Read Online Ball Don't Lie by Matt de la Pena - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Matt de la Pena
Tags: Fiction
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about that too much, my stomach starts gettin all messed up.
I know it don’t sound good, Annie, but I think if I couldn’t
make it I wouldn’t wanna be around no more. Cause it’s all I
got in my life, you know? Playin ball. It’s all I got in the whole
world. And if I couldn’t make it, I woulda been wrong all this
time about God’s plan.
But you ain’t gotta worry about all that, girl. Cause I swear
to you, man, one day I’m gonna make it to the NBA. . . .
Francine Was All
smiles when she drove up to Sticky’s foster care pad in her old-school Volkswagen van. Bumper stickers about Greenpeace and the Dodgers. Christian fish. Shiny black cross hanging like a pendulum from the rearview mirror.
Francine was the first of the foster ladies.
She had long red-gray hair and freckles. A silver cross dangling from her fragile neck. She showed up for Sticky three days after he turned nine.
The night before the pickup, all the counselors horseshoed around Sticky in the TV room. Told him how lucky he was.
This is a perfect match,
Counselor Jenny said, and everybody agreed.
She picked you out of everyone
, Counselor Amy said.
Sticky yanked his socks up and scrunched them back down. Yanked up and scrunched down.
Yeah, how often does somebody looking to adopt pick a
nine-year-old?
Jenny said, looking to the old Mexican director for the facts.
Most are looking for babies, right?
It’s rare,
the director said.
She must think Sticky’s pretty special,
Jenny said.
Amy stroked Sticky’s hair and smiled at him.
Plus you’re
such a tough little guy,
she said. She looked to Jenny, told her:
He didn’t even cry when he first came here. Most kids do, you
know
. She made a playful face to Sticky.
Do you even have
tear ducts in those eyes, mister tough guy?
But it’s OK to cry, Sticky,
Jenny said.
In fact, it’s healthy to
cry. It can make you feel better.
Turned out Francine’s husband had passed away, leaving her alone in their big house in Pasadena. All three of her own kids had grown up and graduated college. Moved away. She told the adoption agency that such a big lonely house should be shared with a child.
What better way for an old
lady like me to give back?
she said, after pulling out Sticky’s picture from a stack of thirty.
What could be better than giving a child like him an opportunity?
And Francine wasn’t just blowing smoke, she gave the situation everything she had. Hooked up three meals a day in the kitchen, told Sunday school stories by Sticky’s bed until he fell asleep at night. She took him to movies and museums and amusement parks. Held up multiplication flash cards when she found out he bombed a math test. Every afternoon she’d be there to pick Sticky up from school, her van pulled along the curb just like any other kid’s mom.
One Friday after school, Sticky pulled open the van door and spotted a wrapped package sitting on the passenger seat.
What’s this?
he said.
It’s for you,
Francine said.
Sticky stood there a sec, ran through possible holidays in his head. He picked the box up and set it back down.
But it
ain’t my birthday or nothin
.
I know that,
Francine said, and she laughed.
It’s just because I like you. Now, go on and open it
.
Sticky climbed into the seat and ripped through the baseball wrapping paper. Tossed it to his feet. He opened the box and pulled out a brand-new black suede jacket, held it out in front of his excited face.
Francine took her hands off the wheel, folded them in her lap. Her face was frozen in a smile.
Sticky reached back in the box, pulled out a white collared shirt and a pair of black pants.
You have to have nice clothes where we’re going tonight,
Francine said.
They drove straight to Santa Monica from the school. Sat in heavy traffic on the 110 with everybody else. Traffic on the 10 West. They listened to talk radio and the sound of cars gassing and breaking. The smell of exhaust floated in through their open windows.
When Francine
I know it don’t sound good, Annie, but I think if I couldn’t
make it I wouldn’t wanna be around no more. Cause it’s all I
got in my life, you know? Playin ball. It’s all I got in the whole
world. And if I couldn’t make it, I woulda been wrong all this
time about God’s plan.
But you ain’t gotta worry about all that, girl. Cause I swear
to you, man, one day I’m gonna make it to the NBA. . . .
Francine Was All
smiles when she drove up to Sticky’s foster care pad in her old-school Volkswagen van. Bumper stickers about Greenpeace and the Dodgers. Christian fish. Shiny black cross hanging like a pendulum from the rearview mirror.
Francine was the first of the foster ladies.
She had long red-gray hair and freckles. A silver cross dangling from her fragile neck. She showed up for Sticky three days after he turned nine.
The night before the pickup, all the counselors horseshoed around Sticky in the TV room. Told him how lucky he was.
This is a perfect match,
Counselor Jenny said, and everybody agreed.
She picked you out of everyone
, Counselor Amy said.
Sticky yanked his socks up and scrunched them back down. Yanked up and scrunched down.
Yeah, how often does somebody looking to adopt pick a
nine-year-old?
Jenny said, looking to the old Mexican director for the facts.
Most are looking for babies, right?
It’s rare,
the director said.
She must think Sticky’s pretty special,
Jenny said.
Amy stroked Sticky’s hair and smiled at him.
Plus you’re
such a tough little guy,
she said. She looked to Jenny, told her:
He didn’t even cry when he first came here. Most kids do, you
know
. She made a playful face to Sticky.
Do you even have
tear ducts in those eyes, mister tough guy?
But it’s OK to cry, Sticky,
Jenny said.
In fact, it’s healthy to
cry. It can make you feel better.
Turned out Francine’s husband had passed away, leaving her alone in their big house in Pasadena. All three of her own kids had grown up and graduated college. Moved away. She told the adoption agency that such a big lonely house should be shared with a child.
What better way for an old
lady like me to give back?
she said, after pulling out Sticky’s picture from a stack of thirty.
What could be better than giving a child like him an opportunity?
And Francine wasn’t just blowing smoke, she gave the situation everything she had. Hooked up three meals a day in the kitchen, told Sunday school stories by Sticky’s bed until he fell asleep at night. She took him to movies and museums and amusement parks. Held up multiplication flash cards when she found out he bombed a math test. Every afternoon she’d be there to pick Sticky up from school, her van pulled along the curb just like any other kid’s mom.
One Friday after school, Sticky pulled open the van door and spotted a wrapped package sitting on the passenger seat.
What’s this?
he said.
It’s for you,
Francine said.
Sticky stood there a sec, ran through possible holidays in his head. He picked the box up and set it back down.
But it
ain’t my birthday or nothin
.
I know that,
Francine said, and she laughed.
It’s just because I like you. Now, go on and open it
.
Sticky climbed into the seat and ripped through the baseball wrapping paper. Tossed it to his feet. He opened the box and pulled out a brand-new black suede jacket, held it out in front of his excited face.
Francine took her hands off the wheel, folded them in her lap. Her face was frozen in a smile.
Sticky reached back in the box, pulled out a white collared shirt and a pair of black pants.
You have to have nice clothes where we’re going tonight,
Francine said.
They drove straight to Santa Monica from the school. Sat in heavy traffic on the 110 with everybody else. Traffic on the 10 West. They listened to talk radio and the sound of cars gassing and breaking. The smell of exhaust floated in through their open windows.
When Francine
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