Free Boy21 by Matthew Quick Page B

mad at me.
    I decide to kiss her on the lips, and, because it’s not officially basketball season yet, I do just that.

20
    ERIN AND I EAT OUR THANKSGIVING MEAL at the Quinns’. The dining room is very narrow and it’s hard to pull the folding chairs out so that you can sit down. None of the chairs match and the table is an old wood job with lots of scratches on it. The silverware is mismatched and crappy. Erin’s parents are wearing depressing old sweat suits. Her mom’s in a pink Minnie Mouse number and her dad’s is plain navy blue.
    Rod is there and I have to admit that he intimidates me, especially knowing what he allegedly did to Don Little.
    During the meal, Rod says, “Anyone in the neighborhood bothering you?”
    “Nah,” I say. Rod’s now got a tattoo on his neck. Something written in Irish, I think. I don’t know Irish.
    “What about you, Erin?” he asks.
    “No,” she says. “Do you ever play ball anymore, Rod?”
    “Nope,” he says, which makes me sad because he played ballwith us all the time when we were younger, and he was a great point guard. Dad used to take me to see him play back when Rod was at Bellmont High, playing for Coach. Rod was pretty awesome. I once saw him get a triple double against Pennsville—sixteen assists, eighteen points, ten rebounds.
    “Your team going to be any good this year?” he asks me.
    “I think so,” I say. “Erin’s team will be too.”
    “Coach is pretty much the only good black man I’ve ever met,” Rod says, ignoring my comment about his sister. “And that’s really sayin’ something.”
    Erin opens her mouth, no doubt to call Rod on his racist statement, but then she thinks better of it. She doesn’t want the family to fight on Thanksgiving, especially since Rod hardly visits anymore, which bothers Erin. She misses Rod—the
old
Rod who used to play ball with us when we were kids. He never used to say racist stuff.
    I think about saying something too, like
I know a lot of good black men
, but I also know my place in the neighborhood. Truth is, I’m afraid of the new tattooed Irish mob Rod, just like everyone else.
    We eat in silence for a few minutes.
    Erin’s parents are older than my father and a little strange too. Her dad’s quiet like me and avoids eye contact during the meal. Her mother’s a nervous woman who makes so many trips to and from the kitchen that she never really sits down long enough to eat, let alone have a conversation.
    Erin’s parents look a little like wrinkly deflated zombies. Sounds funny to say, but it’s true. There’s not a lot of life in either of them.
    In some ways, their row home is a little nicer than mine. They even have a flat-screen TV, a computer, and Internet access, but I wonder how much of that Rod covers, especially since Mr. Quinn has been out of work for a long time and Mrs. Quinn works down at the town hall as a secretary, so she can’t make all that much cash. There are some questions you simply don’t ask in Bellmont, because no one wants to know the answers.
    “I’ll get you some more meat” is the most Mrs. Quinn says to me during the meal.
    Erin tries to get everyone talking by asking what each of us is thankful for.
    “Turkey,” her father says.
    “Family,” her mom says.
    “Guinness and Jameson,” Rod says.
    “Basketball,” I say.
    “Finley,” Erin says.
    “And Erin,” I say.
    “And basketball,” Erin says.
    Erin and I look each other in the eyes.
    Rod snorts and shakes his head.
    We finish eating in silence.
    Just as soon as he swallows his last bite of pumpkin pie, Rod leaves.
    Mr. and Mrs. Quinn both fall asleep on the couch.
    After Erin and I wash and dry the dishes, we go to my house, where we find Pop passed-out drunk in his wheelchair again, clutching Grandmom’s green rosary beads, just like every other holiday, because special occasions make him miss his wife even more.
    We present my dad with the plate of food that Erin wrapped up and sit with him while he