Front Court Hex Page 4

  9

  IS OLD AMERICAN HISTORY really your favorite kind of reading?” Jerry asked as he and Danny, bundled in their warm clothes, walked down the street together.

  “Of course it is. Why?”

  Jerry shrugged. “It’s just peculiar, that’s all. Most kids like anything else but old — or even new — American history. Mom and Dad didn’t embarrass you with their questions, did they?”

  “Don’t be silly. As a matter of fact, I anticipated their questions.” Danny’s eyes twinkled. “I’ve been through that before, Jerry.”

  They reached the end of the third block when Danny said, “We’re halfway to my home, Jerry. Thanks for walking this far with me, and for inviting me for supper.”

  “That’s okay,” said Jerry. “Good night, Danny.”

  “Good night, Jerry.”

  When Jerry arrived home he took off his coat and found his mother and father relaxing in the living room. His father was sitting on his favorite lounge chair, reading the evening paper, and his mother was mending a shirt.

  “Well, what do you think of him?” Jerry asked.

  “Of Danny?” His mother smiled. “He’s a very nice boy. Smart, too, and well-mannered.”

  “You’ve found a nice friend,” his father said. “Don’t lose him.”

  “Now you know where he gets his ideas about warlocks,” his mother added.

  “Yes,” Jerry replied. “From reading old American history.”

  Jerry didn’t see Danny during the next two days, but thought nothing of it. Everyone was staying indoors as much as they could since the temperature had dropped to a few degrees below zero.

  More days went by and Jerry still didn’t see Danny. One sunny, not-too-cold day he walked near the neighborhood where he first saw Danny but saw him nowhere. Now and then Ronnie Malone stopped in to visit Jerry and Jerry visited him. They were still the best of friends. But not seeing Danny Weatherspoon all this time be gan to leave a void in Jerry’s life. What had happened to the little guy, anyway?

  Meanwhile Jerry got back into his regular routine again. It was so easy for him not to take his mother seriously whenever she ordered him to do things, like getting rid of the cobwebs in the basement. What was wrong with cobwebs? Who saw them, anyway? And weren’t spiders beneficial? They trapped flies and moths in their webs and ate them up, didn’t they?

  The garbage was a problem, too. Jerry had promised his mother that he would carry it out at night for sure. But when the time came he would neglect to do so, and his father would have to carry it out before he left for work in the morning.

  And his dirty clothes. His mother wanted him to put on clean clothes every day and to take his dirty ones down to the laundry room every morning. But he seldom did. Why carry them down every day, he reasoned, when Mom launders only a couple of times a week anyway? She can pick them up when she cleans the room. Why all the fuss about cleanliness, anyway?

  “Ronnie,” Jerry asked his friend one day, “do your parents make you do a lot of chores around the house?”

  “Well, I mow the lawn.”

  “In winter?”

  “No. In summer, lunkhead.”

  “What do you do in winter?”

  “I always carry out the garbage — in winter and summer,” Ronnie replied. “And every time the bottles pile up, I take them to the special bin out in back of the grocery store. Most of them are being recycled.”

  “Your parents pay you for doing all that?”

  “Heck, no. Why should they pay me?”

  Jerry looked at him a long minute. “Forget it,” he said.

  The Chariots had intrasquad practice on Tuesday, December 14, and Jerry started. He looked for Danny among the few scattered fans sitting in the bleachers, but didn’t see him.

  “Ronnie, have you seen Danny Weatherspoon lately?” he asked.

  “Danny who?”

  “Danny Weatherspoon. A little guy. Has dark hair, wears a heavy coat.”

  “Is that so? A little guy, has dark hair and wears a heavy coat. Do you know how many guys go to our school who look like that?”

  Jerry stared. “You don’t know Danny?”

  “No, I don’t know Danny.”

  Freddie Pearse walked up to Jerry and looked him straight in his eyes. “Jerry, if you want to yak, sit on the bench. You do a lot better job yakking than playing, anyway.”

  “You must’ve forgotten who sparked the team in that last game, Freddie,” Jerry said, standing up to Freddie without twitching a muscle.

  “If you ask me, you were just lucky,” Freddie said.

  “I’m not asking you,” said Jerry.

  The whistle shrilled and Coach Stull yelled, “C’mon, you guys! Let’s get the show moving!”

  Freddie gave Jerry a burning look be fore he turned and walked to his center position. Opposite him was the team’s alternate center, Pat Wilson, who was as tall as Freddie but who lacked the spring in his jump that Freddie had. Freddie out-jumped him, tapping the ball to Chuck Metz, who dribbled quickly upcourt, then passed to Lin Foo. Lin dribbled up closer to the basket, then almost fell as a couple of opponents swarmed over him. He passed to Jerry and Jerry took a shot. The throw looked perfect. The ball struck the boards and bounced into —

  No, it didn’t! It hit the rim and bounced off!

  “Tough luck, Jerry!” Ronnie cried.

  Freddie caught the rebound and laid it up. The ball dropped smoothly through the net, and Freddie, running downcourt, glared at Jerry.

  “Just pass the ball, Jerry,” he said. “If you keep on shooting we’re going to freeze you out.”

  Jerry stared at him. “Freeze me out? That shot just missed by a hair!”

  “A miss is as good as a mile,” Freddie grunted.

  Once, later on, Jerry had another chance to shoot, and took it. He was in the clear and all of his teammates were thoroughly covered. The ball struck the rim, bounced halfway to the ceiling, then dropped. It headed directly for the middle of the hoop — but suddenly, as if a string had pulled it, it struck the rim and bounced off.

  “Oh, no!” Jerry moaned.

  “Number two!” Freddie yelled. “Okay, Jerry! You asked for it!”

  Jerry was too disheartened to run in for the rebound. Pat Wilson caught it, took it upcourt and shot a long pass to a teammate waiting near his basket. The kid caught the ball and laid it up for an easy two points.

  The whistle shrilled and Jerry saw Freddie walking over to the coach. Freddie said something, then both he and Coach Stull looked at Jerry.

  The rat! Jerry thought. Freddie’s probably told the coach to take me out!

  The coach said something to Freddie, and Freddie came trotting back onto the court, his face cherry red.

  “What’s up, Freddie?” Chuck Metz asked.

  “Nothing,” Freddie said.

  I bet, Jerry thought. “Nothing,” the way Freddie had said it, meant “a lot.”

  The scrimmage continued, but Jerry lacked the spirit and the energy that he had earlier. Knowing that Freddie Pearse was angry because Coach Stull was permitting Jerry to stay in the game sapped the strength out of him. Jerry didn’t shoot after that, nor did the guys pass to him as often as they had. They were already beginning the freeze.

  As the freeze continued, Jerry noticed the change in the first team’s play. Both Lin Foo and Chuck Metz, although fast runners, weren’t good dribblers. Twice the ball was stolen from them, each time resulting in a basket for the second team. Also, by freezing out Jerry, their pass patterns went awry. The team was disorganized. Only because the second team was inferior in every respect was the first team able to outplay them.

  In the locker room after the game Jerry overheard Ronnie say to Freddie, “I don’t like the idea of freezing Jerry out. I think it’s mean.”

  “Why? Because he’s your friend?”

  “Because he’s my friend and because it’s mean, that’s why.”

  “What good is a guy if he shoots and never hits?”
Freddie snapped.

  “Jerry’s the best dribbler we’ve got,” Ronnie countered. “And he’s good on the rebounds. Even better than you are, and he’s shorter.”

  “My eye,” said Freddie.

  Jerry smiled to himself. Nobody but a real friend would stick up for him as Ronnie had.

  He showered, dressed, and found Ronnie waiting for him near the door.

  “Thanks for speaking up for me,” Jerry said as they left the warm smell of the locker room behind them and stepped out into the chill night air.

  “He had it coming,” Ronnie said.

  They waited for a car to pass by, then crossed the street.

  “When’s our next game?” Jerry asked.

  “Thursday,” said Ronnie. “It’s another scrimmage. We don’t play a league game again until next Tuesday against the Skylarks.”

  Jerry was silent a moment. “I won’t be there,” he said finally.

  Ronnie frowned. “Why not?”

  “I’m going to be sick that night,” Jerry replied.

  10

  JERRY KEPT HIS PROMISE. He didn’t show up for the game.

  He started to read a book on antique and classic cars, but couldn’t concentrate on it. He knew that his place was at the game, not here. Even though it was a scrimmage, even though he might not make a single basket, he should have gone to the game.

  Darn it! he thought. It’s all Freddie Pearse’s fault!

  Freddie was the real reason why Jerry didn’t go. Sometimes Chuck Metz and the other guys made remarks to Jerry about his missing shots, but it was Freddie who really was the dirty one.

  He’s the one who climbs all over my back whenever I miss, Jerry thought despairingly. He never considers how hard I play. He overlooks the times when I steal the ball from an opponent, pick off rebounds, and dribble the ball upcourt to make it possible for him and the other guys to shoot. No, he thinks that I should make baskets, too.

  Jerry was quiet at the breakfast table the next morning.

  “Jerry, I haven’t heard you say a word about Danny Weatherspoon lately,” his mother said.

  “I haven’t seen him,” Jerry said.

  “Oh? Do you suppose he isn’t well?”

  “I don’t know.”

  At about 10:00 Jerry was in the school corridor, heading for math class, when someone poked him on the shoulder. He turned, and couldn’t believe his eyes.

  “Danny!” he cried, and looked at the red bell-bottom pants and blue shirt Danny wore. “Man, do you look sharp!”

  Danny grinned. “Thanks, Jerry. My mother thinks I should wear clothes according to the custom of the times.”

  “Yeah, you sure look better,” Jerry agreed. “Where have you been during the last week?”

  “Home. And here. Oh, I know what you’ve been doing. That’s what I want to see you about.”

  Jerry frowned. “Now? This minute?”

  “This minute,” Danny said. “Come on. Let’s get out of this traffic.”

  He elbowed Jerry around the corner of the hall. “Jerry, you’ll have to get on the ball,” he said emphatically. “You haven’t paid the slightest attention to what I’ve been telling you.”

  “About my doing things at home, you mean?”

  “Not things, Jerry! Duties! Your behavior is a disgrace to you and the Weatherspoons! Of all the relatives in our warlock ancestry you are just about the most — well, I can’t describe it.”

  “Then don’t try,” said Jerry.

  “Can’t you understand that I’m trying to help you for your own good?” Danny persisted. “Unless you mend your ways you’ll continue through life just the way you have been on the basketball court. Basketball is only one of the many ways in which you can suffer for your shameful behavior. Am I getting through to you, Jerry?”

  “You’re all wet, Danny,” Jerry said seriously. “I’m not going to be a goody-goody to satisfy you or any other ‘warlock ancestor’ of mine. You’re wasting your time.”

  “I’m not asking you to be a goody-goody. Nor an angel, either. I’m just asking you to live decently, not to steal, and to love your parents by showing it. Is anything wrong with that?”

  Jerry admitted there wasn’t.

  “Then will you please get off your high horse and start working at it?” Danny said. “You come from a distinguished family, Jerry. You’re different from other people.” Danny smiled. “Really, it’s no disgrace being related to warlocks. It’s a lot of fun most of the time. Who knows?

  Maybe some day you may be asked to help a warlock relative yourself!”

  “Don’t count on it,” muttered Jerry.

  A buzzer rang.

  “See you at the next game, Jerry,” Danny said. “And please be there.” He left.

  “Warlocks,” Jerry mumbled as he headed for his classroom. “I still don’t know whether to believe that baloney or not. I don’t feel related to a warlock. Isn’t it supposed to make you feel differently?”

  Jerry ignored Danny’s advice. Oh, he wasn’t going to do anything wild or far out to purposely prove that what Danny said was hogwash; he was just going to live his life normally, that’s all. Any other way would mean that he was taking Danny seriously. And he wouldn’t do that for all the nickels in the world.

  “A warlock!” Jerry said again, disgustedly. “What does he take me for? A nut?”

  There were several incidents that came up before the next game that gave Jerry an opportunity to prove that Danny was just a fraud. He didn’t get up in the morning when his mother first called him, and he borrowed a bright blue felt-tipped pen from a girl’s desk with no intention of returning it. He took it for three reasons: one, he liked its looks; two, he didn’t have one himself; and three, the girl could always buy another one.

  He also tore two pictures out of a library book on antique and classic cars to add to his collection, telling himself that nobody would miss them. See if warlock Danny Weatherspoon would find out about that!

  He thought of excuses to avoid helping his mother do the supper dishes, lied that he had a headache when she asked him to go to the store, and spent two hours at Ronnie’s house one evening, coming home too late to write an essay on pollution which had to be turned in the next day.

  Although he knew that every one of those deeds was a violation of what Danny called decent living, Jerry didn’t think that any of them would hurt anybody. He, himself, felt guilty about them — but not too guilty. He was just following the whims of his nature, he told himself, hoping that his excuse was logical.

  He could hardly wait for the next game. It was on Tuesday, December 21, against the Skylarks. He hadn’t touched a basketball since last Tuesday when the Chariots had played an intrasquad game.

  A large crowd filled the bleachers, including Jerry’s mother and father. While warming up before the game Jerry looked for and saw Danny Weatherspoon on the top row of the bleachers. He tried to catch Danny’s attention, but the little guy was busy talking with the boy beside him.

  At last the referee blew his whistle, announcing the start of the game. But Jerry didn’t start. Manny Lucas played in his place.

  The Skylarks’ tall, dark-haired center, Stretch Peters, outjumped Freddie, and in no time the ball was at the Skylarks’ end of the court. Quick passes, evasive action, and a hook shot resulted in the Skylarks drawing first blood.

  Manny took the ball out-of-bounds, tossed it in to Ronnie, and the forward moved the ball upcourt. He passed to Freddie, who tried a long shot and missed. Freddie ran in, nabbed the rebound and went up with it. This time the ball dropped through the net.

  The Skylarks scored again, and drew a one-shot foul as Manny recklessly charged a Skylark taking the lay-up shot that went in. The three points put the Skylarks in front, 5 – 2.

  They gained nine more within the next five minutes against the Chariots’ four, and five of those were sunk by Manny’s man.

  “Take Manny’s place, Jerry,” Coach Stull said. “Stop that Skylark or he’ll sink
us alone.”

  Jerry reported to the scorekeeper, then went in when the Chariots called time. “Sorry, Manny,” Jerry said.

  “Oh, not you again,” said Freddie. “What does Coach Stull expect you to do? Fire us up?”

  “He wants me to stop that Skylark from getting more baskets,” Jerry said softly.

  “Isn’t that nice? That Skylark’s name is Jeff Sanders and he’s one of the highest scorers in the league. And you expect to stop him?”

  “I’m going to try,” Jerry promised.

  “That’s all you will do — try,” Freddie said, and wiped his sweat-beaded forehead.

  Time-in was called and Lin Foo took the ball out for the Chariots. Jerry caught the throw-in and started to peg the ball to Ronnie. A Skylark vaulted in front of him, intercepted the throw and heaved it to a teammate downcourt.

  Jerry stared, hardly believing it. That had never happened to him before.

  “Nice play, Jerry!” Freddie yelled. “You sure could stop anybody playing like that!”

  11

  JERRY TURNED OUT to be as ineffective against the Skylark forward as Manny was. He was almost worse. Once he accidentally tripped the player and the ref called it a foul. The Skylark sank the shot. At another time Jerry bolted in to stop the player from taking a set shot, and slipped and knocked him down, a violation that gave the Skylark two shots. Fortunately the Skylark sank only one.

  Lin Foo scored a lay-up and sank a foul shot to make the score 21 – 11 in the Skylarks’ favor when the first quarter ended.

  “Coach,” Freddie’s voice was loud and brittle as he looked at the coach during intermission, “are you going to keep Jerry —” He faltered. “Sorry. Forget it.”

  Jerry blushed. Nothing ever pleased Freddie more than having a scapegoat to blame for the team’s not doing well. Especially a scapegoat whom he had never liked in the first place. Jerry understood the reason why perfectly.

  About a year ago, during basketball season, Jerry had been dropping in baskets from all over the front court with a regularity that earned him the honor of being best player of the year. Second highest in scoring was Freddie. Jerry was certain that it was because he beat out Freddie that Freddie held a grudge.