Sean Beaudoin - Welcome Thieves

I found out after her best friend bragged in the caf, people leaning over the table to hear the details, spilling each others’ milk, going, “Whoa! Way to go, Angie Bangs .”

I could have gotten pissed. Called Steve out, clenched my fists, let the tears and snot rise. Thrown a few punches he’d easily dodge. Or even worse, let them land. But what’s the point? He’d just sit there with his trust-me eyes and go, “Are you sure?” and I’d be like “Yes!” and he’d go “Wait, who again?” and I’d be like “Angie, motherfucker!” and then he’d be all puzzled and caring and quietly skeptical, “Man, if you say so.”

We pull back onto Route 4, leave a patch, cut off a Camaro that would normally give us the finger and scream, except the driver recognizes Steve’s truck and makes with a friendly bip bip instead.

“So what’s with you coming to practice all of a sudden?” I ask.

“What about it?”

“I keep seeing you out of the corner of my eye like, wait, Dad’s busted again?”

Steve laughs, since we both know there’s bail money in a salisbury steak box in the freezer.

“I wouldn’t come for that. Also, you guys don’t suck nearly as hard as usual.”

“Yeah, something’s definitely changed. None of us can quite put a finger on it.”

We roar around a slow Honda, yank back into our lane with inches to spare.

“So who’s the new guy?”

“Just a transfer.”

“From where?”

“I dunno.” I say. “Albania. Romania. Buttfuckistan. Seriously, though. How come you keep coming?”

Steve reaches over with his Popeye arm and puts me in a headlock, runs a knuckle across my scalp while steering with his knees.

“Why, there some law says I can’t watch my little bro and his pals play with their balls?”

THAT FRIDAY THE stands are packed to the gills. The parking lot’s full and there’s a big line waiting for the john. Girls stand around in circles, squealing. Boys stand around in leather jackets that don’t fit. Everyone wants Makarov’s autograph: Sign my math book! Sign my purse! He just grins like he doesn’t understand. You wish to exchange beads for the island of Manhattan? The government has declared this whole area irradiated? He shakes his head, runs through layup drills while scouts wait with stopwatches and hotdogs and pads full of little calculations. Under the stanchion are six photographers, flash flash flash, shots of Makarov running, dribbling, swooping down on the ball like a thirsty vampire. West Boylston hasn’t had a winning season in ten years. The Bolts are a standing joke, Hey Bolts, Go Screw!

Not anymore.

The game starts and Makarov immediately goes behind the back to a wide-open Xavier. Poltroni drives and kicks, sets me up for easy jumpers. Coach is wearing a suit with no visible egg stains. Even Washington seems to have a pulse. There’s love in the air and we win by 36. It could have been 60.

iN THE SHOWER I’m like, “Dude, how’s your English coming?”

“English good,” he says, sniffs the shampoo like it’s some exotic bouquet. Or maybe food.

“Don’t eat that,” I say.

He doesn’t answer.

I’m like, “Where do you live, anyhow?”

“Live good,” he says, and then towels off, zips into the same tracksuit he’s been wearing pretty much since the first day, some too-shiny Russian brand doesn’t even have a name, no swoosh, no nothing.

AFTER PRACTICE, WE pile into Washington’s Nova. It’s a ’77 with a stock.351. A very fast car. At least it would be, if Washington didn’t drive like my grandma.

“Open it up!” Poltroni says.

“Punch it!” Xavier says.

“Mmm-hmmph you,” Washington tells them, scratching the Afro above his sad-dog face. He signals early for a left, eases around a corner, careful not to go over 300 RPM’s in third.

Xavier pounds the seat, “Team!”

Poltroni pounds the seat, “Bolts!”

“Watch the mmm-hmmphing upholstery,” Washington says.

The car finally creeps into the lot of West Boylston Rim and Radial, where Steve works. Their motto is Done in under an hour, or it’s free, which isn’t true. Washington finds a spot, a good two feet of space on either side. He pulls out, readjusts, backs in again.

“There’s your brother,” says Poltroni, pointing into the shop. He leans over and toots the horn, nice and respectful, bip bip . Steve rolls out from under a Lexus. He’s got a jumpsuit on, no sleeves. The wrestler biceps. Grease on chin. He looks like an ad for beer that claims to be colder than other beer, the kind secretaries tape above their computers. It’s hard to believe we’re related.

“It’s hard to believe you’re related,” Xavier says.

Steve liked working at West Boylston Rim and Radial so much he dropped out senior year, quit the football team even though he was being recruited for division II. No one could understand why and Steve wouldn’t say, so they made up their own reasons, decided it was some sort of principled stance. Steve giving the finger to the man. Steve refusing to become part of the machine. But I knew that if he graduated he’d have to graduate. By staying in West Boylston and keeping his mouth shut, he let the world create its own myth. Not to mention believe it.

“No more school,” he told Dad, in his quiet-for-Dad voice. “From now on I’m a working man.”

We were standing in the kitchen. Dad pulled his jammies tighter.

“Fine. Then from now on you’re a rent-paying man, too.”

Steve fished in his pocket, sprinkled the counter with twenties. “Let me know when that runs out.”

Dad turned to me. “Well?”

I bussed tables. At Ribeye Rob’s. Most of my tips were in quarters. It barely kept me in jocks and slices. “Can’t. I’m on the team.”

He gave me a look, flattened the bills on the stove. “What team?”

Dad doesn’t leave the house much. He doesn’t shave except when he does, and then you remember he has a chin.

“Little man’s pretty good,” Steve said, cracking a beer. “Or wait, am I thinking of someone else?”

Dad laughed.

“Dude’s got a lot of moxie though. You can’t teach moxie.”

“Can’t teach anything,” Dad said. “Nothing to know.”

Which isn’t true. There’s just all things you don’t understand, or want to admit to yourself.

For instance, how yesterday morning I opened the door to my brother’s room without knocking.

Like I always did, late for practice and out of socks.

And then almost shit myself. Right there on the orange rug.

I could hear Coach’s voice, SPRINT!

But didn’t move.

At least not until Makarov woke up. All pale and lanky. Content. He winked and smiled. Stretched and yawned and snuggled a little closer under my brother’s arm. The blanket was pulled around them, radio on low, Dire Straits blending perfectly with Steve’s quiet snore.

Then I did sprint.

All the way to school, no breakfast, nothing. The gym was empty. I sat in my underwear and hyperventilated for about an hour. Then I destroyed some scrub’s locker with a piece of pipe from the boiler room. After a while, Coach came out of his office and looked at the mangled door, confused. He put his hand on my shoulder.

“Problem?”

“No, Coach.”

He scratched his ass and then scratched his neck and then scratched his nose.

“Well, keep up the good work.”

“Yessir.”

After a while the guys showed up. They yelled and threw stuff and grab-assed all around me.

The scrub stared at his ruined locker and didn’t say a word.

Makarov ran through practice and didn’t say a word.

I took a long shower and dripped a trail of soap all the way to algebra. When the teacher called on me to solve for y = q — 2, I just sat there and didn’t say a word.