Ball Don't Lie Read Online Free PDF Page B

Sticky.
Him!
    Sticky did a double take on Anh-thu’s finger pointing at him. He looked over his shoulder. Nobody.
    Well, man,
the guy said, putting his hand up on a shelf of folded white T-shirts, then taking it off and slipping it into his pocket.
My moms probably has the pot roast all ready. I
should probably, you know . . . I’ll most likely just come in
sometime next week to pick up that shirt
.
    Sounds good,
Anh-thu said.
Oh, and try to keep your
puppy away from your clothes
.
    The guy worked up another laugh.
Yeah, we’ll see,
he said, and made his move for the exit.
    Anh-thu walked over to Sticky with a big embarrassed smile on her face.
I’m sorry I did that,
she said, taking the pile of pants out of Sticky’s hands.
I didn’t know what else to say.
It just totally popped in my head
.
    Sticky stuck hands in his pockets, real cool-like, and looked to the floor. He brought his head up to check those green eyes again but quickly cut away. He leaned against a shelf of white cotton V-necks and said: Them pants wasn’t
really my thing
.
    Anh-thu laughed a little and fingered one of the price tags.
It’s OK,
she said.
They make us try to sell these. Maybe
some other pants, though? You might like our Anchor Blue
stuff, they’re super-baggy and comfortable
.
    Sticky pulled his hands from his pockets. He locked them up behind his back for a sec, linked fingers, then stuck both hands back in his pockets.
Nah,
he said.
    Yeah, forget it.
Anh-thu put the pants on a pile of T-shirts and pulled her long black hair behind her ears.
You know, I
go on break in like ten minutes, you wanna get some hot chocolate or something? Down in the food court?
She smoothed loose hair behind both her ears.
    Sticky tapped his right foot against the bottom of the shelf a couple times and looked up at her.
Nah, I can’t,
he said.
    Then he walked out of the store.

Current Foster Lady,
    Georgia, pulled up to Sticky’s foster care pad in almost the same meat-and-potato minivan as his previous lady, Mrs. Smith. Same dull white paint job and sloping hood. Same snail-like movement across the crumbling road.
    Could have been a déjà vu situation if it wasn’t for Georgia’s bumper-to-bumper sports stripe. Red.
    Sticky was sixteen, and he promised the old Mexican director he’d try harder this time.
    He spied her through the game room window: creeping along the curb out front, double-checking a scribbled-down address. She was in the middle of the road and two or three cars had to swing into the other lane to make the pass. He spied her screwing up a simple parallel park, shutting off that familiar minivan-engine hum, stepping out (fat arms and fat legs poking out of a two-man-tent-like summer dress), and slamming the door shut behind her.
    She stood there duck-footed and stared up at his run-down foster care pad, the place where she’d agreed to take on another kid only two weeks previous.
    Add a fifth to her pack of strays. Three hundred and sixty dollars a month per stray from the state.
    Do the math.
    Sticky spied all this through the game room window while at the same time kicking Counselor Julius’s ass in foosball again.
    Earlier that morning, Julius had laid down the challenge.
Let’s run a quick game, Stick,
he said, his dark blue Duke cap pulled cool-like crooked over his smooth black face. All the residents shoveled spoonfuls of cereal into their mouths. Warehouse-size sacks lying between them, generic flakes spilling onto the table.
For old times’ sake
.
    Sticky took one last bite before he set the spoon in his bowl. He pulled the spoon out and set it back in. Pulled out and set back in. Pulled out and set back in. Julius knew the routine and rolled his eyes.
    Pulled out and set back in.
    Pulled out and set back in.
    When the dull tap of metal on plastic sounded like Sticky thought it should, he hustled over to the foosball table and grabbed two of the worn-out handles.
    Back in those days, Sticky spent all his free time playing