Rivals by Tommy Greenwald (the speed reading book txt) 📗

So I decide to do both.

I go out to the hoop behind my apartment building and start working on my left hand. Everyone has a strong side, and I’m a natural rightie, but if you’re going to be good at any sport, you have to learn how to use both hands or both feet. I’m lucky because I’m kind of ambidextrous to begin with, and I invented this little game where I throw the ball up against the backboard and rebound it and put it back up with my left hand. I tell myself that once I make fifty shots in a row, I can go inside and turn on Patty Strums. She just released a video called “The Four Chords That Will Make You a Guitar God,” and I really want to check it out.

Unfortunately, I’m only up to thirty-two in a row by the time my mom drives up. Becoming a guitar god will have to wait.

“MA!” I whine. “You’re early!”

She looks at her watch. “Not according to mama time I’m not. I’ve gotta drop you off and be back at work by six, so let’s get a move on.”

My mom’s car kind of sounds like a hippopotamus with asthma, so we have to shout at each other while she’s driving.

“I GOT AN INTERESTING PHONE CALL TODAY,” she shouts.

“FROM WHO?”

“FROM SOME COACH. HE SAID COACH BENNY GAVE HIM MY NUMBER, AND HE’S STARTING A FANCY BASKETBALL TEAM AND HE WANTS YOU TO BE ON IT. THE FIRST PRACTICE IS NEXT TUESDAY. PRETTY COOL, HUH?”

“WHAT KIND OF TEAM?”

“I FORGET EXACTLY. UAA? AUU?”

“AAU?”

“YUP THAT’S THE ONE!”

Whoa. I’ve heard about AAU. That’s where the real basketball is played.

“HOLY MOLY.”

“I KNOW!”

We don’t talk much after that, partly because I’m suddenly in my own world thinking about real basketball, and partly because it gets tiring shouting in the car.

My mom drops me off at some house my dad is painting. “HAVE FUN!” she hollers. “DON’T LET HIM MAKE YOU DO ALL THE WORK AS USUAL.”

I find my dad around the back, up on a ladder, doing some window trim work. He sees me and backs down the ladder slowly and carefully, which he’s done ever since he had a bad spill and hurt his back a few years ago.

“Cartman,” he says. “Ready to work?”

“Mom says you’re not supposed to ask me that.”

My dad laughs. “Still telling me what to do.”

He hands me four paint brushes and a bucket of water, and I do what I always do, which is rinse them out and dry them. My dad would never let me do any actual painting, of course. He just has me do the stuff he doesn’t want to do. Can’t say that I blame him.

After about twenty minutes, I ask my dad my favorite question: “Break time?”

“Sure. I’m a little bit ahead on this job, anyway.”

As we sit on the back of my dad’s truck, my dad turns his body away from me, then takes a little bottle of something and pours it into his coffee. He doesn’t think I see this, but I do. I’ve seen him do it for years, and I know exactly what’s happening. But I’ve never asked him about it.

Instead, I take a sip of juice, then tell him the news: “So Dad, some guy called mom today, and asked if I would join this AAU basketball team. I guess it starts next week.”

My dad raises an eyebrow. “AAU? What’s that stand for?”

“I’m not sure, but it’s, like, this league that only takes the best players.”

“Whoa,” my dad says. “Sounds expensive.”

I’m not surprised by his response. With my dad, everything comes down to money. Probably because he’s never had any.

“I don’t know about that.”

He takes a swig of his special coffee. “So you don’t know how much it costs?”

“No, Dad. I don’t even know who the guy is. Mom talked to him.”

“Aha. Well, anything for her little boy, even if it means spending money we don’t got.”

And that pretty much explains why my parents aren’t married anymore.

“You don’t even know that it costs money, Dad.”

“Everything costs money.”

I check the time on my phone. I have a sudden urge to be anywhere else.

“Listen,” my dad says. “I know how the world works. There are a lot of people out there who are happy to pay a lot of money to make sure little Johnny or little Jenny gets the best of everything. Especially when it comes to sports.”

“So you’re saying I can’t play?”

“Not saying that at all.” He finishes the last of his drink. “You’re a real good player, Cartman. You got something special, and people want kids with something special. So you join this team, and you show them how badly they need you. You play so well that they wouldn’t dream of making you pay. You make sure you’re the best player on the team. And then you keep making sure you’re the best, right through high school, all the way ’til the day some college coach says, ‘How’d you like a free college education? All you have to do is shoot that ball in that basket for a few years.’ And then who knows, if you work hard enough, you might even make it to the NBA, and I can stop falling off ladders, and your mom can stop doing double shifts all week. All you have to do is be the very best, every step of the way, starting with this AAU thing.” He winks at me. “Easy peasy, right?”

“Ha,” I say, squinting up into the sunshine.

My dad jumps off the truck. “And speaking of being the best,” he says, “I’m the best housepainter in this whole town, and I start on a new job next week, so I need to finish this up today.”

As I watch him paint, one thought keeps going through my head.

I guess I start a new job next week, too.

AUSTIN

Clay’s not answering any of my texts, so over the weekend I decide to