Boy21 Read Online Free Page B

tiny thin lady, but her eyes are forceful, piercing, so I simply nod because I always do what my elders ask of me. That’s how Pop and Dad raised me.
    “Might as well let the boys meet,” Mr. Allen says a little too hopefully, as if he’s trying to hide his true expectations, but maybe I’m just being paranoid.
    “You okay with that, Finley?” Coach says, resting his hand on my shoulder again.
    I nod.
    A good ball player always listens to his coach, especially when his coach is as smart as mine.
    “Upstairs, second door on your left,” Mrs. Allen says.
    I place my glass on a coaster and stand.
    “Did you tell him about the outer-space fixation?” Mr. Allen says to Coach.
    When I give Coach a questioning glance, he says, “Go on upstairs, Finley. Say hello. Okay?”
    I wonder what any of this has to do with outer space, but Coach’s eyes beg me not to ask him anything in front of the Allens, so I don’t.
    As I walk across the room and make my way to the stairs, I can feel my elders watching me, but once I’m out of sight I go slowly and study the pictures on the wall that leads up to the second floor, trying to figure out just what kind of a mess I’m in.
    There are black-and-white pictures of Mr. and Mrs. Allen taken when they were young, and I recognize different corners of Bellmont even though the cars and clothing styles are outdated and the town looks much cleaner and safer.
    There’s an old wedding picture and Coach is the best man; he’s rocking a huge Afro, wearing a powder-blue tuxedo, and looking more like my classmates than an adult, which makes me smile.
    The photos of Boy21 begin when he was a baby and go all the way to the present day.
    It’s obvious his family had money. His clothing looks expensive in all the school photos, and there are pictures of him and his parents taken in foreign places: in front of the Eiffel Tower and also that leaning tower in Italy—even one by those pyramids in Egypt.
    I start to feel a little jealous of this kid, because I’ve never been anywhere but Bellmont and he’s been all over the world, which doesn’t really seem fair. Why is it that some people are born into fantastic situations and others wait their whole lives for a break?
    Russell’s smiling nicely in all of the shots. He looks like a good kid, which makes it hard for me to hate him.
    And then I see his high-school basketball team photo: He’s the only black kid. His squad’s wearing cool brand-new Nike uniforms, like a college team. They even have matching sneakers.
    Maybe Coach knew that Boy21 was the only black kid on his team like I’m the only white kid on my team, and that’s why Coach picked me for this job.
    But I also see Russ is wearing number 21—my number—and I can’t help but feel threatened.
    At the top of the steps there are no more pictures. I walk down the hall, where an entire room’s contents are in boxes. I have toturn sideways as I pass a big chest of drawers and a desk. A mattress and bed frame are leaning against the wall.
    Behind the only closed door in the hallway, someone is talking.
    I put my ear up to the door and hear a man’s voice say, “Perseus! Perseus the hero! Slayer of Medusa! There you are, my friend! A road map to a new existence. Space is the place! Space is the place!”
    Whoever is behind the door sounds absolutely insane.
    But for Coach, I do as I was instructed to do.
    Good basketball players execute the game plan.
    Always.
    I raise my fist and knock.

9
    THE VOICE STOPS TALKING and after a long few seconds the door opens inward and I’m looking up at a shirtless man-child.
    His body is incredible.
    The perfect basketball body.
    Tall, lean, strong—it looks exactly like Kobe Bryant’s.
    He has four-inch braids that are unlike what my teammates wear—those neat Manny Ramirez braids. Boy21’s braids are so nappy, they almost look like Bob Marley’s dreads.
    “You are an Earthling?” Boy21 says to me.
    I swallow and nod.
    “I am programmed