Found

CHAPTER 18

After school I received a group text from Spoon. It was addressed to Rachel, Ema, and me.

Got something. Stop by tonight?

We all texted back that we would.

I got to the locker room early, changed, and found my way to the basket in the corner. I was the first one there and I enjoyed five minutes of solitude. The next guy out of the locker room was a junior named Danny Brown. As I saw him grab a basketball and stroll onto the court, I stopped dribbling and waited for the customary stony glare.

Only I didn’t get one.

More than that, instead of heading toward the center basket, Danny Brown started making his way toward me.

“Hey, Mickey,” he said.

“Uh, hey, Danny.”

No one had ever introduced us. We had never exchanged words before. But that was how it was. Other guys came out, and again, to my astonishment, they made their way toward my corner basket. Danny grabbed the rebound and threw it out to me. We ran passing and shooting drills. People said hello to me. They slapped me five. They asked how I was liking the new school. They asked about some of my classes. They warned me about teachers to stay away from and offered me study guides that would be helpful.

One guy, a senior named Eric Bachmann, asked me if I needed a ride home after practice.

For the first time in my life, I felt I was part of a team.

I know that sounds like nothing in comparison to what was going on around me. Ema had a missing boyfriend. I had a dead father and a mom in rehab, and this crazy Luther guy was probably after me. But right now, for just a minute or two, I let myself revel in this wonderful camaraderie that came so easily to others.

The joy continued on the court. My teammates passed to me. I passed to them. On one fast break, I faked a drive to the hoop, hoisted the ball up over my head, and as though we had communicated telepathically, Brandon leapt high in the air, grabbed the ball in one hand, and sailed in for the alley-oop slam dunk.

Basketball can be poetry in motion.

Everyone whooped and hollered and slapped my back. Brandon just pointed to me, gave a little nod, and started back on defense.

I can’t tell you how good that felt.

The cheerleaders were practicing in the corner. They had all seen the play. Rachel gave me a small smile, and my heart did a backflip.

Practice on the court was only an hour today. The second hour was weightlifting down the street at Schultz’s Health Club. The club was all sleek machines and chrome weights. Television screens adorned the cardio machines. There was a small clothing store and a juice bar. The music was loud and pulsating.

But our moods sobered up the moment we entered the gym. Schultz’s was owned by Boris Schultz, Buck’s father, and coming here made everyone think of him. Twenty-plus years ago, Mr. Schultz had been a big-time bodybuilder, a former Mr. New Jersey who reached the top ten for Mr. America. He was still huge with a chest big enough to play paddleball on. He sported a severe crew cut. He looked like the kind of angles and hard edges where if you bumped into him, you could break a bone.

Today, though, Mr. Schultz somehow looked smaller. I had seen that before in my mother and maybe in myself. Illness can do that to you, but so could sadness. He led us through our weightlifting stations, trying to sound upbeat and enthusiastic but today it felt flat. Chest press, bicep curls, squats. He yelled out all the usual encouraging clichés about maximizing effort and “come on, two more” and stuff like that.

But his heart wasn’t in it.

The last time we had been here, no one had wanted to partner up with me. Coach Stashower had finally stepped forward and gone through the circuit as my partner. Today I had plenty of volunteers and ended up with Danny Brown. We were about halfway through the circuit when I spotted something peculiar. Or should I say, someone.

Uncle Myron?

I could see him standing in Mr. Schultz’s office through the big glass window. Mr. Schultz left the weight area and greeted him. Buck’s older brother, town legend Randy Schultz, was also there. Someone had once explained to me the odds of becoming a professional athlete. In short, they are close to zero. Kasselton is a pretty big town. I read somewhere that in our New Jersey county, for every three thousand boys who start playing organized basketball in third grade, only one will eventually play college on some level-Division One, Two, or Three. So think about it. In our town alone, the league started with five hundred kids. That meant one kid every six years would play any college basketball on any level. The odds of going pro from there?

Forget it.

In the history of the sports-crazy town of Kasselton, there had only been one professional athlete out of the thousands of kids who’d participated, though injuries prevented him from playing more than a game or two.

You guessed it. Uncle Myron Bolitar.

Now, for the first time since Myron’s career came crashing down two decades ago, Kasselton had another potential professional athlete-a football tight end named Randy Schultz, Buck’s older brother. After breaking every receiving record at Kasselton High, Randy had gone on to stardom in the Big Ten, was named MVP of the Orange Bowl, and was currently waiting for the NFL draft. The experts had Randy pegged to go somewhere in the first two rounds.

Kasselton was poised to have its first professional football player.

But right now Randy Schultz, future professional tight end, looked grim and serious-and he was talking to my uncle. The conversation was animated, at least on Randy’s part. I looked over, trying to catch Myron’s eyes. Buck’s father spotted me. He frowned and pulled down the shade.

What was that all about?

“Mickey?”

It was Danny Brown.

“Next station.”

The squat rack. I loaded on the weight and spotted Danny. We finished up and headed back to the locker room.

“A couple of us are going to hang out at Pizzaiola after practice. You want a ride? I can take you home afterward.”

A flush of joy rushed through me. “Uh, sure, thanks.”

He gave me a crooked smile. I showered and tried to suppress the smile. It had been a good day. There had been painfully few in the past eight months. I wanted one night of being normal. I wanted a night where I could go out for pizza with my teammates.

Was that so wrong?

Ten guys ended up at Pizzaiola. I would tell you what we talked about, but it was just guy talk. We complained about the local pro teams. We poked gentle fun at some of the teachers. We talked about girls, though I didn’t really know any of them. They asked me questions about myself.

“Where did you live before this?”

“Lots of places,” I said.

“Like?”

“Africa mostly. South America, Asia, Europe. We traveled a lot.”

They listened wide-eyed. Most of them had only lived and known life in Kasselton. The second “newest” player had moved to town eight years ago. These guys had all grown up together. They knew everything about one another, could almost predict what the other would say, knew exactly how to make one another laugh, what buttons to push, when to back off.

For these guys, I had turned from weird to exotic.

I don’t know how much pizza we ate, but it was a lot. Brandon especially could put it away. Adults came in and said hello and asked about the team’s chances. Everyone seemed to know everyone. Brandon always stood and shook the adult’s hand. Sometimes he would introduce them to us with too much polish. “Mr. Mignone, allow me to introduce you to” and then he’d name us from right to left. Most of the guys nodded back. I hadn’t been raised that way, so I too stood and shook each hand. Inevitably they would say the same thing:

“‘Bolitar’? Are you related to Myron?”

“I’m his nephew.”

They would put together then that I was Brad’s son and grow quiet.

Like I said, everyone knew everyone. I guessed, at some point, that meant they knew my dad too.

I was having fun, especially when the attention turned away from me and they let me just observe and listen. I laughed a lot. I tried to remember the last time I laughed this much, and I don’t think I ever had. I wanted the world to go away. I wanted to forget about the Abeona Shelter or missing kids or my dad or…

Or Spoon in that hospital bed.

I closed my eyes. Yeah, I wanted to forget. Just for one night. But I didn’t get that. I got a few hours, and maybe, for now, that was enough.

My phone buzzed when the text came in. It was from Ema: we’re all here. where are you????