Chapter One: Zeke chapter one ZEKE Of all the possible places someone can celebrate their birthday, a hospital's gotta be one of the worst. Between the harsh fluorescent lights overhead and the sterile, antiseptic smell, there's nothing joyful about the place. All the balloons in the world couldn't make Ida B. Wells Memorial Hospital anything but what it was, though that didn't stop my mom from trying. Didn't stop her from filling Pops's room up with two dozen big balloons shaped like baseballs, baseball bats, baseball gloves, all of them bouncing along the ceiling, riding the faint breeze from the hallway as I opened the door to his room. "Well, well, Zeke Ladoja, the birthday boy himself," Pops said, his voice hoarse. "Sixteen years old, Nessa. Can you believe it?" "I'm the one who pushed his big ol' head out, course I can," my mom said. "Gross," I said. "Baby boy, you don't know gross until you've had a tube going down your throat and up your behind at the same time," Pops said. "Ever seen a handful of anal polyps get pulled out your--" "Samson, the only thing Zeke wants to hear about less than what came outta me is what came outta you," my mom said. That got us all laughing and for a moment, it was like we were back home, before we found out a bunch of polyps wasn't the only thing growing in Pops's guts. And then Pops clutched his belly and winced in pain, and that brought us all back to reality, back to the oncology ward, back to a small hospital room with powder-blue walls and a drafty window overlooking the parking lot, back to where my dad was sick. Real sick. "Hey, Pops." I hustled to the side of his bed. "You okay? Need the nurse?" After a few long, deep breaths, he shook his head. "Just... stings when I laugh. I'm fine. I'll... be fine." "Here, drink," my mom said, holding a cup of water to his lips. "How'd drills go this morning, Zeke?" "I mean, you know I'm ready," I said, eager to change the subject. "So's Braejon. No way we're getting knocked out right at the finish line this year, no way. Coach's been working with Axel and Yovani--" "Them bad Perez boys with the filthy mouths?" my mom interrupted. "Ma, they're not bad." "They sure ain't good . Good boys don't track wet mud through my house without cleaning it up." "Ma, that was, like, three years ago!" She sucked her teeth loud. "And?" "As I was saying, Coach's been working special with them. Axel's got a hell of an arm on him when he really tries. And Yovani's got quick feet now. Pops, this season, we're gonna be untouchable." "Can't wait." Pops gave me a weak smile, his energy just about spent. "I'm fading, Nessa, so let's give it to him before I fall asleep." My mom nodded, reached into the depths of her purse, and pulled out a small package about the size of a textbook, wrapped in gold paper and tied with thin black ribbon. "It's not much, but...," Pops said. I opened it slow. Inside was an article from last week's newspaper, matted on a black background and set in a silver frame. LADOJA, PANTHERS IN IT TO WIN IT Last year, the Fred Hampton College Prep High School--more commonly known as Hampton High--Panthers made it to the Super-Sectionals for the first time in over twenty years, in large part due to the pitching prodigy that is Zeke Ladoja. "Zeke's one of those rare talents in that he's as skilled off the field as he is on it. He makes the whole team better," Coach Edgar Quintero said in an interview with the Tribune after a close loss ended the Panthers' near-unstoppable march to the state finals last year. This year, Coach thinks things are going to be different. "When I came aboard two years ago, we weren't winning games and we weren't playing well, but what we did have was a wealth of raw talent. Between "Big Swings" Braejon [Biggs] and the Perez twins on first and second base, we had something really special, but it took Zeke to bring it all together. He was the glue we needed." More like superglue . We asked Ladoja how he felt about his coach's praise, and he had this to say: "I don't really know what I'm doing for the team, besides throwing a ball pretty good, but I appreciate Coach's kind words," Zeke said. "I just love the game, love the team, and want everyone to succeed. My pops, he always says it's important to act in service of others. So I'm just here for Coach and Braejon and everyone else, to do what I can do to make everyone happy." And if last year was anything to go by, what Ladoja can do is a lot. When the season begins next month, we'll get to see just how much. "I'm so proud of you, baby boy," Pops said, a smile on his face. "So, what do you think? Great present, huh?" I smiled and nodded. Pops didn't know I already had a clipping of it in the box under my bed, where I kept all my important possessions. A framed one was nice, sure, but--I felt something on the back of the picture, something hard and plastic, with indentations on its surface--pressable buttons, I realized, on a car key. When I pushed one, I heard the unmistakable sound of my dad's 1987 Mercedes-Benz 300E from outside the window. It was more than twice my age, without any bells or whistles save the keyless entry he'd installed a few years back, but none of that mattered because it was a car. A car . I looked up at my dad, who had a satisfied smirk on his face. "Come on, you didn't really think that was it, did you?" Ma said. "For our baby's sixteenth?" "Thank-you-thank-you-thank-you," I said as I rushed over to hug my parents. I was so excited, I forgot to go easy on my dad, and he let out a small hiss of pain after I squeezed him a little too tight. "Aw, shit, sorry," I said. "Beg your pardon? What was that?" Ma said. "Oh, uhh--I meant 'aw, shoot,'?" I stammered. "That's what I said, Ma." "Mm-hmm. I want you to go straight to the DMV, and you should hurry, because they close early on Saturdays. Since we're not able to take you, they're going to need this consent form," she said, and handed me an envelope. "They won't give you your license without it. And you've got your permit with you?" I nodded and patted my wallet in my back pocket. "Always. I keep that thang on me," I said, and grinned. "Good," Ma said. "Now, we've got a few rules. First, we'll cover your insurance, but you have to pay for your own gas. Second, no driving after midnight. You can be out past midnight, within reason, but we don't want you on the road. Too many drunks, too many people driving high, too many chances for something to go real wrong. This is your one and only warning. Third, absolutely no drinking and driving. I know you and Manny like to dip into Jojo's stash when you're over there--" "We do not," I scoffed. "We've never--" "Boy, it hurts to laugh, so don't make me," Pops said. "Jojo marks the levels of his bottles. He knows, we know, you're not in trouble." "Not with us, anyway. Jojo might feel otherwise, seeing as you've been stealing sips of his nice-nice tequila," Ma said. "Azure Reposado or something like that?" "Azul," I said before I could stop myself. "Shi--shoot." I've always been a terrible liar. "Good catch," she said. "Anyway, that's rule number three." "Is that it?" I took my eyes off my parents and turned to look out the window, down at my birthday present. Bright and black against the snow-covered ground. "Just one more," Pops said. "We don't want any funny business going on in this car." I turned to look at him. "Funny business?" "Especially between you and a certain some body," he said. I felt my face grow hot. "There's not gonna be any 'funny business,' because me and Imogen are just friends. That's all. That's it. She can't date till she's sixteen anyway, so, it's--we're not--I'm gonna go to the DMV now," I said in a huff. My parents gave each other a knowing glance. "Hey, you're the one who brought up Imogen, but whatever you say, kiddo," my mom said. "Go on, enjoy your birthday." "And drive safe," Pops said. "I may be giving him to you, but I reserve the right to take him back. You better take good care of him. No scratches, dings, dents. Or else." "Pfft, don't even worry, Pops. I'ma treat this thing like it's my own baby. Ain't nothing gonna happen, I swear," I said. "Yeah, yeah, go enjoy your birthday, baby boy. Proud of you, always," he said. I kissed Ma on the cheek, Pops on the forehead, and took off down the hallway, moving a little too fast. A few nurses glared me down from a near run to a brisk walk as I passed their station. I drummed on my thighs as what had to be the slowest elevator in all of Chicago made its descent from the third floor. It felt like half a day passed before the doors opened. Outside, the cold February air came at me quick. I had been outside for all of two seconds when I started shivering and my teeth got to chattering. I hurried over to the car, opened up the door, and slid inside onto the cold, black leather seat. I put my key in the ignition and started my car. It wasn't my first time driving the Benz. My parents had let me take the wheel a couple times. Mostly, I learned on our old minivan, so busted up that I could run into poles or hit curbs and no one'd ever know the difference. Not that I ever did. I already had a mental wish list of everything I wanted to do to the car. First up, a new sound system. It needed a good wash and wax, some fresh rims. I didn't have money for any of it, not yet. But I could at least clean the inside. If there was time after I got home from the DMV, I was going to go to town on the seats and the floor mats until the car looked and smelled fresh. And then I could pick Imogen up and take her on long, romantic drives, and once it warmed up a little, we could go to a drive-in,'cause she liked cute stuff like that. Just a few more weeks until her sixteenth, when everything was going to be different. It took longer to drive to the DMV than it did to get my license. I had just started to get comfortable in my chair when my number flashed up on the screen. I leapt to my feet and hurried over to the counter. "How're you doing today, ma'am?" I said to the woman behind the glass. She looked at me with empty eyes and ignored my question. "The forms," she said, chewing her gum with impatience. "Sure thing, got'em right here," I said. I put them through the slot in the glass. "It's my birthday. Just turned sixteen." "Where's the proof you completed driver's education? You got it or not, kid?" Ex cuse you, I wanted to say. From my wallet, I pulled out the signed and notarized certificate of completion from ChicaGO Driver Education Services. She snatched the paper and started typing so hard I was afraid she'd break the keyboard. She didn't say a word and, a few moments later, shooed me away from the counter to get my photo taken. Like most driver's license photos, mine came out bad--black and white and overexposed like a murderer's mug shot--but, hey, a license was a license. Well, a temporary paper one, anyway, until the real one came in the mail. I took a picture of the paper and sent it to the group chat. Notifications from my best friends Manny, Cara, and Imogen started rolling in, everyone excited about meeting at Cara's later. Then I got into the driver's seat and drove home, no parent in the passenger seat, street legal for the very first time. I was methodical about it, learning the car's ins and outs, and after pulling into our alleyway garage, I sat in the car a little while and flipped through the car manual to make sure I hadn't missed anything. Once I was finished, I headed inside to grab the vacuum to start cleaning out the Benz. I had several hours before the party at Cara's--plenty of time. I was thinking about what I was going to wear--with Imogen's birthday around the corner, it was time to step up my game--and was so up in my head that I didn't notice anything unusual when I walked into my house. Like how the back door was unlocked. Like the sound of Imogen and Cara snickering, or the sight of Manny's foot sticking out from behind the couch, and when they jumped out from their hiding spots and yelled, " SURPRISE! ," I damn near pissed myself. Excerpted from How to Lose a Best Friend by Jordan K. Casomar All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
