“Like a short visit to start and me being there with you, so you don’t have to meet them alone. Then we’ll take it from there, depending on how that first meeting goes. As your lawyer, that’s what I’m suggesting you do.”
Despair washes over his face. I wish I had magical words that would make it all better. But there are none. And I don’t ever give my clients platitudes. I remember the many social workers who told me it was going to be all right, when it wasn’t. Being in ten different foster homes in fourteen years was notall right. Having my overwhelmed mother send me away time and time again was notall right. And when she died, that wasn’tall righteither. I made a promise to myself when I became an advocate that I would never tell a child whose life had just come unraveled that it wasall right. Because it wasn’t. It was crappy and shitty and totally unfair.
I wait him out in silence until he finally says, “I guess I’ll go,” evincing all the trepidation he clearly feels.
“It’s a brave choice, Dwayde.”
He shrugs off my praise. “It sucks.”
I can’t argue with that. Instead, I invite Isabelle to join us and fill her in. “I’ll call Mr. Jackson and see what I can negotiate for tomorrow.”
“We will not agree to a visit without you there,” Isabelle states. “They may be very good people and for Dwayde’s sake I hope they are, but until we know—”
“I completely understand,” I assure her. “Assuming they are agreeable, I’ll pick Dwayde up at nine thirty.”
“I have basketball practice until eleven,” Dwayde reminds Isabelle.
“Is it a problem to miss this one?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says in earnest. “There’s only two practices left before our big game. I can’t let my team and my coach down.”
“They’ve been working very hard for this,” Isabelle explains.
“Of course.” My gaze sweeps over the flowers sent by hiscoach, and my stomach knots with dread. “I’ll change the meeting time to noon and pick up Dwayde at the gym after practice.”
Looks as though Dwayde won’t be the only one facing his demons tomorrow.
PRACTICE IS ONE MISSED PLAY after another. It’s not just the team. I’m off my game, too, and I don’t like it. I can’t get Dee out of my head. She’s constantly there—stealing my thoughts, snagging my concentration, coiling my body tight, and messing with my peace of mind.
I sent her flowers yesterday, the same ones I’d given her after we’d first made love. It wasn’t intended as a romantic gesture this time. Not after the number she did on me. No, this round has to be a coldhearted, fuck-Dee-out-of-my-system seduction.
At the next failed shot, I make myself focus on the ten boys counting on me, and blow into the silver whistle that hangs around my neck.
“What’s going on out there?” I ask without rancor when they lumber over, heads bent, dejected.
“Coach, we’re never gonna beat Monroe,” Joel gripes. “Those dudes are huge.”
“So what if they’re bigger? What we’ve got is better. Smarts.” I tap a finger to my temple. “Hearts.” I slap my chest. “And guts.” I point to my stomach. “Now let me hear you say it.”
“Smarts, hearts, and guts,” they mumble the team battle cry.
“Aw, come on, you can do better than that. I want you believing in yourselves the way I believe in you. Again!” I shout. “Louder and with feeling!”
“Smarts, hearts, and guts!” the team roars, this time making themselves worthy of their name, the Northside Lions.
“That’s what I’m talking about. Now, listen up. The size of the opponent doesn’t mean jack. It’s a matter of technique. Kalum, I want you to block me with everything you’ve got.” The fourteen-year-old center, my oldest and largest player on the team—a junior Shaq in the making—already has two inches on my six feet five and about thirty pounds more mass.
“Okay, into your positions,” I direct them. “Kal, you ready?” The boy gives a tentative nod as sweat runs down his face. “Get in tight to prevent me from moving around you.” To my forwards, I explain, “The goal here is for me to make room so there’s time for you to take the shot.”
I blow the whistle and Kalum comes up on me with his hands tucked at his chest. I plant my feet wide and bend my knees. Kal pushes against me as hard as he’s been instructed. Only years of training keeps me from landing on my ass. Down the court, Dwayde captures the ball and throws it to Joel. The thirteen-year-old takes the shot, narrowly missing the hoop.
I blow the whistle again. “Great work on the passes!”
“But coach, I missed it,” complains Joel, one of Papa’s Kids and my player most likely to see the glass as half empty. Understandable. A life of abuse can rob a kid of faith and hope. I can’t imagine what I would have become without the Torreses.
“It doesn’t matter that you missed it. That’s not what this exercise was about. Kalum’s bigger than I am, but I used technique to stall him long enough so that Dwayde could get the ball to you, and that gave you opportunity, right?”
Joel concedes the point with a nod.
