Cruise Control by Terry Trueman

ambulance and Tim in a cop car.
    As Cindy told me this, she cried a lot. I didn’t know what to say to her, so I didn’t say much at all. I know she and Tim care about each other, but since neither of them talks to me about that, what could I say? I patted her on the back and told her everything would be okay, which, of course, is probably bull; I have no idea how everything is going to be.
    The whole thing is pretty weird. It’s weird that Tim would finally unload on his butt-streak residue of a stepdad. Although everybody has limits, Tim’s about as mellow as anybody I know. It’s also weird how on that night Tim and I got drunk, Tim said he wasn’t ever getting out of here. If he can’t play in the tournament, in front of college recruiters, his chances of getting a scholarship are almost nil. So maybe he was right. Maybe I was right too; maybe neither of us is getting out. But of all the guys I know, Tim would be the last one I’d ever imagine being stuck here for something like this. I’d be the first.

CHAPTER NINETEEN
    W e’re done with practices for the rest of the week. No more shoot-arounds, no more scrimmages against one another. It’s down to the wire now. This coming week is the trip to Spokane and the tournament. Losing Tim is bad, but the team has done a good job not getting distracted, and everyone knows that losing him means we’ve got to ratchet our games up a notch. Nobody says something else that we all know too: that without Tim, I’m going to have to be the best I’ve ever been.
    No Shoreline High School team has ever won state before. The best anybody ever did was make the semifinals, and that was like a thousand years ago. So the pressure is on. Even I feel it. Before our last game with Kennedy I had a weird kind of calmness, but now, with the tourney approaching, I feel like I’m being stuck with a hundred little needles every time I think about it.
    I’m out in front of the house shooting some practice shots by myself. Nothing wants to go in. I’m shooting simple little ten-footers and six-footers and even layins. Every shot I put up rims out.
    And who should drive up before I can figure out what I’m doing wrong with my shot? My dad, of course.
    I haven’t seen him or spoken to him since the day we had the argument in the driveway. Even though Mom told me to talk to him, I still don’t want to, and why does it have to be right now? Whatever Mom said about sending him away, Dad still bailed on us; nothing he can say to me will change that.
    I try to ignore him and just keep shooting the ball, but out of the corner of my eye I see him park his car, get out, and start walking toward me. Damn.
    â€œPauly,” he calls out.
    I ignore him.
    â€œPauly—” he says again, and realizing I can’t escape, I take the ball and set it on the ground. I look at him.
    â€œI—” he starts, but I interrupt.
    â€œNobody calls me that.”
    â€œWhat?”
    I say, “You heard me. Nobody calls me that. It’s Paul, not Pauly.”
    Dad takes a deep breath, like a sigh, and says, “But I’ve always called you Pauly.”
    â€œRight,” I say, and just stare at him.
    He takes another breath and says, “Okay, Paul. Paul, can I talk to you for a minute?”
    I answer, “No … definitely not, no.”
    Dad says, “Come on, Paul. I promise, it’ll just take a minute, okay?”
    I think, Shit, shit, shit, but I hear myself say, “Whatever …”
    As Dad walks over and sits on the porch steps, he turns off his cell phone. He never turns it off, so this talk must mean something to him. He waits for me to come sit down. I don’t want to, I really don’t, but somehow my feet carry me to the porch.
    Dad says, “Listen, I’m sorry about being such an asshole the other day.”
    I think, The other day? What about every day?!
    It’s like he’s