After home games, Jimmy goes straight to the parking lot without showering or changing; doesnt even stay for postgame recap from Coach Kelly.

Not since LeBron James has a high school player created such hype. From sea to shining sea college coaches are making their early pitches for Jimmy Kirkus to join their team. Be a bronco, a buc, a b.u.mblebee. Be a blue devil, a muskrat, a tiger. Join a storied team with pedigree and fistfuls of championship rings. Be the one to bring a program to glory, national renown. Unlike LeBron-a golden boy with a big grin and easy laugh who went straight to the NBA before the rules changed and college became required-to consider Jimmy is also to consider his darker history, his slump, his family. And still, these people come. These college scouts and recruiters attend games, wear bad hairdos and sungla.s.ses indoors. Make notes on legal pads, text in scores after each period on their cell phones. They frequent Dairy Queen and Pign Pancake. Bad chili and big bellies. Favor large c.o.kes and even bigger mugs of coffee. They are overweight and sweaty. They are the greasy paper holding the food. They all claim to have Jimmys best interests at heart. They call him, send e-mails to his supposed account, are seen in cars idling in parking lots just so they could say, "Ive been there for you all along." All to bring him to a school so that school could win more games. Jimmy, however, ignores them all. He brushes past each buddy-buddy scout with the shoulder-draping half hug and maintains his privacy with resolve. He also never answers questions from the reporters who are growing more numerous with each game. The most they can get out of him, with a nod to Rasheed Wallace, is a "both teams played hard."

"Pretty good game," Todd always says when Jimmy climbs in the idling van.

"I played OK."

"Better n OK! You are the cream in the quiche!" Grandpa says from the back.

"Theres no cream in quiche, you old idiot."

"Oh, theres plenty of cream in my quiche!"

"Lets eat," Jimmy says. Its their routine.

The three of them get dinner at the Dairy Queen, away from fans and reporters, and they talk of nothing, really. Whose turn it is to do the dishes, the laundry, the lawn. Anything thats not The Thing is fine. The Flying Finns plans of opening a new restaurant. Todds reluctance to join on. If it doesnt include a brick wall, basketball, or Dex and Genny Mori, then its fair game.

"Come on, Toddy-boy, we call it Kirkuss Smorgasbord."

"What in the h.e.l.ls a smorgasbord?" Freight Train asks.

"Its like a buffet, Pops," Jimmy says.

"How the h.e.l.l do you know the word 'smorgasbord, old man?" Todd points a chicken strip at the Flying Finn. "Wait." He turns the greasy fried chicken on Jimmy. "How the h.e.l.l do you know?"

Jimmy shrugs. "Studying is all."

"Its a moo point," the Flying Finn says. "I dont like the name no more."

"G.o.dd.a.m.n, Grandpa. Its 'moot point, theres no cows involved."

"I know theres no cows involved!"

Then James Berg comes in with Sarah Parson, RN, hot new couple in town, and they order cones, hers strawberry dipped, his plain. Berg turns and sees the Kirkus men with his tongue already deep into the first lick. He does a sort of snorted laugh, and then holds up his cone in greeting. The Flying Finn and Todd wave back.

"Sundays, four oclock," Berg calls. Its an old mans pickup game hes setting up.

"Ill be there," Todd says.

Sarah Parson winks, and Jimmy knows its just for him. After they leave, Todd is smiling. Good to see the man relax, lets Jimmy relax to.

"The old hound dog," he says.

The kid is close to happy when hes eating DQ with the Flying Finn and his pops. It keeps him close.

Jimmys a loner most of the time, but he tracks down Carla once the notebook is full with his life, all sprouted from her poem, thinking its the right thing to do. She steered him toward this new, tentative thing hes doing called writing. He thinks if he can share it at all, it will be with her. She is pretty, maybe she is love. They can break this whole only-phone thing wide open. Why not?

He finds her at work behind the counter of Peter Pan Market. Already her appearance has changed since that night she spoke with him and he went out to beat ten in a row. When he grabbed her arm, it grabbed something else inside her. Activated it. She wears makeup badly. Her eye shadow arcs too high and her lipstick cakes too thick, but the effort hints at an adult s.e.xuality, and thats enough for Jimmy to feel a pulse in his loins.

"Hi," he says when the doorbell trips and announces his arrival. The market is empty. It is always empty. Its just another mystery in small town magic. A store can survive with seemingly no business outside of the random grade school kids coming in with their grubby-palmed pennies. "Thanks for the poem. It was . . . it made me do this."

She looks confused and Jimmy looks away because of this, sees the Boston Baked Beans and MoonPies on a lower shelf and this feels nostalgic. The bloated notebook in his hand feels offensive. He wishes shed just take it.

"I dont know. Its that." His heart is racing. It seems like she has no idea what hes talking about. He feels cheated, defeated, and a little bit h.o.r.n.y despite it all.

"Thanks, I mean, whatever," she finally says. She looks behind him and he realizes shes making sure theyre alone. All the ease of their talks on the phone has vanished. She doesnt reach for the notebook, just brushes it politely with her eyes.

Jimmy presses on, hoping hes not being made a fool, hasnt been expecting too much from this. "Your poem meant a lot to me." He looks her in the eyes, notebook rolled in his hands, trying to show her, to relate to her. The last chance.

Carla looks nervous and says the Wrong Thing. "Youre so good at basketball. 6A, it seems easy to you."

Jimmy deflates. h.e.l.l not show her the notebook after all. She doesnt understand anything. "Hey, thanks," he says.

And then two honks and her pops the preacher is outside. Steaming in the drivers seat. Jimmy knows hes been labeled a Bad Seed. Hes even heard that Carlas father speculates in his sermons about whether Jimmy and the brick wall smacks of possession by the devil. Jimmy wants to scream at the nervous little preacher man, "You think Im gonna get her high, knock her out, and then knock her up? Well f.u.c.k off!" He doesnt though. Of course he doesnt.

"I got to go, but we can hang out sometime, if you want," she says, batting her eyes with their questioning makeup.

Jimmy is too stunned to makes sense of her. "OK," he says.

On the way to the car, in full view of her father, she kisses him on the mouth. She presses too hard and he feels her teeth through his lips. Blood, must be his own, comes into the equation. She leaves him standing there, wiping his mouth. Her fathers car squeals off. The man who took over the cash register for Carla whistles. "Well, d.a.m.n."

Jimmy leaves the store. She didnt want the notebook, but said they could hang out sometime. Has played coy but kissed him on the lips.

Later he calls Sarah, catches her in a hurry to go someplace.

"Whats up with girls, theyre so weird."

"Cant talk, Jimmy, but Ill tell you something about girls, every single one is the wrong one until you find the right one. Over the next ten, twenty years youll shoot like point zero one percent on girls. Its not like basketball, Jimmy."

"I never said it was."

"Gotta run."

"Have fun with Berg."

"Very funny."

Meanwhile, the town grows rapturous with basketball glory as the wins keep piling up in the wake of this new breed of basketball kid-Kamikaze Kirkus.

Hail Jimmy, full of grace . . .

They come out in droves to witness little-not so little anymore-Jimmy "Kamikaze" Kirkus blur across the floor. Fans will forgive anything if their team is winning and Fishermen fans are no different. They forgive the letdown of the previous two seasons and the strange way hes been acting this season. People have seen him at Tapiola Courts, screaming taunts at the river; running miles around town late at night; making circles on the counter with his coffee cup at Dooney and Steves cafe, staring to the distance. And before each game, instead of partic.i.p.ating in the "mandatory" pregame warm-ups, Jimmy sits on the sidelines-hood on, earbuds in. He holds his ancient gray ball with names written all over it. He rubs the name written biggest and darkest of all with his thumb. Three letters-D-E-X-the rest of the names hes allowed to fade.

The basketball is with thee.

His cla.s.smates start coming to games wearing helmets of all kinds as a nod to the Flying Finn and also Jimmys encounter with the wall. They call themselves the Crash Dummies. Jimmys reckless style of play is their drug.

Blessed art thou amongst Ballers.

So its after a game and Jimmy sneaks out when his pops and the Flying Finn fall asleep after arguing long and hard about Kirkuss Smorgasbord: Salty Snacks and Sweet Treats. The Flying Finn saying they should have all kinds of different food. His pops being like "A restaurant should have an ident.i.ty." Jimmy takes the van keys straight out of his popss jacket pocket. n.o.body knows where Jimmy is, and he likes the feeling. Windows down, headed for the beach, for the jetty. He parks in the same parking lot he remembers from so long ago. Area C. He gets out and looks around. Hes alone. He climbs up the dunes and down to the water beyond.

Blessed are the games you play.

Hes wrong about being alone, though. Up in the dunes, unseen, David Berg is smoking a cigarette, contemplating life. End of it mostly. Hes walked from Sunset Beach, about twenty miles in total, to this violent, rock-strewn jetty. His feet bleed-hes worn the wrong shoes. His black cape flaps restlessly in the wind. Hes realized lately that all his friends are just raw nerve endings searching for Novocain. Thats what all the getting high and dressing in black is about. Thats what hes about. He also feels bad about the security tape. He was the one who stole it, digitized it, e-mailed it around anonymously. First because he didnt think Jimmy had actually done it, later because he actually had. The grainy tape cast a spell over him. Its the reason he finally spoke up for Jimmy in front of Ray at Peter Pan Park. Jimmys epic sprints at the wall were like everything hed been feeling personified. For all the drugs and piercings, the black tape and metal spikes, Jimmy was pushed to do something that was real and painful. It made all David had done seem childish.

Davids attention is grabbed by a dark figure walking over the dunes toward the beach. Its Jimmy. So David stops his contemplation and instead he watches over him. He doesnt know it but watching over Kamikaze is also watching over himself. He leaves him be, but makes sure he doesnt drown.

He keeps his secret safe, too.

Blessed is the life you live.

Jimmy rolls back and forth in the cold, soupy sand like he had seen his pops do so long before. Tastes the salt on each incoming wave. He tries to taste what his father tasted. He wants it to be the same, but how can he be sure? The sand is gritty, abrasive, black. It sticks in his teeth, catches under his tongue and in the hollows of his cheeks. It burns against a canker sore he has on the inside of his lip. Been there forever, it seems. I used to have a sister, he thinks, a mother too. I had a brother once, he knows this well.

The salty water feels tacky against the back of his throat and he coughs and sputters; he spits and squirms. The water that comes over him with each incoming wave, steady and strong, still feels cold, even after hes numb. The f.u.c.ks getting numb about if I still feel it? He gets weighted down deeper and deeper into the soupy sand. How long will he stay in this watery bed being built around him? How far will he sink? Past the sand fleas and crabs. Past the sand toad.

Hail Jimmy, player of ball.

Jimmy stays until he is too tired to stay any longer and climbs back up the dunes. Great chunks of black, wet sand fall off of him like icebergs at the end of a glacier, like the excess of a creature sloughing away as he is more minutely formed, and he walks up the sand dunes and into the parking lot. He starts the van, squeals away, heater going full blast.

Safe again.

Play for us sinners.

The stars are out like embers and David of the Dunes cashes out his cigarette. He decides to go home again, if only for the night. He starts the long walk back to Sunset Beach where the car is parked. Hed walked so far because he hadnt intended on walking back. Each step hurts.

Now and at the hour of death.

His junior season, Jimmy Kirkus-who by this point even the newspapers call Kamikaze-leads the league in steals, points, rebounds, and guts. Kid loves the floor more than staying upright. Runs into the stands, flies through the air. Busts his elbow and cracks his chin. Wears his injuries like a Boy Scouts medals. Doesnt miss a game. Lets the hurts shape him. Points are an afterthought. Pleasant side effects to the gritty part of playing hes come to love. Everyone has forgotten about Jimmy Soft.

Amen.

Rule 22. Know That Sadness, No Matter What, Will Come.

Friday, December 8, 2006.

JIMMY KIRKUS, FIFTEEN YEARS OLD-ONE YEAR UNTIL THE WALL.

The winter and fall of Jimmys soph.o.m.ore year were tough. Teachers pitied him, jocks reviled him, Goths mocked him, and everyone else just ignored him. At school he tried to disappear. He ate his lunch in the library with all the nerds-a little shrimp has-been. Pedro, who was becoming famous for his weed connect, made it his lunchtime routine to get kids high and tell embarra.s.sing stories about his once-best friend. He was entering the terminal stages of a fanatic: collecting the kitsch of the celebrity in order to own his obsession so that he could then desecrate it, separate from it. In this case, stories. He fed the Jimmy Soft rumor mill with all the tales hed been privileged to over the years. Freight Train and the pumpkin smashing, the Flying Finn and learning to ride a bike, Genny Mori always gone or going. These stories would come back to Jimmy, filtered through one or two kids, and at first all he would be able to see were the reasons they were wrong, how Pedro had changed them to make Jimmy come off worse. However, as these stories continued to circulate, their validity began to seem hard to question, even to Jimmy.

Meanwhile, the contrast in fortunes between Jimmy and Dex was striking. His kid brother ran through the halls with a booming laugh following his jokes. Rattling lockers, doling out high fives, an expert distributer of noogies and headlocks. Macking on chicks, pinned against them in corners and stalls, a true inheritor to his fathers legacy. Huge kid with a quick charm-a freshman who was treated like a senior. A rumor started making the rounds that Jimmy was adopted.

When basketball season came, Jimmy didnt sign up. That freshman season was enough. He was happy to bequeath the team to Dex. Step further into the shadows. Hope everyone could forget him and how he had become Jimmy Soft while they discovered Dex. No one questioned this move. Jimmy and ball, naw, that was done.

One afternoon on his walk home-through the front parking lot of Columbia City High School to avoid the Goths on the hill behind the baseball field-Jimmy ran into a group of ex-teammates. It was the day before the matchup with Shooter Ackley and the Seagulls, the opening of the Cowapa League regular season. Joe Looney, a senior that year, stopped him in the middle of the parking lot.

"Yo, J. Soft, we got your sweetheart Shooter tomorrow," he said. He spit a brown spurt from his lower lip. Landed on Jimmys feet. Our kid danced back, warm tobacco juice already turning cold as it soaked through his shoes. "Want me to give him a message for you?"

"Shut up, Joe," Jimmy said, and immediately regretted it. The other kids in the parking lot, leaning against cars or each other, oohed, pointed, clapped once or twice. It was on. Big Joes eyes flashed red. Jimmy could easily outrun him, but did he really want that on his reputation too?

Instead he froze and let Joe catch him by the arm. "You a weak boy, Jimmy Soft. I hear youre adopted. Makes sense cause your brother, hes nothing like you." Another warm, brown stream, this time on Jimmys shoulder. He could feel it soaking through his thick sweatshirt. The smell of tobacco and chicken fingers in his nose. Jimmy watched the brown stain on his shoulder instead of looking Joe in the eyes. It was true about Dex. They were nothing alike. His brother was ripping through preseason with a ferocious brutality that Jimmy lacked. He was bigger, stronger, and tougher than anyone else. Plus people seemed to like him even without ball.

Jimmy pulled back and at the same time thought about whether he should go for a punch. Hed heard of weaklings getting lucky with a desperation swing. Why not him? Then in the next moment, he knew he wouldnt ever try and hit Joe Looney and a cold fear shimmered inside him because he saw the rest of his life like this. Where were the teachers to stop this, where was Mr. Berg?

Joe slapped him across the cheek and then shoved his index finger in front of Jimmys face. "See, youre a b.i.t.c.h. So I slapped you, and this," he wiggled his finger, "is me telling you." Jimmy wrinkled his nose, furrowed his eyebrows, desperate not to cry. He stopped struggling to get out of Joes grip. It was no use and it was embarra.s.sing to keep trying. A crowd had gathered. "Cause with b.i.t.c.hes," Joe rambled on, "you always got to be telling them."

Then there was a flash. Joes hand was off his arm. Someone, somewhere, let out a little scream. Jimmy was jostled back, but managed to stay standing. He looked down and there was Joe Looney, sprawled and blubbering on the blacktop, his Black Cat baseball hat crooked. Brown snuff juice dribbled from his mouth. Mixed with blood coming from somewhere. For a moment, Jimmy thought he had done it. He flexed his fingers, looked at his hand. Then he saw Dex, fist still hanging in the follow-through, breathing harder than the big bad wolf.

"d.a.m.n, youre a fat chunk of lard," Dex said. The gathered crowd laughed uneasily and Joe got up on one knee, swaying but determined as h.e.l.l not to show how much it hurt. Dex helped him stand.

"f.u.c.k, Dex," Joe said.

"How about you lay off Jimmy."

Joe looked at Jimmy. Jimmy looked away. "Yeah, OK," Joe said. He rubbed his jaw. "Ho-ly-"

"s.h.i.t is right." Dex looked straight at Jimmy, eyes hot enough to burn. "My brothers an a.s.shole, but see, hes kind of like my a.s.shole, so itll only be me doling out s.h.i.t."

Dex didnt come home for dinner that night. Jimmy ate microwave Hot Pockets on the couch while the Flying Finn pumped his stationary bike, watching tapes of the Tour de France. His mom was out and his pops was somewhere in the house but nowhere really. Jimmy went to bed and stared at the ceiling, waiting for the sounds of Dex coming in the front door. What kind of man lets his little brother protect him? He already had the reputation as Jimmy Soft on the basketball court, now he was going to have it for getting rescued by his baby bro too. He must have fallen asleep at some point for when he woke up, it was time to go to school and Dex was already gone.

Next day, kids steered clear of Jimmy. No snide remarks, no sharp elbows or stiff shoulders. Word had spread that Jimmy Soft was off limits. He saw Dex from afar a couple of times, always in a hurry. Running around the school, pulling basketball players aside to whisper in their ears. Then in the afternoon, Coach Kelly pulled Jimmy out of English cla.s.s.

"How we doing, Jim?" he asked.

"Were fine?" It was the first time since the end of his freshman season that Coach Kelly had spoke to him.

"Glad to hear it. Dex tells me you can still shoot?"

"Sometimes I go down to Tapiola."

Coach Kelly patted him on the shoulder. "Well, you think youd be ready? Get back on the team, maybe go through the reps?"

Jimmy squinted his eyes, mind racing ahead, nosing around for the trap. "I dont know if Im any good."

"Oh, youre too young to know one way or the other." Coach Kelly walked off leaving Jimmy to wonder what the h.e.l.l was going on. When he went back into the cla.s.sroom, all eyes were on him. Mrs. Parson stopped her lesson on similes. Silence. Jimmy realized he was frozen in the doorway-halfway in the cla.s.sroom and halfway in the hall.

"Sorry," he said, and quickly found his seat.