Read Online 145th Street by Walter Dean Myers - Free Book Online
Authors: Walter Dean Myers
Tags: Fiction
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talk to you?” he asks.
“Yeah, sure,” I say. I’m wondering if he ever dated a Dominican fox.
“Son, I want to talk to you about drugs.”
He never dated a Dominican fox, I think. He must have got lucky with Mom.
Then my dad breaks into this whole rap about how bad drugs are and it’s like we’re making a television commercial or something. All the time I’m wondering how I’m going to get the money to take Celia home in a taxi and if I could make a move on her in the back of the taxi.
“I know that so many young men living in the inner city feel deprived of the better things in life,” my dad was saying. “Son, I’m going to give you this hundred dollars so you won’t feel that way. And I’m asking you, in return, to come and talk to me about anything that bothers you. You seem so depressed lately. I won’t push it, though. I’ll wait for you.”
That was the fifth thing in the streak. My dad giving me a hundred dollars just when I needed money. I was in desperate trouble.
I had to concentrate on Celia. Celia, with the dark eyes and the nice boobs. I was in love with her and I had this one shot, this one streak to get her to go to the dance with me. Concentrate. Concentrate on Celia.
I called Froggy.
“You’re in trouble,” he said. “Your streak is jumbling up on you.”
“What’s that mean?” I asked.
“It’s out of control,” he said. “You’re probably just naturally lucky, so your luck is coming too fast.”
Nothing. That was what I was going to do until I got Celia on the phone and asked her to the dance. Nothing. Lie on the bed. Nothing. I wasn’t even going to think of anything. I got a sheet of paper and wrote down all the good things that had happened to me. Then I realized that I was doing something that could result in good luck. I was lying on the bed and lifted my head until I could see my wastebasket. I tossed a high, arcing shot toward the basket.
Panic! I dove for the paper to knock it away! I didn’t want this to be my next lucky thing. I hit it up in the air just before it went into the basket. Then the door opened and knocked the paper against the wall just over my Malcolm X poster, against the side of my dresser, and into the wastebasket.
“What is wrong with you?” Ellen stood in the doorway. “Are you, like, freaking out or something?”
I called Froggy.
“Did you want the paper to go into the basket?” he asked.
“Not when I realized it was going to be my sixth lucky thing,” I said.
“But when you threw it, you did, right?” Froggy asked.
I hung up and made a note to myself that I did not like Froggy.
Okay, get the picture. I’m in school and I’m running out of luck. I’ve got one shot left on my streak.
And my school, Ralph Bunche, is playing against Carver. We’re not supposed to beat Carver. But I’m worried and I tell the coach that my ankle is hurt and I can’t play. He looks at the ankle and it’s still swollen and he says okay. I’m on the bench.
Carver is supposed to kill us. They’ve got guys on that team that are fifteen, maybe sixteen feet tall. But somehow our team stays with them and I’m praying that us winning with me not even playing is not my last lucky event. I figured no way that could happen. But then our guys, really going all out, are playing Carver so tough that the game is just about even. But some of our key guys are fouling out. It gets down to the end of the game and the coach turns to me.
“Either you play or we only have four players and we lose for certain,” he said.
Just don’t shoot, I think.
I remembered how this whole thing began. Fifteen seconds to go against Powell Academy and me running toward the basket and then missing the shot. I want us to win this game but I want to go to a dance with Celia even more.
I looked up at the clock. Nine seconds. I looked up at the scoreboard. Carver 47, Ralph Bunche 46. Don’t shoot, I said to myself. Just don’t shoot. Think of Celia. Dark eyes.
“Yeah, sure,” I say. I’m wondering if he ever dated a Dominican fox.
“Son, I want to talk to you about drugs.”
He never dated a Dominican fox, I think. He must have got lucky with Mom.
Then my dad breaks into this whole rap about how bad drugs are and it’s like we’re making a television commercial or something. All the time I’m wondering how I’m going to get the money to take Celia home in a taxi and if I could make a move on her in the back of the taxi.
“I know that so many young men living in the inner city feel deprived of the better things in life,” my dad was saying. “Son, I’m going to give you this hundred dollars so you won’t feel that way. And I’m asking you, in return, to come and talk to me about anything that bothers you. You seem so depressed lately. I won’t push it, though. I’ll wait for you.”
That was the fifth thing in the streak. My dad giving me a hundred dollars just when I needed money. I was in desperate trouble.
I had to concentrate on Celia. Celia, with the dark eyes and the nice boobs. I was in love with her and I had this one shot, this one streak to get her to go to the dance with me. Concentrate. Concentrate on Celia.
I called Froggy.
“You’re in trouble,” he said. “Your streak is jumbling up on you.”
“What’s that mean?” I asked.
“It’s out of control,” he said. “You’re probably just naturally lucky, so your luck is coming too fast.”
Nothing. That was what I was going to do until I got Celia on the phone and asked her to the dance. Nothing. Lie on the bed. Nothing. I wasn’t even going to think of anything. I got a sheet of paper and wrote down all the good things that had happened to me. Then I realized that I was doing something that could result in good luck. I was lying on the bed and lifted my head until I could see my wastebasket. I tossed a high, arcing shot toward the basket.
Panic! I dove for the paper to knock it away! I didn’t want this to be my next lucky thing. I hit it up in the air just before it went into the basket. Then the door opened and knocked the paper against the wall just over my Malcolm X poster, against the side of my dresser, and into the wastebasket.
“What is wrong with you?” Ellen stood in the doorway. “Are you, like, freaking out or something?”
I called Froggy.
“Did you want the paper to go into the basket?” he asked.
“Not when I realized it was going to be my sixth lucky thing,” I said.
“But when you threw it, you did, right?” Froggy asked.
I hung up and made a note to myself that I did not like Froggy.
Okay, get the picture. I’m in school and I’m running out of luck. I’ve got one shot left on my streak.
And my school, Ralph Bunche, is playing against Carver. We’re not supposed to beat Carver. But I’m worried and I tell the coach that my ankle is hurt and I can’t play. He looks at the ankle and it’s still swollen and he says okay. I’m on the bench.
Carver is supposed to kill us. They’ve got guys on that team that are fifteen, maybe sixteen feet tall. But somehow our team stays with them and I’m praying that us winning with me not even playing is not my last lucky event. I figured no way that could happen. But then our guys, really going all out, are playing Carver so tough that the game is just about even. But some of our key guys are fouling out. It gets down to the end of the game and the coach turns to me.
“Either you play or we only have four players and we lose for certain,” he said.
Just don’t shoot, I think.
I remembered how this whole thing began. Fifteen seconds to go against Powell Academy and me running toward the basket and then missing the shot. I want us to win this game but I want to go to a dance with Celia even more.
I looked up at the clock. Nine seconds. I looked up at the scoreboard. Carver 47, Ralph Bunche 46. Don’t shoot, I said to myself. Just don’t shoot. Think of Celia. Dark eyes.
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