Chapter Eight

There were thirty seconds left. It was the fourth quarter and the score was tied at forty-eight. We were playing another camp team from Montreal’s East End. They had the ball. Their point guard — a blond guy with wire-rimmed glasses — was dribbling up the court. I watched him eye the clock.

“Isolation!” he yelled, calling a play. All the players on his team rushed to the right side of the court. Which left just him and me one-on-one. For a split second our eyes met. Then I looked down at his hips; I knew they’d tell me the direction he’d be going in.

Basketball’s a bit like poker. Bluffing the other guy is part of the game. When he started dribbling left, I had this feeling he was about to spin right again — and he did. Then he faded away from sixteen feet. It was a beautiful shot.

They were ahead of us by two points now. Six seconds remained on the scoreboard. We still had a chance. A lot can happen in six seconds.

Just then our coach called a twenty-second time-out. “Just focus,” he told us. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and tried to catch my breath. My heart was beating like crazy.

Bobby inbounded the ball to me. I looked up at the clock as I started dribbling up court. Four seconds.

One of the guys on my team was setting a pick on my right side. I crossed left to right, stopping just outside the arc. That left me open for the three-point shot. The shot that would win us the game.

I’d just released the ball from my finger-tips when the buzzer sounded.

“He got it off in time!” I heard our coach’s booming voice, though it sounded like it was coming from far away. My eyes were focused on the ball. I watched as it bounced off the left side of the rim, then hit the right.

“Yes!” I whispered under my breath, willing the ball to sink into the net. I could practically hear the swishing sound it would make. The ball rolled once around the rim, then popped out and fell to the ground.

The guys on the other team were high- fiving each other. I wished I could disappear. I felt even worse when a couple of guys on my team slapped my shoulder. Consolation slaps.

What really put me over the edge was when the coach pulled me aside and said, “You did your best, Josh. That’s what counts.”

“I can’t stand that crap about how doing your best counts more than winning,” I told Bobby on the way home. We’d hardly spoken since we left the community center, and I was grateful he hadn’t mentioned the game. I knew he must’ve been disappointed too, but at least he wasn’t the one responsible for botching things up.

“I know what you mean,” he said quietly.

“Sometimes doing your best just isn’t good enough,” I muttered.

Bobby adjusted the strap on his sports bag and then turned to me. “It was a tough shot,” he said.

“Don’t go making excuses for me.” I hadn’t meant to snap; that was just how it came out.

Bobby shrugged. Which was pretty much where our conversation ended that afternoon.

Sometimes the best time to break into a house is when you’re doing something else. I was just walking, thinking about how I didn’t feel like going home, and picturing the basketball popping out of the rim and dropping to the ground, when a gruff voice interrupted my thoughts. “Take this!” the voice said.

Next thing I knew, someone was passing me this huge cardboard box. It wasn’t like I had much choice — the box was pressing against my chest — so I took it. Bending a little at the knees, I tried to balance the box in my arms. The thing was so big I could hardly see over it. Plus it was heavy.

Somehow I’d gotten myself in the middle of someone’s move. If I’d been paying more attention, I’d have crossed the street when I saw the moving truck. But I’d been too busy replaying the game in my head.

“Come on, move it!” the gruff voice commanded. To my left, I noticed a bald guy with sunburned shoulders carrying a box into a nearby apartment building. I followed him.

The door to the lobby had been propped open. The building smelled like cabbage. I followed the bald guy up the stairs to a corner apartment on the second floor. When he dropped his box on the wood floor and turned around to go back downstairs, I tried to duck behind my box. But he saw me. The weird thing was he didn’t seem the least bit surprised. All he did was make a grunting noise, and then he headed back down.

I could’ve left right then. But I didn’t. Instead I slipped behind the closest door. With the rooms empty, except for boxes, it was hard to tell what room I was in. The bedroom, I decided.

“I can’t believe this is happening!” someone said. Looking around the edge of the door, I could see a guy walking out of what seemed to be the kitchen — a small, sunny room at the back of the apartment — his arm around a girl’s waist. They looked like they were in their early twenties. He was wearing a red bandana; she had long, dark hair that she wore in a braid down her back. It was tied at the bottom with a red ribbon.

“I know,” the girl said in a breathless voice. “Me and you. Our first apartment. I can’t believe it either.”

Just my luck, I thought. Bad enough I have to put up with Mom and Clay, but now I’ve walked in on another pair of lovebirds. I hoped these two weren’t about to start making out. After all, the moving guys would be back any minute with more stuff.

“This is so cool,” the guy said. “Our own place.” Then he leaned in like he was about to kiss her. Luckily the moving guys showed up right then. There were three of them now, but only two were carrying boxes.

“We’re all done,” the empty-handed one announced. He was the one who had handed me the box outside. “That’ll be two hundred and fifty bucks,” he told the couple.

“You guys were great,” the girl said. “Thanks so much for everything.” She took an envelope from her pocket and handed it to the boss.

The guy shut the door behind the moving men. “Here’s to our life together,” he said. He was carrying two plastic bottles of spring water. He gave one to his girlfriend; then they toasted each other. Pretty corny, if you ask me.

“What now?” The girl looked up at her boyfriend. When she giggled, I started getting nervous.

“We unpack,” the guy said. I nearly sighed out loud.

He turned toward the room I was in and reached for the closest box, sliding it over toward him. I was standing in the doorway, only partially hidden by the door.

Our eyes met. When he looked at me, he didn’t seem afraid. Just curious. “What are you doing here, kid?” he asked, getting up from his spot on the floor and opening the door all the way.

I didn’t say a thing.

The girlfriend made enough noise for all of us, though. “Call the police!” she shrieked. “It’s the home invader!”