll get a job or something," I said.
"I talked to the manager at Pasta Bella. I can get you work at the restaurant, washing dishes or maybe being a busboy."
"I don't want to work in a restaurant."
"I don't want you to work in a restaurant either. But you're not going to sit around for two and a half months."
"Marian doesn't have anything to do. You're not on her all the time."
"Marian's signed up for a bunch of different camps at the community center. Besides, Marian's different."
That made me mad. "Why? Because I was arrested and she wasn't?"
"I wouldn't have put it that way, but yes."
"I'm done with that. I've told you. You don't have to worry."
She turned and faced me. "Great. I'm glad I don't. But I still want you to have something to do this summer. So if you don't get a job on your own, you're going to work at Pasta Bella." She paused. "You know, Shane, we're not rich. If you earned some money, it would help."
That afternoon I took the bus to Northgate Mall. At store after store I filled out application forms. The managers would take the forms and stick them in a file. "We're not hiring now, but if somebody quits or doesn't work out, we'll give you a call."
For a couple of days I sulked around the house, feeling guilty but still dreading the day when I'd have to start washing dishes. Mom kept looking at me, and I knew I couldn't hold out much longer. I was just about to give up when I got the phone call.
It wasn't from any store manager at Northgate; it was from Coach Grandison. I was surprised to hear his voice and even more surprised to hear his offer. "I've got a summer basketball league starting, and I need referees. You interested? It pays twelve dollars a game, and you'd do three games a day."
"I sure am," I said. "Where?"
"At Bitter Lake Community Center. The program goes all summer. You start tomorrow. A man named Matthew Falk is my partner. He'll train you."
"Tomorrow?" I said.
"Yeah. Tomorrow. Noon. Why? You doing something else?"
"No. It's just that..."
"What?"
"Nothing. I'll be there."
When I hung up, I felt excited and then confused. Why had Grandison called me? How did he know I was looking for a job?
Just then Mom came into the room.
"Did you ask Coach Grandison to get me a job?" I said.
For a moment she didn't reply. When she finally spoke, her voice was clipped. "As a matter of fact, I did."
That made me mad. "You should have asked me before you did that."
"Why?"
"Because I would have told you not to."
"Oh, Shane, don't be such a child. There's nothing wrong with asking for help. You don't want to work at Pasta Bella, and I don't want you working there. If Coach Grandison can get you something better, take it."
"You don't understand," I said. "I'm not going out for the baseball team next year. Grandison wouldn't give me this job if he knew that. He'd give it to somebody who is coming back."
"How do you know that?"
"It's obvious."
She considered for a moment. "Okay, say you're right. Then let me ask you this. How do you know you won't turn out for baseball next year?"
"I'm not turning out again. There's no way."
"Do me a favor, Shane. Look where we are today, and think where we were a year ago. Then, if you're still certain you know what you'll be doing next year, call Coach Grandison and tell him you don't want the job and I'll get you the dishwashing job. Right now I'm going to the grocery store. You need anything?"
Once she'd left, I let my eyes wander over the front room: the little sofa, the small television, the bookcases, the coffee table. It was so much my home that it was hard for me to remember the Sound Ridge house. And when I did picture that house, it seemed comically big and showy. Had it been only a year since I'd lived there?
That night I got out the bus schedule. I'd have to transfer once, and of course the times didn't work out at all. The thought of standing at a bus stop every morning and every afternoon was depressing. I already felt sluggish and out of shape.
Then an idea came to me. I could jog the two miles to the community center and then jog home at the end of the day. If I got to the center a little early, I could pump iron in the weight room. I could turn the job into a way to make money and get in shape.
After breakfast the next morning, I laced up my shoes and headed off for Bitter Lake. For most of the way, I ran along Second Avenue, a quiet street without the traffic of Greenwood. I was right about my conditioning; by the time I reached Bitter Lake I was dragging.
I headed straight for the weight room but stopped short when I saw the rates: three dollars for a single visit, twenty dollars for ten. "You want to do some lifting?" the man at the main counter called out.
"Not now," I said, feeling my empty pocket. "Maybe tomorrow."
"Go on in. Give it a try. See if you like it. In the summer it's free in the mornings to kids under eighteen."
"Really?" I said. "It doesn't say that here."
"It doesn't? Well, it should."
I pushed the door open and stepped inside. There were maybe ten different stations, and at each station there was a chart explaining how to do the lift properly. I started with the bench press. I had nobody to spot me, so I had to keep the weights on the low side and do lots of repetitions, which is the right way to lift anyway. After the bench presses, I worked through squats and curls, all the regular stuff.
It was hard work, but it was good to feel my muscles strain. I'd pump iron, then rest, then pump some more. When I finally looked up at the clock, it was nearly noon. I did two more reverse curls, then hustled to the gym to start my new job.
I was nervous. I'd played basketball in grade school and junior high. I had a decent outside touch, but I wasn't fast enough to play guard, and I wasn't tall enough to play in the front court, so I lost interest. I knew the rules, or at least most of them, but I wasn't sure about the signals for blocking fouls and charges and that sort of thing.
When I stepped onto the Bitter Lake gym, the first guy I saw was Miguel Alvarez. He smiled and called out, "You refereeing too?"
"Yeah," I said, smiling back.
Seeing him made me realize how much I liked the guy. You could tell he just wanted things to go well for you and that he'd help you if he could. I couldn't think of anybody I'd rather work with.
In the next few minutes, four more "refs" showed up. Two of them were black guys, Abdul and Jonas, who definitely looked like basketball players. There was also a tough-looking girl named Brandy and her friend Carmen. Both had about fifty earrings in each ear, and their clothes reeked of cigarettes. The six of us stood around until a man came onto the court. "Welcome," he called out. "I'm Matthew Falk. You must be my summer refs."
Falk was a young guy with short gray-blond hair. You could tell he was both strong and fast. He had the easy smile of a coach who is used to being liked by all his players. "This week you'll learn how to ref. Starting next week, you'll be assigned to different gyms in the North End. You'll come here, and we'll drive you to wherever your games are. You'll handle three games a day, Monday to Friday. Pay is twelve bucks a game. Any questions?"
That afternoon we shadowed Falk, watching him as he refereed scrimmages. The next day we took turns doing the refereeing, with him supervising. After the first scrimmage, Falk took me aside. "Remember, this is a rec league. Don't call everything. Blow the whistle only if they can't play through the contact."
On day three Miguel and I did better, except Falk said we should have called a technical foul when this little punk slammed the basketball against the wall and shouted, "This game sucks!"
At night I studied the rule book and practiced the moves refs make: hands on the hips for a block, two arms up for a three pointer. Sometimes I'd get dramatic, pretending I was calling an NBA game: Kobe and Shaq and Kidd and Webber. "What are you doing?" Marian called up. "The whole room's shaking down here."
On Monday Miguel and I were on our own. We were assigned to the Loyal Heights gym, which was closer to town. The players were fifth and sixth graders, and it was only a summer league, but it was work. And I don't mean the running up and down the court. That was easy. The hard part was making the calls as best you could, then tuning out the whining coaches and kids.
Falk watched our last game that day. I thought we'd done terribly, but when the final buzzer sounded, he came onto the court with a smile on his face. "Don't get down on yourselves. You made some mistakes, but that happens. The important thing is you worked as a team, picking up the calls for one another. You're going to do fine."
That evening Mom asked me how the job was going.
"It's good. I like it."
She smiled. "I'm glad."
I quickly settled into a routine. I'd get up around nine, clean up, eat a little, then jog to Bitter Lake. Once I was there, I'd lift weights until noon, when I'd meet up with Miguel. The bus would take us to Loyal Heights, Ballard, Meadowbrook, or wherever we'd been assigned for the week. We'd finish around four and be back at Bitter Lake by four-thirty. I'd run home, shower, and then eat dinner. After dinner I'd watch a baseball game on television or maybe a movie. By eleven I'd be asleep, and the next thing I knew the alarm clock would go off and it would be time to start over again.