Swagger by Carl Deuker

shot, Hartwell grabbed the rebound and held it. “I don’t want to push in where I’m not wanted,” he said, “but I’ve been watching your games these past few days. You’re good players, but there are some times—especially with the pick and roll—when your positioning is off. I could help if you’d like.”
    I glanced at Levi. In that split second, Hartwell dribbled once and then fired up a twenty-foot jumper. His effortless release resulted in a perfect swish. I looked at Levi, and he nodded. “If you’ve got something to teach us,” I said, “we’re ready to learn.”
    Hartwell started with basic plays—pick and roll, pick and pop—but then he’d show us subtle variations, stepping in to take one of our places when he needed to make a point. “Plant your foot hard before you go up for a jumper. Do that and you won’t drift. How high you jump is unimportant. Great shooters release the ball before the guys guarding them know they’re even thinking about shooting—fast like a hummingbird.”
    Eventually Levi and I wore down. Hartwell noticed, and he nodded toward the drinking fountain. A few minutes later, we were sprawled out on the gym floor, too tired to go home.
    â€œDid I hear you say you’re Harding guys?” Hartwell said.
    I nodded toward Levi. “He plays for Harding. I just moved to Seattle, but I started for my high school in California, and I’m hoping to play for Harding too.”
    Hartwell questioned Levi about his family, and Levi recited stuff I already knew. Then Hartwell looked back to me. “What city in California are you from?”
    â€œRedwood City. It’s south of San Francisco.”
    â€œOh, yeah, I know where that is. My college roommate was from Palo Alto. Did your parents work for Apple or Google or one of those high-tech firms?”
    I laughed. “No way.”
    Hartwell smiled. “So you’re not a billionaire’s son?”
    â€œNot even close.”
    Silence followed, and then Levi stood. “I’ve got to get home,” he said.
    I climbed to my feet and followed him. As we were leaving the gym, I called back to Hartwell. “Hey, are you a coach?”
    â€œNot yet,” he said. “But someday.”

11
    E VEN BEFORE ALL THE MOVING boxes were unpacked, my dad had started working at the Blue Jay restaurant in the Northgate Mall. He left the house each day around noon and didn’t return home until after midnight. You’d think that much work would wear him out, but on the rare times when I did see him, he looked better. He was losing weight, his eyes were alive, and the recycling bin wasn’t filled with empty beer bottles.
    My mom was hired at Great Clips in Greenwood, a hair salon that was close to the house. She was working part-time, but she said that she was sure it would go to full-time in a matter of months. I wanted a job too, but when I’d asked my dad about working for him at the Blue Jay, he’d screwed up his face. “I can’t hire you, Jonas. The other workers will see you as some sort of spy, and I need them to trust me. But here’s what I can do. This house needs a lot of work. I won’t have time to do any of it, so I’ll pay you a buck over minimum wage to work for me. The first thing on the list is clearing out the weeds from the flower beds. What do you say?”
    I agreed to work for him, and I drifted into a good routine. I’d get up late, eat a little breakfast, and then kill the morning doing nothing. After an early lunch, I’d stop by Levi’s house. We’d walk down to Green Lake, hook up with the Harding guys, and play until three. I’d hustle home, eat something fast, and then work in the yard or paint or clean something—whatever my dad had laid out for me. Then it was a shower, another meal—either with my mom or alone—and up to my room. I’d