The Long Shot. Ellen Hartman

read with ease, but his memory was exceptional. Without that, he’d never have been able to fake his way along so effectively.

       “The community service is the key. If he does that and shows up at the next hearing at school with some letters of recommendation, he can be reinstated, right?”

       Victor nodded.

       “So I just need to find community service for him to do.”

       “Or you could let him find it.”

       “Right.”

       “Seriously, man. You’ve been cleaning up after Wes your whole life. How many times did he get suspended from high school? Six? Eight? And that vandalism thing when he was a sophomore?”

       “That was a prank. They’d sprayed Silly String on some statue, and the town had come down on them because they were from the private school.”

       “Be that as it may, Deacon, he’s eighteen. He’s old enough to take responsibility for himself.”

       “What if he won’t?” Deacon stood. “My parents never did. What if he’s got whatever they had inside them—and this is the beginning of the end for him?”

       “All the more reason you need to step back and let him stand on his own.”

       “You know what he’ll do? He’ll find someone in town to give him a cushy job and he’ll live here in our cushy place. How will that change him?”

       “What are you going to do? Put him into some hard-labor camp?”

       “I don’t know.”

       Victor said, “Any chance he could work for a literacy group?”

       Deacon’s ears went hot with shame. Victor knew he hated to talk about this. “He’s not a teacher.”

       “You’re twenty-eight years old, D. You’ve got years ahead of you to find a girlfriend, maybe have a kid or two, be an uncle to Wes’s kids and godfather to mine if I can ever find a woman with taste impeccable enough to marry me.” Vic held the eye contact. “Maybe you can do all that and keep up the lies about your reading, but it’ll be hard. A part of you will always be off-limits. Is that what you want?”

       “Wes doesn’t have to know.” And if Vic didn’t shut up about it pretty quick, Deacon was going to hit him.

       “I’m not trying to be a jerk, D, but you’re making a mistake. When he was younger, just out of foster care, he needed you to be the adult. I respect the hell out of you for what you did, and you know it. But he’s an adult now, or as good as. Might be nice to lean on him for some of this stuff.”

       “Are you telling me you don’t want to help me out?”

       “Don’t be a jackass. I’m just saying maybe he’d like to know you’ve struggled with stuff.”

       Deacon felt sick at the thought of telling Wes. He couldn’t bear to see the look on his brother’s face if he found out he couldn’t read. “He’s so damn smart, Vic. He reads all the time. I know he’s in college, but I’m still the only person he’s got to steer him straight. If I tell him I was passed through school with fewer skills than an eight-year-old, he might stop listening to me altogether. How would he ever respect me again?”

       “I respect you.”

       “That’s different.”

       “How?”

       “You don’t depend on me.”

       “Maybe it’s time for Wes to quit depending on you. You’ve been carrying him a long while. He might be glad to know he can do something for you.”

       “I don’t think that would be helpful, Vic. But thank you for the suggestion.”

       Victor shrugged. “No need to go all Ms. Manners on me, Deacon. I knew you wouldn’t want to hear it, but I had to say it. Honesty, that’s why you pay me the big bucks.”

       Deacon nodded. “Well, honesty is annoying.”

       “So is stubbornness,” Victor said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

       They walked together to the side door.

       Deacon said, “Honesty isn’t annoying, Vic. I just can’t tell him about this.”

       “You can tell him. You don’t want to.”

       “And now we’re back to annoying.”

       They shook hands. Deacon locked the door behind Victor, then picked up the ball. He spun it on his index finger, then gave it a bounce and spun it on his middle finger before tossing it in front of him and then in one smooth move scooping it up, passing it behind his back and tossing it into the basket. Two points. No sweat. There wasn’t a thing in the world he couldn’t do. Except order off a menu, pick out a birthday card or read the freaking letter when his brother got suspended from college.

      * * *

      WHEN THE PHONE rang an hour or so later, he was in his room, trying unsuccessfully to nap. He rolled off the bed to grab it, desperate for a distraction.

       “May I speak to Deacon Fallon?”

       “This is Deacon.”

       The pause that followed went on a little too long. “Sorry. I wasn’t expecting you to answer the phone.”

       Must be a reporter. He didn’t get as many calls as he used to, but when basketball season started, he usually received a few requests for information. Draft season never passed without a half-dozen calls from reporters looking for a quote.

       He wasn’t in the mood to talk about basketball and he almost hung up. But this woman’s caller ID had a Milton area code and he was curious. He grabbed his glasses before he plugged in the earpiece for his phone, then tucked the phone in his pocket. He walked out of the bedroom and down the long hallway to the great room.

       “Deacon, this is Julia Bradley,” she said as if she thought he’d recognize her name.

       “Uh, hi,” he said, stalling for time and hoping she’d give him some clue about how he knew her. The remote was stuffed between two cushions on the couch and he fished it out to flick ESPN on.

       “I was your guidance counselor at Milton High School. Ms. Bradley?”

      Ms. Bradley. He wouldn’t have put that together—he’d never called her Julia in his life. She’d been serious, he remembered. Tried like hell to get him to stay in school. She’d jabbed her finger at his coach’s chest during one tense conversation. He’d been half afraid his coach would slap her. He hadn’t thought about that in years, but the scene was still vivid in his memory.

       She’d been new to Milton and hadn’t understood how things worked there. He’d been terrified someone might listen to her and upset his plan to turn pro. Everything back then had been so touch-and-go—he sometimes thought he’d held his breath his entire senior year.

       A scene from shop class came back to him. The guys had spent most of one period debating whether the new guidance counselor was wearing a thong under her dress at the student awards assembly. Just like that, the image of her at the podium, the light from the back of the stage outlining her legs and the curve of her hips under her skirt, returned as fresh as if it had happened that morning, not ten years ago.

       “Ms. Bradley,” he choked out. “Good to see you. I mean, hear from you.” He clicked the remote again, shutting off the TV.

       “Well, I hope you’ll still feel that way when you find out I’m asking for a favor.”

       “What do you need?” Maybe a signed jersey or a ball. People phoned every once in a while asking for stuff to raffle off.

       “I need a basketball coach. A reputable, skilled basketball coach who’s willing to work for nothing. The athletic budget has been cut to the bone.”