She giggles, nervous. "I guess its something like that. Its so embarra.s.sing. Dont tell anyone."

"Like your feelings?"

"Like my day. Or. Sometimes poems, or whatever."

"Can you write me one?"

"A poem?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, I dont really do that anymore." Voices in the background, the door being opened. "I gotta go," she says.

"Do you believe me?"

"What?"

"Do you believe me, about not being scared."

"I gotta go," she says again and hangs up.

He finds a notebook, opens it to a blank page before him. Write it all down, what a f.u.c.king waste of time. He jabs his pencil into the page, rips down and to the side, then throws his pencil across the room. It bounces off the wall-eraser end hitting-and then belly flops on the floor, its tip cracking off. He leaves it there and takes a pen from the cup bristling with writing utensils at the desk his pops set up for him in Dexs old room when he started homeschool lessons. He dots around the first line. Its the path of a b.u.mblebee.

Jimmy grips the whole pen in a fist as though he were grabbing a bar to hang from. He etches into a new page, letters sprawling across three or four blue lines, ITS THE f.u.c.kING STUPIDEST THING IN THE WORLD TO WRITE ANYTHING DOWN. One whole page to get those giant-lettered words out. Breathing hard. Then, he keeps on with the next page, this time switching his grip to normal but still using big letters. LAST NIGHT I, he stops, goes back and crosses this out. Starts below it. NO MATTER IF I, again a stop, a cross out.

He stands up, paces the room, comes back and sits. This writing it down thing isnt going to help anything, and Ill tell you why. And he does.

Rule 14. When You Shine, Dont Apologize for Your Sparkle.

Tuesday, December 6, 2005.

JIMMY KIRKUS, FOURTEEN YEARS OLD-TWO YEARS UNTIL THE WALL.

Jimmy started his freshman season under pressure you wouldnt believe. Already the college recruitment letters were coming in. Big envelopes with glossy tri-fold brochures br.i.m.m.i.n.g with positive stats, past players, and hints about Jimmys eventual spot in campus hierarchy. This is where the athletes eat . . . The Columbia City Standard picked the Purple and Gold Fishermen as the preseason favorite to win the state t.i.tle with little Jimmy at the helm. A day before the first game of the season, the paper ran a photo of him posing in his new Columbia City Fishermen jersey. He stood, arms folded, just enough to hang the uniform on. The headline read The Second Coming . . . of Kirkus and the article pushed its column legs all the way past the fold. News on distant wars, local elections, and a tax to fund repairs to the Mengler Bridge were all squished shorter that day, their headlines hardly getting breathing room under Jimmys feet.

Neither of his parents made it to his first high school game, a matchup against the Tillamook Cheesemakers. The Flying Finn would have made it, if at all humanly possible, but no one in Columbia City would give him a ride and hed failed his most recent drivers test in spectacular fashion: turning the Drivers Ed car the wrong way into the Warrington Bridge turnabout and driving straight into a bush in the center circle to avoid running head on into Officer Humphreyss police cruiser. No matter. Jimmy scorched the nets for 52 points in the Cheesemakers gym. Capped it all off with a half-court buzzer-beater. Dex and Pedro stormed the court with the rest of the fans who had traveled, but they couldnt find him. Jimmy had promised to take the booster bus back with Dex and Pedro but his teammates had other plans. He was already swept onto the team bus, riding the shoulders of the upper cla.s.smen.

"s.h.i.t," Pedro said, "Jimmy was gonna ride back with us."

"You gonna cry?" Dex put Pedro in a loose headlock. "He just hit a half-court buzzer-beater, course he needs to go on the team bus. Cant be on the booster bus," Dex lowered his voice to a whisper, "These crazed fans would eat him alive!"

"You know, I got a to who scored the winning goal for Mexico in World Cup against Uruguay."

"d.a.m.n, you got a to for everything."

"I got a to for your mom, you racist puta."

"I got a foot for you a.s.s."

"I got a . . ." and on and on the boys went.

After Jimmy hit that game winner in Tillamook, the seniors piled him on their shoulders. "Guys, Im supposed to . . ." Jimmy yelled. "Pedro and Dex and me . . ."

They wouldnt listen, too hopped up on winning the game. Joe Looney, big slob of a guy, led the excitement, yelling, "We got our Mighty Mouse!" Everyone was excited but Ray Atto. It was his senior season after all. He had been the leading scorer two years running before Jimmy Kirkus came. Leading scorer on a losing team, but leading scorer still. Ray had finished the game with four points and five fouls. Worst output since middle school. He sulked to the bus with a towel over his head. What was he, if not a basketball stud?

On the bus ride home the rest of the team, all uppercla.s.smen, erupted in the Fishermen cheer. It was a cheer that had been around since before Freight Train. The coaches didnt exactly condone it, but wouldnt exactly stop it either.

"Three cheers for Columbia City High, you bring the whiskey, Ill bring the rye, send the seniors out for beer and dont let the sober FRESHMAN NEAR"-all fingers pointed to Jimmy, laughter rolling. "We never falter, we never fall, we sober up on pure alcohol, watch the ro-yal faculty go stumbling down the hall! MORE BEER!"

That night, in the back of the bus, junior cheerleader Naomi Smith sat next to Jimmy. He felt his heart in his hands. He trembled. She scooted closer to him on the cracked leather.

"You need more room?" he asked her. "I could give you more room."

She giggled. "Youre funny."

A groupie! Jimmy realized all at once as she kissed his neck and trailed her lips downward. She gave him head that night as the bus rumbled home. It was something he and Pedro had joked about, but never thought would happen to either of them. Jimmy hadnt even puzzled out the mechanics fully. He was shocked that she was willing to put her mouth there. He worried over if they ought to use a condom. When he was almost there, she sat up and nibbled his ear and he came into his sweaty game jersey. He kicked the seat in front of him in ecstasy. Joe Looney roused from sleep long enough to say "corndog." Him and Naomi busted up laughing. Jimmy, exhausted, leaned back with Naomis head on his shoulder. He knew his life was going to be, well, gravy from then on out.

The next few games went much the same. Jimmy broke off audacious bushels of points as if there were perforated lines on the future-some cut-here directions that made the amazing things he did come off so easy they seemed scripted. Ordained. Word spread quickly through the league that our kid Jimmy was for real. Opinions floated around about the best way to stop him. Full-court press? Dedicated doubles? Traps? Nope. Six games into the season-all wins-and our kid averaging just over 29 points a game. Give him a breaths whisper and hed dagger the shot every time. Just ask the Tillamook Cheesemakers.

Fifty-two points!

From a little, skinny, freshman kid?

Holy G.o.d!

Opposing coaches planned Jimmy Kirkus specials. Defensive schemes and setups that would do something, anything, to slow the scoring machine. It turned out little helped against Jimmy, as he was a gifted pa.s.ser. In the seventh game of the season the coach of Clatskanie subbed in new defenders to guard Jimmy at every whistle. Fresh legs and whenever he got past half court, a double team. Still, nothing doing. Kid Kirkus dished out twenty-three a.s.sists that night, a school and league record, and still managed eighteen points. Fishermen won in a blowout.

After the game in Clatskanies echo-heavy gym Coach Kelly, at the top of his lungs, shouted, "Way to go Jimmy! Making the rest of these b.u.ms look like stars!" He was joking of course, but . . .

Ray Atto, on his way past Coach, said, "So were b.u.ms now?"

"Now, Ray, come on," Coach Kelly pleaded. "Not how I meant it."

Jimmy lingered after his teammates filtered from the gym to say hi to Dex and Pedro. He waded through the remaining fans still buzzing around slapping him on his shoulder, asking him to pose in their photos. He was newly weary about his best friend and brother. How could they fit into this time where he made the big shots and was carried off the court, a hero?

"You pa.s.s too?" Pedro said sarcastically. "Hows that?"

"Yeah." Jimmy laughed.

"You were looking sharp, kid!"

"Sharp enough to cut," Dex said.

"Sharp enough for a knife to be f.u.c.king jealous," Pedro chimed in.

"Thanks, guys," Jimmy said, hoping to stop their routine before they really got into the momentum of it. A back and forth they found funny, but he never was comfortable jumping into himself. A lot of shouting and obscure references. Who can say the weirdest thing with the most bl.u.s.ter. It brought stares.

"Hey, Jimmy, the Wildwood sisters rode the booster up with us." Dex chucked his brother on the arm, gave him a wink. "Pretty cute, serious, so what you say we talk to them? After all, youre the great Jimmy Kirkus and their last name is Wildwood. They can get wild on our wood!"

"Yeah, yeah, Jimmy, you can be our in," Pedro said.

"Theres only two, Pedro, so do your math," Dex said.

"What?"

"Hes going to be my in, not yours."

"Man, youre still in eighth grade. Why they want to get with a child when they can have a man?"

"Cause at least I look like a man. You dont even got hair in your armpits, squeaky."

Jimmy ignored them and watched Naomi walk by. Ray Atto was walking with her, whispering in her ear, flexing on her, but h.e.l.l, she couldnt deny what had happened on the bus ride back from the Tillamook game. Even though it hadnt happened in all the away games since, it was undeniable, that was the word. They had history together. Maybe love? Something to build on at least. Anything could happen. A girlfriend?

"Hey, sorry guys," Jimmy interrupted their argument, "Coach wants the team to ride home together."

"d.a.m.n, Jimmy," Pedro said.

"Jimmy?" Dex asked.

"Sorry." Jimmy trotted off. He turned back to them, shrugged his shoulders, trying to make a joke of it, "When youre a star, your time is not your own." It came off lousy, he knew, and yet he still felt freer being rid of them.

"Your brothers acting like a pendejo," Pedro said.

"Learn English, hombre."

"'Pendejo means a.s.shole, a.s.shole. Study up."

"I know what 'pendejo means, pendejo. I walk around with you all day, dont I? Youre like the picture next to the word 'pendejo in the dictionary, just youre walking around." Dex grabbed Pedro in a headlock and gave him a noogie.

"Ill kick your a.s.s when my growth spurt hits!" Pedro yelled.

"Yeah, yeah, write me in a million years when that happens."

Back on the booster bus, sitting between old Mrs. Craig knitting a purple and gold blankie and this kid Wilson who once wore a tinfoil suit to prom, Pedro called over the aisle to Dex. "You ever heard Coach Kelly make the team ride back together?"

"How the h.e.l.l should I know?" Dex said. He looked out the window. He was jammed into the side of the bus by a large guy eating two corndogs-one in each fist-that he had bought at the concession stand after the game when all perishable food was half off. A little tray of ketchup balanced on his belly. Dex recognized him as one of the gas station attendants at 76. "Im not on the f.u.c.king team am I?"

"Watch your language, young man," the fat guy said. With his words he s.p.a.ckled Dex with little bits of corndog.

"Dude, youre double-fisting. I think thats the sign of a problem eater. Your heart says help."

The fat man burped a disgusting odor in response, something between the heaviness of bad meat and the tangy spike of bodily sweat. He didnt bother to turn away. Dex gagged and the bus rumbled along. The giggles of the Wildwood sisters, sitting up front with a couple of soph.o.m.ore boys, wafted over the seats, poisoning his mood further.

Meanwhile, over on the teams bus-headed the same place, separated by just a few cars but worlds apart-Jimmy was the last to board. The only seat left was near the front, across from Coach Kelly. He heard Naomi and the other cheerleaders laughing from the back. Ray Attos voice seemed to be the loudest of all, a bray that rose as it closed in on the punch lines to his raunchy jokes.

The whole ride home, Jimmy had to smell Coach Kellys breath as he went on and on about how successful the season would be.

"Seven games, seven wins. Thats even better than your father, Jimmy!"

He reeked heavily of the garlicky pizza hed eaten sometime between the game ending and boarding the bus. It was strange because Jimmy couldnt remember Coach ever leaving the locker room while they were all showering and changing. Made him think of Coach Kelly bolting down the pizza in one of the bathroom stalls, worried that if anyone knew, hed have to share. Sitting with his heels perched up on the toilets edge so no one could tell he was inside. It was the sort of joke that Dex would have made.

The Columbia City Standard ran another basketball feature, this time on the Fishermens first seven wins. It featured a huge picture of Jimmy flashing through the lane. The Flying Finn cut it out and Genny Mori paid for the frame. Finn took the framed page with him to whatever room he was in. It sat in a chair across from him while he ate his lunch, it watched from the couch while he rode his bike set up on a spinning stand, it fogged up, frame growing warped, while he took his famously long showers.

It had been a certain kind of torture throughout Columbia City that the first seven games of the season had been away. The eighth of the year, homecoming against archrival Seaside and the all-state wing that suited up for them, Shooter Ackley, was circled on every calendar. Even Todd and Genny Mori made plans to watch the game together. Trying to get someone to cover your shift? Forget about it. Jimmy Kirkus was coming home.

Rule 15. No Press Is Bad Press.

Wednesday, December 26, 2007.

JIMMY KIRKUS, SIXTEEN YEARS OLD-NINE DAYS AFTER THE WALL.

Its 5:30 and everyone is tuned in to KMUN. A call-in talk show with a crazy host. Chris Fogg. Guy who regularly produces can-you-believe-he-just-said-that audio clips. A forum where opinion is shaped for the entire town. Something not to be missed.

Im Chris Fogg and youre listening to the Weather Report on KMUN Community Coast Radio. Lets hope Santa brought you all the good stuff youd been hoping for. New TVs and stockings full of chocolate bars. Probably not, though. Probably youre all sad from this tinseled day of cheer and ready to blow off some steam counting it down to New Years!

Ive got a big one to start off. Our sponsor Les Schwab is giving free beef again with any new set of tires. You know how I feel about free beef. You cant beat free beef. So even if you dont got a car and youre just getting new bike tires, go get some free beef . . .

Hey, and speaking of beef, looks like Jimmy Kirkus is back into basketball! He put on quite the show at Peter Pan Courts. Theres video of Jimmys ten-opponent smack-down all on the YouTube, but I suspect foul play! A Christmas gift? A Christmas hoax! The shots are grainy. Gray. Who knows? Couldnt some prankster have Photoshopped that YouTube? Cant be real, can it?

So Jimmy Kirkus. Hes got a nickname now. Kamikaze. Its way better than Jimmy Soft, which, Im sorry, could give the wrong ideas to the ladies! I like Kamikaze. Its close to the kids heritage. Sort of rolls off the tongue. Kamikaze. Means "a divine wind" in j.a.panese, my producer tells me. Which, as some of you know, is me. And Google. Me and Google. I produce my own show. But, moving on . . . Im sure youve all read the blog, this Missteps thing-the pot has been stirred!

Anyway, were taking your calls for the top half of the Weather Report, so give me a jingle, let me know what you make of Jimmy Kirkus playing ball again, him running into a wall and if Coach Kelly should let him back on the team! Lets get the conversation going here on the Weather Report.

h.e.l.lo, Chris? This the Weather Report? Jimmy Kirkus should be booted off the team. He cant. I mean, just coming back whenever he feels like it. Like I was saying to the guys at work, you gotta commit one way or the . . .