Dance Real Slow by Michael Grant Jaffe Page A

father. It is how things happened. But I don’t ever want them to
happen
like that for Calvin and me. It is a large part of the reasonwhy, after Kate left, I accepted Harper’s job offer and moved to Tarent. Because I knew I would be able to spend time with Cal. To watch him eat a powdered-sugar doughnut for the first time and get it on his nose and cheeks, to have him ask me why dogs can’t talk or if fish sleep, to yell at him for chasing a ball into the street, to kiss him on the lips as long as he will allow.
    Now, lifting Calvin’s shirt, I press my mouth hard against his belly and blow, turning slightly from side to side so it makes a loud, wet noise, like a fart. Calvin laughs and tries to push me away, but I hold him tight from behind, spraying spit onto his chest until he has had enough.

Chapter Five
    The floorboards are tanned and brittle, creaky beneath their slick varnished glaze. At the center is an enormous crimson circle with a gray letter T painted in its middle, barely touching the inside of the circle’s edges. Tired black girders drop from the ceiling, holding Plexiglas backboards above both ends of the floor. Two baskets, evenly spaced, set along each side of the court, can be raised or lowered depending on need. Near the main doorway, below three large dangling heaters, is a pair of long wooden grandstands that pull out for seating. High on the far wall is a scoreboard protected by thin wire fencing, with Trojans listed on one side and Visitors on the other.
    There is another set of grandstands across from the first, and these have been opened, revealing six levels, the lowest only two feet or so behind a white line that encompasses the floor. The room’s light is a warm orange, soothing, not harsh like the bold neon that is used in most of the newer gymnasiums. A few boys dressed inshorts, T-shirts, and high-top sneakers lie stretched out on the open grandstand, talking. Several others are shooting basketballs into two of the far baskets, but instead of chasing after their missed shots, they simply reach into a large, wheeled hamper and pull out another ball. Calvin seems to like the idea of a limitless supply of balls and he lets go of my hand and runs over to where the boys are shooting.
    â€œCome here, Cal. Before you hurt yourself,” I say.
    A stocky boy with a crew cut bends down beside Calvin, holding a basketball out in front of himself, carefully, like a melon.
    â€œYou play, fella?” he asks, pulling the ball away as Calvin reaches for it.
    Calvin moans, missing as he swipes for the ball, instead grabbing a narrow band of cloth from the boy’s tank top and yanking it off the boy’s shoulder.
    â€œHey, Calvin. That’s enough,” I say, turning toward the boy. “I’m Gordon Nash. I think Coach Miller mentioned that I might be filling in for him.”
    â€œOh, yeah. Sure.” The boy stands, dropping the basketball back into the hamper. “He called us last night.”
    â€œThis is my son, Calvin.”
    â€œI’m Peter Sawyer.”
    He shakes my hand and then tries to do the same with Calvin, but Calvin wants no part of it and he hides his face behind my thigh.
    â€œHe’s shy, huh?” asks Peter Sawyer, tucking his tank top down into his shorts.
    â€œSometimes,” I say, reaching back and leading Calvinaround to the front of my legs. “And sometimes he just wants attention.”
    The rest of the boys gather by Peter Sawyer and I introduce Calvin and myself. There are eleven of them, and two absent. They move back to the open grandstand and sit scattered, sneakers untied and socks rolled down tight to their ankles, in the style of the day.
    â€œI have never really coached before,” I say, seating Calvin at the end of the first row and setting my briefcase down beside him. “I will try to do my best. Obviously, I don’t know any of you and I don’t know your abilities. So, as far as