CHAPTER 8

COMPROMISE

The next afternoon, Devon was in his room. There was no practice today, but both his parents were home. Sneaking out to meet Jamal wasn’t going to happen.

Devon had retreated to his room with the excuse of doing homework. Truthfully, though, he was mostly watching freestyle BMX online again.

Suddenly Mom yelled from the living room: “Devon, come down here, please!”

Devon sighed. He pressed pause on the video he’d been watching of a BMX rider landing the Tuck No Hander.

In the living room, he found his parents sitting on the sofa waiting for him. They looked serious.

Devon stopped in his tracks when he saw their expressions. “Is everything OK?” he asked.

“Why don’t you take a seat, Devon?” his mother replied.

Devon scanned the room anxiously. Great. What did I manage to do wrong now? he wondered.

Devon’s father spoke first. “Your mother brought something to my attention after last night’s game,” he began. “Apparently I haven’t been very patient—or a good listener. I apologize for that. If there’s something you’d like to discuss with me, I’m ready to listen.”

Devon couldn’t believe how calm his father sounded. This is my chance, he thought. I have to make him see my side.

Devon took a deep breath. “Here’s the thing,” he said. “I know you love basketball. I do too. And I know I made a commitment to the team.”

Devon paused, and Mom gave him a reassuring nod. “Go on,” she said.

“But it’s just a lot,” Devon continued. “To be honest, it’s not fun anymore, and it takes up all my time. We have practice almost every day and the game schedule is intense. Plus I have tournaments on the weekend. I have other things I’m interested in and—”

“Like what?” Devon’s father interrupted him.

Devon hesitated before continuing. “Well, you know the BMX rider you saw outside the parking lot?” he said. “Like I said, he’s actually my friend. I’ve been learning how to ride from him.”

“Your mother tells me you like this . . . a lot. Is that the case?”

“Yes, it is,” Devon replied.

“And what do you propose happens to basketball?” Mom asked.

“I don’t know,” Devon admitted. “I still want to play. Maybe I can take a break from tournaments on the weekend so that I have more free time.”

Dad thought for a minute. Then he said, “I hear what you’re saying.”

“Really?” Devon interrupted.

Dad held up a hand to silence his son. “Look, Devon, you have an immense talent,” he continued. “I wouldn’t be doing my job as a father if I didn’t help you develop your strengths. As good as I was when I was a kid, I wish I’d had the opportunity to go to college. To see where basketball could’ve taken me.”

“I’m not saying I want to give up basketball altogether,” Devon argued.

“And I’m not saying I’m against other sports or doing bike tricks,” Dad said. “Believe it or not, I get it. We used to do that in San Juan as kids all the time. This is the Bronx, though. You’ve got cops and lots of cars. I don’t want you doing anything that could get you hurt or into trouble.”

Devon nodded, too afraid to speak. He didn’t want to interrupt his dad when it seemed like they might finally be getting somewhere.

“We can cut back on some tournaments, and you can ride—when it doesn’t interfere with basketball,” Dad continued. “But let’s go to the bike park in the South Bronx. It’s safer and more controlled.”

Devon jumped out of his chair and gave his father a hug. Dad hugged him back.

Mom smiled at them and left the room. When she returned, she had her hands behind her back.

“Devon, you’re definitely your father’s son,” Mom said. “You’re both so stubborn. Both of you just need some communication skills.”

She held out her hands.

Devon couldn’t believe what he saw. It was a new black helmet. On the back were stickers of the Puerto Rican and Trinidadian flags.

“If you’re going to keep riding, you need your own helmet,” Mom said. “I watched the videos you showed me. All those riders had helmets on. Plus we figured you could use it with . . .” She paused. “You know what, go check the kitchen.”

Devon’s parents exchanged a look. In that moment, Devon knew. Whatever was coming, Dad was in on it too.

Devon walked to the kitchen, not sure what—or who—he’d find there.

Ms. Walker? Dirty dishes to clean? The puppy I wanted for my eighth birthday? he thought.

But it was better than anything he could have imagined. Used. Rusty red. Dull pegs. But it was his. Devon’s first BMX bike.