Pull by Kevin Waltman Page A

friend get out. A gust of night wind comes into JaQuentin’s ride. I’m no fool. I know what they’re doing. They move beneath dim streetlights down to the corner where a man—older, bulkier—waits. He keeps his body still, but his head swivels slowly, like a security camera. The street’s so quiet you can hear the roar of engines racing on nearby blocks. When the man finally sees JaQuentin, his There you are cuts clean through the air. After that, they talk more quietly. All you can hear are rises in inflection, bursts of laughter now and then.
    â€œYou got to be kidding me,” I seethe at Wes.
    He’s pinched himself all the way back into the opposite corner, as far away from me as he can be. “It’s not a thing,” he says. “Be cool.”
    â€œBe cool,” I spit back. It’s like someone who’s just committed three straight turnovers and been beaten for three straight buckets turning to you and saying My bad.
    When we were runts, they’d hit us with all these talks at school. They’d bring police officers in to lecture us about every single danger out there. Nobody took it seriously. It was like the more they tried to scare us, the tougher we had to act. They did this one exercise, though, I thought was over the top. They’d have a person stand on the teacher’s desk and try to pull up another kid who was sitting on the floor. Nobody could do it. Not even the strongest guy. Then they’d have the person on the floor tug on the person on the desk. Most of the time, the person on the desk would come tumbling down in a heap. They told us that waswhat it was like trying to help someone who was messed up with the wrong people or on drugs or something. All they did was drag you down.
    I guess I always thought that was stupid—like the moral was to never try helping anyone. Until now.
    â€œYou didn’t have to come,” Wes says.
    â€œI wanted to try to help you.”
    Now Wes gets his back up. “Help me? You think I need your help ? Just accept that I got my own thing going and deal.”
    â€œThis is your thing?” I gesture out the window to where JaQuentin slaps hands with the guy they met. They hug it out and then Peggs and his boy start back for the car. Right then the chirp from a police car pierces the night. Everyone freezes. In that pause I feel it all—my season, my career, my dreams—drifting away like so much smoke.
    But it’s just a noise from another block, signaling trouble for someone else. It’s like a warning shot though. JaQuentin hustles back to his ride. He and his boy pile in. He smiles at us in the back seat. “Business is over. Play time now. Let’s hit up Hutch’s.”
    â€œI can’t do that,” I say.
    JaQuentin’s smile vanishes. He turns to his boy riding shotgun. “D-Bow does think he’s too good for us. I guess if you don’t have scholarship offers from the ACC then you don’t rate in the great D-Bow’s book.”
    â€œIt’s not about that, it’s—”
    â€œWhat?” JaQuentin shouts at me.
    â€œI just got to get home.”
    JaQuentin stares at me for a few seconds. He looks at his friend.Then at Wes. Then back at me. “Fine,” he says. He throws his ride into reverse to back us out, then lays down some tire as he roars down the road. First stop sign we hit, he slows enough that I can hear him mutter to himself—“Some bullshit, Bowen. Straight bullshit.”
    But at least we’re heading back to Patton.
    I don’t even try to cover it. I’m late, so they’ll demand an explanation.
    And as soon as the name— Wes —is out of my mouth, Mom springs off the couch. “I know!” she hollers. I shake my head, and she can see what I’m thinking. “Don’t act like your brother betrayed you. What? You think he’s going to lie to me to protect you? Would you do