A High Five for Glenn Burke Page 12

  “Erica Wade,” Webb answers. “How are you this evening?”

  “Hi … hi, Webb,” I say, swiveling my stool. “It’s me, Silas.”

  “Hey there, Silas.”

  “You’re on … you’re on speaker,” I say. “I’m here with my mom.”

  “Hello, Webb,” Mom says. She folds her arms.

  “How’s everyone this evening?” Webb asks.

  “Good.” I swallow. “Listen, um, I’m not able to make it to practice on Tuesday, and I’m calling—”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m just calling because I can’t make it, and … and I know we have to call when we can’t make it.”

  “I appreciate it,” Webb says. “Am I going to see you Thursday, Silas?”

  “Oh, yeah, yeah,” I say. “I’ll be there Thursday.”

  “Then I’ll see you Thursday.”

  “Thanks, Webb.”

  “High five, Silas.”

  27

  FACE-TO-FACE

  “Waiting for your partner in crime?” Ms. Washington asks.

  “Something like that,” I say.

  I’m standing by the door to Ms. Washington’s room, looking down the long hallway toward the cafeteria. I got here early because I still haven’t seen Zoey, and I need to. She’s avoiding me, and she knows I’m probably waiting for her, which is why she still isn’t here. But she is coming because she’s finished with robotics, so she’s going to have to see me.

  “How was the show?” Ms. Washington asks.

  “Good,” I say without turning to her. “Really good.”

  “That’s what I hear,” Ms. Washington says. “I can’t wait to see it on Friday.”

  I still don’t know how Zoey did in the competition because I purposely haven’t asked anyone, and I wore my buds during the morning announcements in case they said something. I want Zoey to be the one to tell me, and I want her to know that I wanted her to be the one.

  “Move.”

  Zoey brushes me with her bag and dips into the classroom. She came from the other direction.

  I follow her in. “Hey, how did robotics go?”

  She doesn’t answer or slow down.

  “Did you guys win?”

  She stops. “What do you want, Silas?”

  “I want to know … I’m asking you how you did. I honestly don’t know if you won—”

  “Did you think I was joking the other night?” She raises her voice.

  Other kids are walking in and watching.

  “Is this a skit?” Ms. Washington slides closer. “Is this something you two practiced over—”

  “I told you I hated you and never wanted to talk to you again,” Zoey says, loudly. “Which word in that sentence do you not understand?”

  “Oh, this is real.” Ms. Washington covers her mouth.

  “Zoey, I—”

  “We won!” Zoey shouts. “My team won. You happy now, Silas? Is that what you needed to know? Fine, now you know. Now get out of my life!”

  28

  GLENN BURKE AFTER

  When Glenn Burke died, the man who invented the high five could barely lift his hand. That’s what it says in so many of the articles I read about him, including the one on my laptop right now.

  I’m in the kitchen on the stool at the end of the island. Up until this afternoon, the only place I’ve ever read about Glenn Burke is in my bedroom or in the bathroom. I’m reading about Glenn Burke out here because I have the apartment to myself all afternoon. It’s completely quiet. All I hear is the hum of the refrigerator and the creaking of the stool when I shift or swivel. I can’t remember the last time the apartment was this quiet during the day.

  When Glenn Burke played for the Pendulum Pirates in the San Francisco Gay Softball League, he was voted Player of the Year, and when he played in the Gay Olympics, his team won the World Series. But the reason Glenn played for those teams was because he couldn’t play Major League Baseball, because Major League Baseball didn’t want him. He couldn’t play the sport he loved because of who he was.

  I check my phone on the stool. I can still see the conversation with Dad from earlier. He wanted to know if he should come home to check on me, and I told him he didn’t have to. Then he asked me if I was sure, and I told him I was positive, at which point he sent me his double emoji.

  At practice right now, I’d be doing infield work, taking ground balls with Malik and Luis and Ben-Ben and Jason. Webb would be telling us to get low.

  “Pretend you’re sitting on the toilet,” he’d say. “Squat down lower. Pretend you’re pooping in the woods! Lower!”

  We’d all be cracking up.

  I press my palms against my temples. Forced out of baseball, Glenn Burke started drinking and doing drugs. One night, crossing the street, he got hit by a car and broke his leg in three places. He couldn’t hold down a job, and before long, he was homeless. Then he started committing crimes. Then he went to jail.

  Glenn Burke was forty-two when he died in 1995. That’s how old Dad is. Glenn Burke died of AIDS. That’s what happened to most people when they got AIDS back then. I learned all about it on YouTube. I had no idea that’s what it was like back then, and I’m pretty sure most kids have no idea that’s what it was like. I’ve been checking out some movie trailers because I want to know more and saw one for this documentary called How to Survive a Plague, but I’m not sure I’m ready for it.

  I look at the bright orange sticky notes on the counter under my spoon. The one with CHECK THE FREEZER was on my pillow when I got home from school. The one with SELF-CARE and the smiley faces was stuck to the front of the sealed pint of sea salt caramel in the freezer. The sea salt caramel pint is no longer sealed or in the freezer—it’s empty at the bottom of the garbage can under the sink.

  I click a tab and go back to the page with the coming-out video of the kid with the spiky bleached-blond hair and the row of rainbow bracelets on both wrists. It’s the video I keep watching over and over and over, and it’s paused at the point right before he starts talking about how he told one of his friends he was gay, and that friend told someone, and now he thinks everyone knows.

  29

  JUMP & GRIND

  “Welcome to the Jump & Grind,” I say, tapping the guest check pad with the cap end of the blue ballpoint. “Can I take your order?”

  The woman standing on the other side of the counter smiles at Mom, who’s wiping down the area around the pitchers of ice water at the table in the corner.

  “I’ll have a large iced latte with almond milk and an extra shot,” the woman says.

  “Write that down.” Kaila nudges me. “You’ll never remember.”

  “I’ll remember.” I touch my temple.

  “You’re gonna mess up your orders that way,” Kaila says. “Write it down.”

  “Yes, boss,” I say.

  During last-period math, I texted Mom to see if she needed help after school, and when she asked why I wasn’t doing karaoke with Zoey like I usually do on Wednesday, I didn’t give her a reason. I just told her we weren’t. So Mom picked me up—which was exactly what I wanted—and now this afternoon, Kaila is teaching me to work the counter. And since she still can’t grip a pen because of the stitches in her hand, I’m really working.

  “You gotta be quicker with the customers,” Kaila says, punching the order into the tablet. “People don’t wanna wait in line all day.”

  “There’s no one else on line.” I motion to the woman across the counter. “She’s the only one here.”

  “It ain’t always gonna be like this.” Kaila rips the guest check off the pad and hands it back to the barista by the espresso machine. “Your order will be right up,” she says to the woman.

  I tap Kaila’s good hand with the ballpoint and motion to Mom, who’s moved on to straightening the stirrers and straws at the self-service station.

  “You should see her with the bobbleheads in my room,” I say.

  “What’s that
mean?”

  “It means, that’s how she is at home. Everything has to be perfect.”

  “It’s dope she’s like that,” Kaila says. “Look at this place.”

  “I guess, but—”

  “What do you mean, you guess?” She grabs the top of my head with her good hand. “Look around, man. This place is beautiful.” She rotates my head back and forth. “Really look around. Take in the details.”

  I look at the black-and-white photographs of Nina Simone, Sarah Vaughan, Billie Holiday, and Ella Fitzgerald on the wall above the circular booths. I look at the Little Free Library stocked with picture books and shelved alphabetically by the illustrators’ last names. I look at the two long tables in the middle with the bowling alley tops. I look at the blue-and-yellow equal sign sticker on the window by the door right below the Jump & Grind sign.

  “It is kinda dope,” I say.

  “Kinda?” Kaila says, tucking her hair back into her Jump & Grind snapback. “This place is inspired. Erica wants everyone to feel welcome here and really means it. I love working here ’cause…’cause it don’t feel like work. She gets people.”

  She does. Mom gets me, which is why she didn’t press me for the reason I wasn’t doing karaoke. If she had, it would’ve become a thing, and neither of us wanted a thing this afternoon.

  “See the guy on the sofa over there?” Kaila says, pointing.

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s having a party here Saturday night for his mom,” Kaila says. “She’s retiring. She’s been an elementary school teacher for, like, thirty years or something, and when Erica found out, she told the guy he should have the party here. He didn’t ask. She just offered. Erica’s a boss.”

  “No wonder she likes you so much,” I say, flipping my hair and grinning. “You’re like the president of her fan club.”

  “No, she’s a boss,” Kaila says. “The real deal. What you see is what you get.” She raises her arms. “And that’s me. What you see is what you get. Authentic.”

  Authentic.

  It takes me a second to remember where I heard that word before. Webb said it to me the other day when we were having our catch.

  Authentic.

  30

  MALIK

  “Switch, Renegades,” Jason says, leading the prepractice stretch. “Last one.”

  I start to get up, but Coach Rockford holds out his hand.

  “Not you,” he says. “No need for me to get down there. You get a double session.”

  Coach Rockford’s my stretch partner today because Malik’s not here yet. We’re all in front of the first-base dugout, and we’re up to hamstrings, which, like always, is our last stretch before we run.

  Mom dropped me off just as practice was starting, which was exactly how I planned it. If I’d been early like when Grace brings me, I would’ve had to sit with everyone and deal with everyone. I know I’m going to have to—and I will—but I couldn’t the second I got here.

  “Other leg,” Jason says.

  I lower my right leg and raise my left. Coach Rockford bends down and leans forward so I can rest it on his shoulder. As he inches toward me and pushes my leg back to me, I feel the stretch, close my eyes, and keep score. Ben-Ben hasn’t looked my way. Luis nodded to me when I got here and kinda sorta smiled when we made eye contact during jumping jacks. Alexander usually stretches with Ernesto, and Theo usually stretches with Kareem, but today they switched partners. Kareem waved when he saw me getting out of the car, and he gave me a dap during shoulder stretches. The other three ignored me.

  “Okay, gentlemen,” Webb says, clapping. “Let’s do this. Three laps today. Three laps and then we meet at home plate. Let’s go.”

  We all bounce to our feet and take off, and by the time we’re running along the warning track in front of the outfield fence, Luis, Ben-Ben, and I are in front.

  “I wonder where Malik is,” I say.

  Neither answers, not that I expected Ben-Ben to.

  “I hope he gets—”

  “Dude, he’s not coming,” Luis interrupts me.

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “If you’d been here Tuesday, you’d know,” Ben-Ben snaps. “You’d know.”

  “Know what?” I say.

  “Malik’s off the Renegades,” Luis says. “His parents pulled him off the team.”

  I stop. All the Renegades pass me. I put my hands on my knees and bend over. I’m going to be sick, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I clasp my hands behind my head and stand back up enough to see my teammates running down the third-base line. I’m still in the outfield.

  I start to slow-jog, and when I reach the left-field line, I keep going straight and run until I reach the batting cages. I bend over again and start to retch. This time when I try to stand back up to catch my breath, I lose my lunch.

  31

  MAKING THE CALL

  “Don’t pick up, don’t pick up, don’t pick up,” I say after I press the Call button.

  I’m outside our apartment building, standing against the railing by the steps. Everyone’s inside—Dad’s giving Semaj a bath, Mom’s still on her call with the caterer for tomorrow night’s retirement party, and Haley’s dancing around her room with her headphones on. That’s why I was able to dip out without anyone noticing.

  “Number Three.” Webb picks up on the first ring. “What say you?”

  “Hey, Webb.” I swallow. “Listen, I—”

  “How are you feeling? Any better?”

  Webb knows I wasn’t feeling well at practice yesterday, but he doesn’t know I got sick. No one does. By the time Coach Rockford came to check on me by the batting cages, I was already heading back to the field.

  “A little better,” I say. “I’m still—”

  “Everything okay, Silas?” Webb asks. “You need to talk?”

  “No,” I say. “No, I’m good.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I just … um … I can’t make it to the game.”

  “Really?” Webb says. “Ouch.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Silas, did something happen yesterday?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No … I mean … I mean, yes. Yes, I’m sure. Nothing happened. I just can’t make it.”

  “This is really last-minute, Silas. It leaves us with only nine players for tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, I know … I just … I can’t make it, Webb.”

  “We always like to have at least ten. I hope there’s still time for us to get a replacement call-up from one of the select teams. The Renegades are—” Webb stops.

  I check the phone to see if we’re still connected. We are.

  “Silas, you sure you’re okay?” he asks.

  I swallow.

  “Silas?”

  “Thanks.”

  32

  DEALING WITH DAD

  I’m sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of chocolate milk and one of the blueberry muffins Mom brought home yesterday. Dad just turned off the TV in the bedroom, which means he’s finished getting dressed, and he’ll be in here in three, two, one …

  “Good morning, Silas.” He stops in the doorway. “What … what’s going on? Where’s your uniform?”

  I’m still wearing the navy sweats and gray tank undershirt I wore to bed.

  “Why aren’t you dressed?”

  I was able to avoid this conversation last night, but I knew it was coming first thing this morning.

  “I’m not playing today,” I say.

  “What are you talking about? You have two games. Go get dressed.”

  “I don’t feel like it.”

  “You don’t feel like it?” Dad rubs his bald spot. “What do you mean you don’t feel like it?”

  “I mean, I don’t. I don’t want to go.”

  “I thought you said the team was down players because one of the coaches—”

  “I already called Webb.” I cut him off. “They’ll c
all a kid up from—”

  “When did you call?”

  I swallow. “Last night.”

  “Last night?” Dad steps to the table and grips the back of a chair. “You knew about this last night and didn’t say anything?”

  I pick up the muffin and break it in half.

  “You intentionally waited for your mother to leave this morning so you wouldn’t have to tell her, didn’t you?”

  It’s more a statement than a question. I don’t respond.

  “You know she’s not going to be home until late tonight,” he says.

  I put the top of the muffin next to my milk and the stump back on the plate.

  “I need to think.” Dad looks at the clock on the microwave. “I was going to go to your game for a few innings and then head into the office and get that over with, but now…” He bangs the chair with the heels of his hands. “I’d have scheduled my day so differently if I’d known about this.”

  “You still can,” I say.

  “No, I can’t, Silas!” he snaps. “Your mother left already, remember?”

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  I really am sorry that I didn’t think about what my not saying anything last night would do to his day or Mom’s day or anyone else’s day.

  “Sorry,” I say again.

  “I’m worried about you.” He softens his tone.

  “I’m fine, Dad.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I am.”

  He pulls out the chair and sits. “Well, if you’re not fine…” He puts an elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. “If you’re not fine, I know you’re not going to say anything to me, but I hope you would say something to your mother. If you’re in some kind of—”

  “Thanks.” I don’t let him finish.

  He points to the muffin stump on my plate.

  “All yours,” I say.

  “I love you, Silas.”