guards’ asses and free us. Moses is going to bitch slap Horvath and Pike and force them to serve us pizzas in the staff break room. Moses is going to bring down Division of Youth Services with his righteous fists.
I listen to the stories, but I don’t care about Moses Rivera. I’ve got too many things going on in my own head to think about a gangland savior coming to Morton to fight it out with Horvath and the other guards. I’m thinking about my mother and if she’s ever going to call or visit. Probably not. Maybe she’s sick or something. I try to stop worrying, but I can’t. Not in here, at least. In my room at bedtime I listen to the clock hammering away. I count out fivehundred ticks. When I get tired of that, I put my ear to the crack in the door to listen to the guards.
Horvath says, “You know that Rivera kid, the boxer?”
“Yeah. So?” says Pike.
“I heard he’s coming here. Next week.”
“Waste of taxpayer money, if you ask me. He’s a real specimen, though. Benches, like, three-fifty.”
“He’s just a punk,” says Horvath. “First time he talks shit, he’ll hit the floor just like everyone else.”
“Tune him up good.”
“That’s right.”
Pike’s laugh, high-pitched and wheezy, makes my skin crawl, and later I dream of hitting the floor.
29
All day I look forward to Louis’s visit, but he never shows. Doesn’t call, either. Part of me knew he’d blow it off, but I still hoped. I mean, to get off the unit for a couple of hours and talk to my brother … it would have been nice.
Fuck it
, I think.
No, fuck him. Fuck Louis and all of his bullshit
.
The rest of the day drags until we go to the gym to play basketball. Freddie and I are the last ones picked because we’re terrible at sports. Every time I get the ball, Mr. Pike blows the whistle for double dribbling or traveling. Freddie knows how to dribble, but he misses the entire backboard whenever he shoots. The only player who is worse is Oskar, the Dr. Seuss kid. Oskar spends a lot of time with the psychologist, Dr. Souza. Other times he sleeps or just stares at his hands.
The one occasion I catch a pass, Antwon sticks out his foot, and I go sprawling across the floor. The ball bounces loose and rolls over to Oskar, who is standing at the edge of the game watching us with his big vacant eyes. He looks at the ball blankly and then bends down to pick it up.
The rest of us watch to see what he will do; even Horvath and Pike seem curious. Oskar holds the ball, staring back at us. He bounces it with both of his hands, like a little kid, smiling. Slowly he makes his way toward his own team’s basket, and we all back away to clear a lane. When he’s close enough, Oskar holds the ball between his legs and launches it up into the air. Incredibly, it bounces off the backboard and drops neatly into the hoop without touching the rim. He turns to look at us, eyes still empty.
Tony claps once, then again. He shoots us all a look that says we’d better clap, too; we do. Oskar tries to smile, but it comes out forced and crooked. He tries to laugh, but it comes out in big choking sobs. He shuffles off the court and starts banging his head on the concrete block wall. He does it hard enough to split open his forehead, smearing blood on the white industrial paint. By the time the guards realize what is happening, Oskar has slid down onto his knees and is rocking back and forth, crying, a thick stream of blood running down his face. It drips off his chin and pools on the green rubber floor. Horvath and Pike move in on him slowly, like confused wrestlers, trying to figure out what to do with an opponent who has just flopped to the mat and pinned himself. They’re not sure if they should restrain him or try to help him. But how do you help someone like Oskar? Now he is sitting, completely still, looking intently at his hands.
“Line up!” Mr. E hustles us out of the gym, straight to the cafeteria without showering or changing. When
I listen to the stories, but I don’t care about Moses Rivera. I’ve got too many things going on in my own head to think about a gangland savior coming to Morton to fight it out with Horvath and the other guards. I’m thinking about my mother and if she’s ever going to call or visit. Probably not. Maybe she’s sick or something. I try to stop worrying, but I can’t. Not in here, at least. In my room at bedtime I listen to the clock hammering away. I count out fivehundred ticks. When I get tired of that, I put my ear to the crack in the door to listen to the guards.
Horvath says, “You know that Rivera kid, the boxer?”
“Yeah. So?” says Pike.
“I heard he’s coming here. Next week.”
“Waste of taxpayer money, if you ask me. He’s a real specimen, though. Benches, like, three-fifty.”
“He’s just a punk,” says Horvath. “First time he talks shit, he’ll hit the floor just like everyone else.”
“Tune him up good.”
“That’s right.”
Pike’s laugh, high-pitched and wheezy, makes my skin crawl, and later I dream of hitting the floor.
29
All day I look forward to Louis’s visit, but he never shows. Doesn’t call, either. Part of me knew he’d blow it off, but I still hoped. I mean, to get off the unit for a couple of hours and talk to my brother … it would have been nice.
Fuck it
, I think.
No, fuck him. Fuck Louis and all of his bullshit
.
The rest of the day drags until we go to the gym to play basketball. Freddie and I are the last ones picked because we’re terrible at sports. Every time I get the ball, Mr. Pike blows the whistle for double dribbling or traveling. Freddie knows how to dribble, but he misses the entire backboard whenever he shoots. The only player who is worse is Oskar, the Dr. Seuss kid. Oskar spends a lot of time with the psychologist, Dr. Souza. Other times he sleeps or just stares at his hands.
The one occasion I catch a pass, Antwon sticks out his foot, and I go sprawling across the floor. The ball bounces loose and rolls over to Oskar, who is standing at the edge of the game watching us with his big vacant eyes. He looks at the ball blankly and then bends down to pick it up.
The rest of us watch to see what he will do; even Horvath and Pike seem curious. Oskar holds the ball, staring back at us. He bounces it with both of his hands, like a little kid, smiling. Slowly he makes his way toward his own team’s basket, and we all back away to clear a lane. When he’s close enough, Oskar holds the ball between his legs and launches it up into the air. Incredibly, it bounces off the backboard and drops neatly into the hoop without touching the rim. He turns to look at us, eyes still empty.
Tony claps once, then again. He shoots us all a look that says we’d better clap, too; we do. Oskar tries to smile, but it comes out forced and crooked. He tries to laugh, but it comes out in big choking sobs. He shuffles off the court and starts banging his head on the concrete block wall. He does it hard enough to split open his forehead, smearing blood on the white industrial paint. By the time the guards realize what is happening, Oskar has slid down onto his knees and is rocking back and forth, crying, a thick stream of blood running down his face. It drips off his chin and pools on the green rubber floor. Horvath and Pike move in on him slowly, like confused wrestlers, trying to figure out what to do with an opponent who has just flopped to the mat and pinned himself. They’re not sure if they should restrain him or try to help him. But how do you help someone like Oskar? Now he is sitting, completely still, looking intently at his hands.
“Line up!” Mr. E hustles us out of the gym, straight to the cafeteria without showering or changing. When
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