Chinese Handcuffs Page 3

  “Coach, I realize you coach from a complete team concept and all that, but you must know this girl is almost impossible to stop.”

  “That may be so, but if we concentrate on one player, the rest of her team will kick our butts.” Coach smiled and patted the reporter on the shoulder. “Listen, Scotty, write this down. We’re a running team; they’re a running team. They have one of the best athletes in the state, and we have one of the best athletes in the state, both at the same position. Either team would be in the top ten without Jen or Renee Halfmoon. If the teams are up and Renee and Jen are up, well, when Saturday night rolls around, you best wear your boots and bring your shootin’ iron. Guaranteed.”

  Jennifer Lawless read her coach’s comments in the Free Press and smiled. She read them again as she cut them out and placed them on her desk along with articles sent by relatives and friends from all over. It was as if every prep school sports reporter from either side of Washington State had discovered girls’ basketball in the same week as Wakefield. This was only the halfway point in the season, but because of geography, it might be the only time all year that Chief Joseph and Wenatchee would play each other—her only shot at Renee Halfmoon. Jennifer looked forward to it like nothing so far in her life.

  The knock on her bedroom door froze her insides, as always, and she hesitated before answering, in as near normal a voice as she could. “Who goes?”

  “I goes,” came the answer. Her sister, Dawn. “Can I come in?”

  “Sure. Just a sec.” Jennifer got up from the desk and moved to the latch on the door. “Give me the password,” she teased.

  “What password? There’s no password.”

  “That’s it,” Jennifer said through the door and flipped the latch.

  Dawn slipped in, saw the articles on the desk, and moved directly to them, touching them lightly, reverently. “It’s like you’re famous.”

  “A little,” Jennifer replied. She watched Dawn’s eyes, looked at the wonder, wishing there weren’t quite so much worship, but embracing it at the same time.

  “Think you guys can win this game?” Dawn asked.

  “Um-hmm,” Jen said, “I think us guys can win this game.”

  Dawn looked back at the articles a little longer, moving them around. She had none of Jen’s physical toughness, as much lighter in build as she was darker in color. Dawn was the princess of the family, and Jen feared for her. “Is this Halfmoon chick as good as you?”

  “She’s better than me.”

  Dawn’s head shot up. “Oh, no sir,” she said. “She’s not better. No one in the state’s better. It says so right here in this story.” She pointed to one of the clippings.

  “Renee Halfmoon is,” Jennifer said casually. “I’ve seen her play. There’s nothing she can’t do. She’s as sweet as anyone I’ve seen, boys or girls.”

  “Yeah, but she’s not better than you,” Dawn insisted. “Look.” She pointed again to the clippings.

  “Dawn,” Jennifer said impatiently, “most of the people who wrote those articles haven’t seen both of us play, and none of them has seen us play each other. Wait till you see her. I mean, God, she’s liquid.”

  “She’s still not better than you.” Dawn wouldn’t give it up.

  “Okay, little sis.” Jennifer gave in. “She’s not better than me. Tell me about seventh grade. You knockin’ ’em dead?”

  “If she’s better than you,” Dawn said, unable to let this bad news pass, “how come there’s all this newspaper and TV stuff? And how come you said you guys will win?”

  “Because she’s better. I’m tougher. Because the only people in the world who know she’s better are you and me. And when it’s all over, we’ll still be the only ones. Now how are things in junior high? You knockin’ ’em dead?”

  Going into the fourth quarter of the Wenatchee game the score is dead even, and the Coliseum pulsates with intensity. Every word written by every would-be Ring Lardner from the weekly wheat town rags to the Seattle Times has come true. The two top triple-A girls’ teams in the state have just completed three quarters of the best run-and-gun basketball seen in Washington in a decade, with no hint of a letup.

  Jennifer Lawless sits on the bench, a wet towel draped over her head, listening to Coach Sherman map out the last quarter.

  “Okay, listen,” she says with a smile. “This is what it’s all about. From here on only one team in the state finishes on a win. They’re good. They’re in good shape. They ain’t gonna fold, ladies. You’re gonna have to go after this one.”

  The players sit forward. “Yeah! Come on! Let’s get this! Let’s put it away!”

  “Okay,” Kathy says. “That’s what I wanna hear. Now you gotta pressure them. After every score, go to the full-court press. No score, go to the half-court. We’re hanging with them fine, so we’ll stay in a man-to-man. Don’t get too eager and watch the fouls, but play tight. If you get tired, pat your head and we’ll get someone in there for you. We can’t stop Halfmoon’s shot, so we’re going to have to deny her the ball. Make ’em work for every pass. Nothing easy. Jen, you’ve got only one foul, so get on her like a bad smell.”

  Jennifer nods from beneath the towel. She’s concentrating, thinking ahead to Renee’s moves, seeing herself get in front to block her off, make her take the bad shot or trap her down low. So far it’s been a standoff; Renee’s hitting everything she throws up from outside, but Jennifer’s stopping her underneath for the most part. Jennifer’s outside shot is off; but she’s had a spectacular inside game, and she’s controlling the boards like she’d built them, so the superstars have represented an astonishing but equal trade-off. Jennifer pulls the towel down farther over her head and forces everything else out. That’s what Jennifer Lawless is good at—forcing things out.

  The fourth quarter continues at a killing pace, the momentum slipping back and forth like liquid mercury under a squeegee. Neither team can get up by more than four points, and with a minute and a half remaining, Coach Sherman calls for time, down by two. “Okay,” she says, “slow it down just a little. We’ve got the ball, so work for a good shot. Go with number three on the inbound. Jen, you can get loose by the side of the key if you’re quick. Take it underneath. Your outside shot has seen better days. . . .”

  Jennifer nods without speaking, blocking out everything but the move, watching herself make it again and again between now and the time she’ll actually execute it.

  “Think we can win this one?” Coach asks.

  “Yes!”

  “Okay. Get in there and put it away. I’m tired and I want to go home.”

  The players join hands in the center of the huddle, jerk them up and down in unison, yelling, “Kick ass!” in a meter that sounds more like “Ki-kass” and can’t be picked up by the fragile sensibilities of the crowd, and walk to their positions.

  At the whistle Jennifer takes Renee down low, then cuts back to receive the pass, shaking her for the split second it takes to get free. She starts a move to the hoop but is blocked and passes back out quickly. Vickie Knight, Chief Joe’s point guard, takes it back up top and sets up, calling a number and looking for an inside pass. She’s trapped, and Jennifer comes up top to help, gets the pass, and instantly drives to the hoop, catching Renee Halfmoon off guard for a split second, driving behind her to the baseline for a short jumper that barely disturbs the net. Chief Joe goes immediately into a full-court press, and Wenatchee can’t fast-break, instead bringing the ball up slowly amid the deafening roar from the crowd and tremendous court pressure. Renee Halfmoon works her side of the court, trying to shake Jennifer, but Jen fights her way through two poorly set screens, denying Renee any chance at the ball. Wenatchee’s point guard drives toward the hoop and dishes off to the forward on the other side. Out of the corner of her eye Jen sees her own teammate beaten and slides over to help. Renee moves outside and is free to receive the pass and, in the same fluid movement, pops a jumper to put Wenatchee up again by two.

  Jen takes a chance
as the ball leaves Renee’s hand and breaks for the opposite basket while Vickie snatches it out of the net, steps out, and fires a perfect strike to her on the fly. Wenatchee’s point guard streaks after her but has no chance, and Jen goes up untouched for the easy two, tying the score with less than thirty seconds to play, and Chief Joe’s players walk over to Coach Sherman for some of that late-game magic that got them here.

  Only in concentration is there magic. “Just don’t give them a good shot and don’t foul. They have to be hitting at least seventy-five percent from the line. Let’s don’t lose this on a freebie. They’ll go to Halfmoon. Jen, stay on her. If she gets the ball, whoever’s close give Jen some help. No room for mistakes here, ladies. In thirty seconds either we’ll have our excuses or we’ll have this game.”

  The buzzer sounds, and the players take their spots. Wenatchee gets the ball in easily and brings it up slowly, once again under tremendous pressure, working down those last agonizing seconds. Each of Chief Joe’s players is glued to her man, and Wenatchee works furiously to get someone open on picks but is shut off. With eight seconds remaining, Renee Halfmoon breaks for the hoop up high behind her high post’s perfectly set screen on Jen, and Jen spins off to catch her. For a second it appears Renee has her beaten, but Jen miraculously slides to a spot between Renee and the hoop and plants herself. An astonished Renee desperately strains to switch direction at the same time that she pulls up short to avoid the charging foul; but it’s too late, and she flips the ball underhanded toward the hoop. It bounces straight back at them off the front of the rim, striking the court at their feet, headed for out-of-bounds. Both girls dive, neither sure who touched it last, and Jen is able to get her fingertips on it a split second before Renee crashes off-balance into her legs, and the crowd rises in unison to the sound of Jen’s head cracking against the hardwood like a cantaloupe dropped from the rafters. The ref’s whistle calling a loose ball foul on Renee Halfmoon and the game-ending buzzer sound together, and with both teams in the penalty situation, Jen is about to get a chance few athletes ever get and, truth be told, few want. She struggles to her feet; but the court and the crowd and the players spin as if in a slow-motion food processor, and she sinks back to the floor. The players gather around her, followed closely by Dillon Hemingway, the trainer, pushing his way through, kneeling and sticking three fingers in front of her face. “How many?” he yells over the crowd.

  Jennifer slaps his hand away. “I can see,” she lies. “Just give me a sec.”

  Dillon looks back to Coach Sherman, who is still on her way, and waves her back to the bench.

  There is no time on the clock as Jen stands at the top of the key alone. Players from both teams stand behind her, awaiting the outcome of their season, which rests unconditionally on Jen’s ability to drop a freebie under pressure. There will be no rebound, no last-second desperation jumper, but none of that is clear to Jen, whose brain is swimming. She bounces the ball slowly, shaking her head, willing away the throbbing pain deep in the rear of her skull and forcing together as one the two hoops she sees floating before her. Jennifer Lawless has made a living out of free throws all season long, and she has yet to give in to pressure of any kind, and she won’t now if she can just focus on the rim. She shakes her head again, bouncing the ball deliberately, buying precious seconds, and blocking out the screaming crowd. She holds the ball a second longer, then lets it go as darkness crowds in. She does not see it snap the bottom of the net, nor does she hear the Chief Joseph fans erupt.

  CHAPTER 3

  Jennifer tried to lift her head from the pillow, but the throbbing pain forced it back. Lights flashed across the ceiling and walls, and a vaguely familiar silhouette sat motionless against the window to her left. It took her a moment to realize the wail of the siren came from the vehicle in which they rode. Slowly the evening’s events crept back into her head. She squinted again at the figure in the window and realized it was her sister, Dawn. Tears streamed down Dawn’s face as she stared silently out the window. Jen felt a hand on her head, looked up and behind her to see Coach Sherman, sitting next to Dillon.

  “Nasty spill,” the coach said, and Dawn’s head snapped around, relief pouring almost instantly over her face. She leaned over and hugged Jen, then buried her face in Jen’s shoulder.

  Jennifer looked back up at her coach. “Did it go in?”

  “Yes indeedy, it did,” Kathy said.

  Jen pushed back into the pillow. “Thought so.” She rubbed the back of Dawn’s head as Dawn held tightly to her. “Hey, little sis, what’s the matter with you? I got a bump on the head, is all.”

  Dillon reached over and put a hand in the middle of Dawn’s back. “Yeah,” he said. “A bump. About the size of an avocado.”

  “I thought you were dead,” Dawn sputtered into Jen’s shoulder. “I was yelling at you and you wouldn’t answer. I thought you were dead.”

  Coach Sherman laughed. “She was yelling at you. Would’ve woke me up.”

  “Next time,” Jennifer said to Dawn, “put a mirror under my nostrils.”

  “What?”

  “If it fogs up, I’m still alive.”

  Dawn was feeling better, raised her head, and sat back on the ambulance seat. “Hey,” she said, “it’s not funny. I thought something was really wrong.”

  Jennifer flashed on what that could mean for Dawn if it were true. She was relatively certain Dawn didn’t know all—knew the violence, but not the rest.

  “Well, nothing’s really wrong.” She looked to her coach. “Hey, Coach, I’m okay, right? I mean, I won’t have to stay at the hospital or anything, right?”

  “Do you see my medical degree hanging anywhere on the wall?” Kathy asked. “I don’t have any idea. But if the doctor says you stay, you stay. We couldn’t get hold of your parents, so I have the say, understood?”

  “I feel fine,” Jennifer said. “Really. I don’t want to stay overnight, okay?”

  “It’s okay that you don’t want to,” Kathy said. “But it doesn’t mean you won’t.”

  The ambulance pulled up to the emergency door at Sacred Heart Hospital, and in seconds the back doors swung open and medics swooped Jennifer out.

  Following a relatively short wait, lying flat on an examination table, staring into a bright light, Jen heard the door open and the ER doctor step quietly into the room. He looked over the paperwork her coach had filled out with Jen’s help upon entry, then walked over and stood above and behind her. Jen knew from reading his nametag upside down that his name was Christian.

  “Hi,” Jen said. “I can’t stay.”

  “Is that right?” Dr. Christian answered flatly. “Guess we shouldn’t have sent out for Chinese.”

  “Guess not. Really, I have to go home. There’s no one to take care of my sister.”

  “How ’bout you let me examine your gourd before we waste time on an argument we may not need to have?” the doctor said.

  “Okay, I’ll shut up. But I can’t stay.”

  Dr. Christian proceeded to shine his light into Jen’s eyes, asking her sometimes to follow it and sometimes to look straight at a point in front of her. He mumbled a couple of medical mmm-hmms before asking her to sit up. As she made the attempt, the room immediately spun, and nausea swelled in her stomach; but she held on. Dr. Christian watched her sway, a little annoyed she would not be straight with him, then asked her to stand. Jen tried to keep up the charade but, as she stood, felt an overwhelming urge to vomit. She choked it back, one hand grasping the examination table.

  “Let your hand fall free, please,” Dr. Christian said, and Jen complied. The doctor caught her under the arms as her knees buckled. “Can’t see any problem here,” he said sarcastically. “Why don’t you just trot along home?”

  “Funny man,” Jen said as he laid her head back down on the examining table. “What’s wrong?”

  “Probably a moderate concussion,” he said. “I’m sorry, young lady, but I can’t grant your request for a pass. We need to keep an ey
e on you until this dizziness goes away, and we’ll need to keep you awake for a while. If no one’s at your house, there’s no way I can allow you to go there.”

  “My sister’s there.”

  “How old’s your sister?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Sorry, Charlie,” Dr. Christian said, “StarKist wants tunas that are thirteen—”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Yes, I do,” he said, looking again at the chart. “I understand you want to go home. It’s you who doesn’t understand. You’re not going.” He looked at his clipboard. “Who’s Kathy Sherman?”

  “My coach.”

  “She brought you in?”

  “Yeah.”

  The doctor disappeared for a few seconds, returning with Kathy and Dawn, explaining the situation on the way. Dillon remained in the waiting room.

  “You’re here for at least twelve hours,” Kathy said. “Don’t worry. I’ll let your parents know what happened when I take Dawn home. They’ll probably want to come see you.”

  Jen’s throat closed as her mind raced. She was caught. There was no way out of here tonight. She hated her body for betraying her but knew she couldn’t make it to the door if her life depended on it. “Okay,” she said. “But could I talk to you alone for a minute, Coach?”

  “Sure,” she said, glancing at the doctor and Dawn, motioning them with her eyes toward the door.

  “We’ll be right out here,” Dr. Christian said. “I’ll get someone going on your room.”

  When the door closed, Jen took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Coach, could you do me a big favor?”

  “If I can.”

  “Could you not call again? Take Dawn home with you, just for tonight?”

  “Jennifer, I can’t do that. What would your parents do if neither of you came home tonight and no one told them why? Besides sue my ass off, I mean.”

  “They won’t sue,” Jennifer said. “Just take her home with you, okay?”