Night Hoops Read Online Free Page A

you'd hear music leaking out the windows and doors.
    Katya's brother Michael had been in some of my classes at Canyon Park. They hardly seemed as if they could be brother and sister. She was beautiful, long and lanky, with red-blonde hair and blue eyes. She spoke English with an accent that made her even more attractive. Michael was dark, had little pig's eyes, and was so fat his flesh jiggled when he walked. When he talked to you, he stuck his face right up into yours, so close you could see the yellow on his teeth and smell the garlic on his breath.
    For months he did terrible in school, but everybody figured it was because he didn't know English very well. Then one day in the cafeteria Trent called him a "retard." That got a laugh, so after that Trent ridiculed him all the time, especially after school, when no adults were around. On weekends Zack would join in. They'd follow Michael down the street, taunting him, "Michael, buddy, you need a bra? There's a sale at K mart."
    This went on for a couple of months, until one day Michael was gone from school. Somehow we heard that he'd been transferred to Sherwood, which is a school for kids who can't learn in a regular class. But he wasn't gone from the neighborhood. The symphony's performances were at night, and that's when he'd wander around singing songs in Russian or feeding the ducks along the Burke-Gilman bike trail. Seeing him out at night worried Mom. "I don't like it," she'd say. "I don't like it at all."

    "Don't worry. Bothell's safe," Dad would answer. "Besides, what can the Ushakovs do? They've got to work."

    That afternoon I said hello to Katya, and then asked her about Michael. "He's okay," she replied in a way that made it clear he wasn't okay at all. "You should come by, Nick. He'd love to see you."
    "I will. Once school settles down."
    She nodded, but I knew she didn't believe me, and for good reason. Feeling guilty, I turned to Scott. "How long are you going to practice?"
    He laughed. "Every spare minute I've got."
    "Oh," I said. As soon as I left, they started playing again, and their music followed me to the back yard.
    I had the basketball court to myself, but for a while all I could hear was their music. I thought about how angry Dad would be if he came home day after day and found Scott playing the trumpet. Then I pictured Mom, and how she'd take Scott's side, and how they'd all argue, and my head started to pound.
    Basketball. That's what matters,
I thought, shaking my head. I practiced dribbling with my left hand and then my right, behind my back, between my legs, crossovers, stutter steps. I practiced shooting pull-up jumpers and finger rolls, sweeping hooks and reverse lay-ins. I practiced my defensive footwork and blocking out on rebounds. I practiced that day and every day, the rhythm of my basketball nearly, but not quite, drowning out Scott's trumpet and Katya's clarinet.

    While 1 shot around, first Mom and then Dad, would come home from work. Mom would wave and go inside to make dinner. Dad would shoot a hoop or two, maybe even play a little horse. And every day he'd ask the same question. "Did your brother practice at all?"
    Every day I'd shake my head, and his eyes would darken.

    Toward the end of September Dad was injured at work. A forklift driver started to lose a bunch of boxes, and when Dad grabbed for them his fingers were squashed. It was no big deal, nothing broken, but his left hand was so swollen the doctor told him to stay home for a couple of days.
    When I returned from school that first afternoon, he was playing ball in the back yard. That didn't surprise me; puffy fingers weren't going to keep him down. What did surprise me was seeing Scott on the court with him. Katya was sitting on the back stairs, clarinet in hand, a bored look on her face. I sat down next to her to watch their game.
    They were going one-on-one, and they were playing hard. Even with his swollen hand, Dad was crushing Scott. He'd post Scott up and shoot over