Pass It Forward

  Copyright © 2016 by Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

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  Front cover: © Albo/Shutterstock.com

  Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 12/17.5. Typeface provided by Adobe Systems.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  The Cataloging-in-Publication Data for Pass It Forward is on file at the Library of Congress.

  ISBN 978-1-5124-1125-6 (lib. bdg.)

  ISBN 978-1-5124-1209-3 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-1-5124-1136-2 (EB pdf)

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1-39640-21283-4/6/2016

  To Anna, Jenny, and Julie

  1

  Wednesday Morning

  February 8

  Lucas Washington’s apartment

  Mom’s alarm blares from her room. In our tiny one-bedroom, the buzz wakes me up too.

  I roll over on the rough, worn sofa where I sleep. I lift my old watch off the orange crate that serves as a table. It is 5:00 a.m. Mom needs to be at her hospital job by 7:00. About when she starts lifting patients from their wheelchairs, I’ll be elevating iron at the school weight room.

  I pull the thin blanket over me and shiver in our heatless apartment. A few times this winter when it got really cold, Mom would leave open the oven after she’d cooked some packaged food left over from her other job at the nursing home. It is only once a month they clean the pantry. Mostly we live on Hamburger Helper without the hamburger.

  “Mom, you okay?” I yell. It seems all I ever do anymore is yell. I can’t seem to control the sound of my voice. Over the summer, before my senior year, my voice got even deeper and I had a late-life growth spurt. I went from a small point guard to a passing forward, but Coach switched me again halfway through the season. As soon as I got the ball to shoot, we got hot—unlike this apartment—and qualified for the state finals, which start tonight. Since our record is the worst of any team in Alabama’s 6A conference, we won’t play any of our tournament games in our own gym. Coach says we all need to kick in for gas money. If we make it to the semi-finals, the games will be at the Birmingham Convention Complex.

  “Luke, come help me!” Mom shouts from the other room. I get up, rub the sleep out of my eyes, and walk through our mostly bare apartment. There is no sense having stuff if one day you might come home to find it all on the curb or in a Dumpster. I figure if I don’t have anything, I can’t lose anything or have somebody take it away again. “Hurry up, Luke!”

  I use my new long legs to get to her room in sprinter’s time. I gained all this size but didn’t lose my speed. I’m awkward everyplace except on the basketball court. I help Mom out of bed just like she’ll help others later today. It seems like heavy lifting is all our family does.

  For us, nothing comes easy. Easy comes with a price that we can’t afford.

  2

  Wednesday Afternoon

  February 8

  Jackson High School

  The first bell rings to start class, but I don’t move a hard muscle. I sit motionless in the high school counselor’s office. “You have a better chance of winning the lottery than getting drafted to play in the NBA—or even getting recruited to play D-1 college ball,” Mr. Edwards tells me during our first-ever meeting. Coach had said I should meet with Mr. Edwards because colleges might want to talk to me after we win State.

  “Every corner store in my neighborhood sells tickets; maybe I’ll buy one,” I joke. His brown tie is tied so tightly around his neck, it looks like his face should be turning purple. “What should I do?”

  Edwards’s expression flashes a “stop bothering me” look. “Maybe a trade school?”

  “I don’t know anybody going to trade school.” Actually, I don’t know anyone going to college, period. My oldest brother, Mark, went off to college to play ball, but he broke his ankle, lost his scholarship, and put his college career in the rearview.

  “Russell Walker is going to A+ Auto Mechanics this summer. You should talk to him.”

  “I don’t know him. Anyway, I got basketball camp in the summer. If I’m gonna make the—”

  “Lucas, just because you got big doesn’t mean you should dream so big. Find Russell.”

  That will be easy. When you go to a school where half the students drop out before graduation, the class sizes get smaller. You can get to know the few who remain.

  The second bell rings for class to start. I take my time. I’d rather be late than walk in the hall at its busiest time, wearing ill-fitting clothes from the church’s clothing drive. Fewer people seeing me means fewer can laugh at me. Not that most people peer up from their phones. Everybody walks head down, making senseless noise, trudging from class to class, trying to get smart enough to get out of here. This place is like that TV show The Walking Dead that some people talk about.

  I’m lost in thought. I bump into this fat kid who has never missed a meal. I apologize, but instead of saying “It’s all right,” he says through laughter, “How is the weather up there, freak?”

  My mind flashes back to Edwards’s insult. I fill my mouth with spit and let it drop on him. “Raining.”

  3

  Wednesday Evening

  February 8

  On the bus to Austin, Alabama

  Game 1

  There’s a loud thud when my head hits the top of the bus. I think the bus driver found every pothole in the ninety miles north from Birmingham to Austin. When it happens as we pull into the parking lot, Nate laughs. Nate wants my dignity because I took his power-forward minutes.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask. He sits across from me. Our new coach doesn’t assign seats like our last coach, Coach T, who got ousted when we had a losing record last year. Everybody does what they want, kind of like on the court. Our game is playground ball at the high school level, which works for me since my job is to shoot and rebound.

  “You. Everything about you.” Like the fat kid in the hall, Nate can’t stop laughing at me.

  I put my history textbook in my bag. I studied during the ride, while most of the other guys scrolled through their phones. Part of me wants to spit on Nate too, but I can’t treat a teammate like that. I try to ignore him, but he won’t let up.

  “That’s enough, Nate,” Coach Unser says. Nate grumbles like he has rocks in his mouth.

  “Maybe if you were more serious, you’d get more playing time,” Coach lectures Nate.

  “I had playing time, but you gave it to that gangly giraffe.” Nate makes animal sounds.

  “That athlete scores points, brings down rebounds, and crashes the net. And for a forward, he has the vision of a point guard. You do any of those things as good as Lucas, then you’ll play.”

  Nate grumbles again before exiting the bus. “Thanks for saying that, Coach,” I say.

  “It’s all true. I wish I’d seen it earlier. I don’t know why Coach T didn’t start you.”

  “Elijah and David are great guards and I’m too small for center. Paul’s an oak,” I say.

  “You see the game like a guard, so you make great passes. That gets you open to get better shots. You give, so you get the ball back to put in the net. That’s basketball
, that’s life.”

  “You sound like the minister at my grandmother’s church,” I joke. Coach doesn’t laugh.

  “Basketball is life, Lucas. Follow the rules and play the game right, and you’ll win.” I nod in agreement, even though everything he just said about life is wrong. Just ask my brother Mark.

  4

  Saturday Morning

  February 11

  On the bus to Gardendale

  I hear the booming bass through the closed window of the limo. It is 5:15 in the morning. I just started my two-hour bus ride to a mall that is fifteen minutes away by car. By limo, I bet it is even faster. People in limos are rich, and the rich don’t have to obey rules. Ask Mark about that too.

  I turn up the volume on my busted CD player. A rubber band holds it together so it can play. I listen to a CD of beach white noise I got from the public library. The waves calm me. I have never seen or been on a real ocean beach, but it seems peaceful. Unlike this bus, unlike that limo. Since so much of the rest of my life is noisy, especially our new apartment, the bus is my quiet time.

  Still, I wish I had a job closer to home, but there are no jobs for adults, let alone high school kids. Like Mom, I haul my tired self on a city bus for the long ride. Mom and me have another thing in common: she lifts people at work, while last night I lifted my team to victory. We blew out Austin. I topped the team in points, boards, and blocked shots. By the third quarter I felt sorry for Austin. We’re the Jackson Mustangs, but I bet the Austin Black Bears felt like Daniel thrown into the lions’ den.

  I’m enjoying the waves when I feel a tap on my knee. It is Trina Saunders, a girl who lives in an apartment across the way. She’s in history with me and plays on the girls’ basketball team.

  “Hey, Lucas, congratulations on last night,” she says and then goes all wide-smile.

  “Thanks,” I mumble into my left hand. I always try to hide my mouth full of crooked teeth from girls.

  “Where are you going this early in the morning?” she asks brightly. How can she be so giddy at this hour?

  “Work.”

  “Me too,” she says. She tells me about her new job at Wal-Mart. “I don’t mind the commute. The bus ride gives me time to read.” She flashes a big book at me.

  My grandmother would smile if she saw this. The book Trina shows me is the Bible.

  5

  Saturday Afternoon

  February 11

  Lucas Washington’s apartment

  The squealing of tires announces Mark’s arrival. I sigh when I see his green Mustang out our apartment window. I had used a phone at work to ask him to meet me there. He never showed at Ryan’s, but instead he came here. That’s not good.

  The two locks on the door fail in their mission to keep out criminals. Mark unlocks the knob and dead bolt and walks inside.

  He wears a Memphis Grizzlies jersey with Zach Randolph’s name on the back. Mark owns one for every player. As soon as the Grizzlies get a new player, he buys a new jersey. He gave me one once for my birthday, but Mom made me give it back. He’s not even supposed to set foot in our apartment.

  “How much you want?” He reaches into his pocket and takes out a big stack of bills.

  “Fifty.” The little cash I make helps Mom with the rent. Mark peels off a hundred for me.

  “What for?” Mark inspects the apartment. He could stand in the middle, pivot like the center he used to be, and almost touch each wall. “It doesn’t have to be a handout. If you want to—”

  I cut him off before he can say “work for me.” “I met this girl,” I say quickly. “I need new clothes.”

  Mark says nothing. He opens the cupboards in the kitchen and examines the emptiness. Next, he picks through the cluttered counter. It is covered with bills. Unpaid, I assume.

  “Give this to Mom.” He offers me another hundred. “I know she won’t take it from me.”

  I’m reaching to take the fresh bill when I hear the doorknob start to turn. Mom is home early from work. She yells first at me for letting Mark in. Then she turns to Mark and tells him to get out, shouting, “You will not soil my home!”

  “Some home,” Mark jokes. Mom rushes forward and slaps his face like he was ten again.

  “You got a stack of bills.” He points to the counter, and then to his full hand. “And so do I. Let me help, Mom.”

  “Mark, why—” I start, but stop when Mom grabs Mark’s arm and pulls at it. He doesn’t resist, but Mom slips and falls down on the gray carpet. Mark reaches down to help her up.

  “Out of my house!” is Mom’s answer to his offer of help. Mark throws a hundred at her and leaves. Mom takes the crisp green paper in her heavily callused hands and rips it in half.

  6

  Saturday Evening

  February 11

  Cullman High School gym

  Game 2

  The roar of the Cullman High crowd doesn’t bother me at all. That hardly anybody from Jackson is making the trip to see us play bothers me. Of the few who did, Trina is not one of them. That bothers me too. But Mom hurting her back again is what bothers me most. I’m off my game.

  “You need a rest?” Coach asks before we start the second half. We’re only up by ten.

  “No, I need to play better,” I huff. “That’s what I need to do.”

  “Then do it!” Coach pats my back while his words and glare kick my butt into gear. It’s hard to get motivated when playing against a bad team. Even in playground ball, I always played older kids. Mark taught me that only iron sharpens iron. He taught me lots of things. Now he wants to teach me new things. No, thanks.

  “Lucas, you need to focus tonight more than ever,” Coach says, almost in a whisper. I lean closer like he’s telling me a secret. “Up in the stands is an old college buddy of mine. He’s a recruiter for a certain college in Southern California. Would you like to meet him sometime?”

  “Yes, sir,” I mumble as the buzzer sounds to start the second half.

  “Get loud, Lucas, get noticed!” Coach yells. I run onto the court. I set myself by the Cullman guy next to me. He’s taller, but I’m more muscular. When the ball comes to him, he tries to drive, but I get into position. He charges into the human roadblock I’ll be for the rest of this game.

  Elijah turns the ball over. The Cullman guard shoots a rock and I crash the net. I grab the rebound and see David breaking. I make a long pass. He dribbles, cuts, and passes to Elijah trailing behind. Elijah looks to shoot, but he’s covered. I pass and set the pick, and he rolls—the shot is his. It smacks off the backboard and I follow to bang bodies underneath. The ball comes into my hands, and I slam it through the net.

  The hometown crowd boos as we celebrate. Cullman brings the ball up. Their game is too slow, their leaps too short, and their muscles too small. And after that last play, they know it. I gaze up into the stands for Coach’s friend and think to myself, I’ve always wanted to see California.

  7

  Sunday Morning

  February 12

  Ryan’s Steak Buffet

  The silver plastic busing tray thumps when I drop it onto the metal counter. There are two things louder in the kitchen. One is the grumbling of my empty stomach—the stale Pop-Tarts I ate for breakfast on the bus are hungry for company. The other is the clock on the wall that clicks more slowly the closer it gets to my break. I can do heavy buffet damage in my fifteen minutes.

  “Did your team win last night?” Mr. Robbins, one of the assistant managers, asks. He’s got a big gut and thin gray hair, and wears the same ugly maroon polo shirt as me, except mine fits.

  I tell him about the game. He pretends to be interested, a lot like Trina this morning on the bus. I guess she’d rather be reading her Bible than talking to somebody like me. Or maybe she’s just making up her mind about me, wondering if I’m worth her precious time.

  “Mr. Robbins, sir, do you think when the season is over I could get more hours?”

  He pulls on his tight shirt. “You work as many hours
on weekends as we can allow you to work for the week.”

  “After the season, I could work after school.”

  He frowns, like always. If I were fifty and working a job like this, I’d never smile either. “It already takes you two hours to get here. How would that work with your school schedule?”

  I want to tell him that if I don’t get a college scholarship by the end of basketball season, I will probably quit school without graduating and go to work full-time. Mom didn’t like it when my older brother Josh dropped out, but I don’t see any choice. Her back hurts too bad for her to work. No work, no money. It is all on me. “I’ll figure it out.”

  “I don’t see it.” He walks away, and I pull garbage from the bus cart. Our customers waste more food in one meal than I have in my whole life. I’ve always been hungry, always. The only decent meals I ever got were at school, until I started working here. Like I told Trina this morning when I told her that I worked at Ryan’s, the food here’s not good, but there’s a lot of it.

  As soon as the clock strikes ten, I race to the cashier. I give her my money. She rings up the price with my discount. I have fifteen minutes to inhale food like we inhaled Cullman last night.

  8

  Sunday Afternoon

  February 12

  Grandma Washington’s house

  “Amen,” my grandmother says. Mom just winces. Her back is killing her, but she still managed to go with her mom to church. They’ve talked about nothing but church since dinner started.

  “Minister Oster was right,” Grandmother says as we eat greasy Chinese takeout. “Remember Proverbs 3:9–10: ‘Honor the Lord with your wealth, with the firstfruits of all your crops; then your barns will be filled to overflowing, and your vats will brim over with new wine.’ ”

  Mom doesn’t agree loud or long enough, so she gets a glare from Grandma. Normally that’s the way Grandma stares at me. She doesn’t like that I work instead of attending church.