Verwandte Artikel zu Frank #3 (Blacktop, Band 3)

Frank #3 (Blacktop, Band 3) - Softcover

Buch 3 von 4: Blacktop

Alonge, LJ

 
9781101995662: Frank #3 (Blacktop, Band 3)
Softcover
ISBN 10: 1101995661 ISBN 13: 9781101995662
Verlag: Penguin Young Readers Group, 2017

Inhaltsangabe

An action-packed basketball series from author LJ Alonge set on the courts of Oakland, CA.

Frank’s not great at staying out of trouble. He’s also not great at driving cars. After his joyride ends in a crash, he’s stuck with a court-appointed Community Mentor for the summer. 

But it’s not too bad. Officer Appleby’s all right. And if anyone can handle a basketball team, a police officer, and a new girl on the horizon, it’s Frank Torres.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

LJ Alonge has played pick-up basketball in Oakland, Los Angeles, New York, Kenya, South Africa and Australia. Basketball's always helped him learn about his community, settle conflicts, and make friends from all walks of life. He's never intimidated by the guy wearing a headband and arm sleeve; those guys usually aren't very good. As a kid, he dreamed of dunking from the free throw line. Now, his favorite thing to do is make bank shots. Don't forget to call "bank!"

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CHAPTER 1: PARADISE

I’m sprinting up the sideline when I catch an outlet pass from Janae. Homegirl likes to throw passes that make your palms sting, the kind that leave a mark. I stop at the top of the key to look around the court. Life Lesson #553: When you’re vertically challenged, you’ve got to think your way to the rim. In front of me is a Foot Locker All-Star, a guy with a neon headband and neon arm-sleeve and a pair of shoes that would take me a whole summer of hustling to cop. He spits in his hands and slaps the dusty concrete. He swipes angrily at the ball. Sure thing, buddy. The funny thing is, a different me would’ve paid him a visit after the game and “borrowed” his sneakers.
 
I set my feet, twisting my shoes until I can hear the gravel crunch. I flip some stray hair out of my eyes. I jab step left and crossover right and he’s toast, instantly in my rearview, nothing left of him but a whiff of Old Spice. The crowd starts spazzing, each ooh and ahhh and órale like a piece of Pop Secret. Later I might feel a little bad for the kid, getting embarrassed like that. But right now it’s all business. I’m at home close to the rim, with all the trees, so when some big guy starts waving his branches, I squeeze an underhand pass to Justin, who’s waiting in his sweet spot under the rim.
 
Justin lays it in off the backboard baby-soft. Ball game.
 
We win so much it’s no big deal anymore. Forget the sweaty hugs, the jumping up and down, the yelling. That’s amateur stuff you do when you think
you’re going to lose. That was the beginning of the summer, when we were just happy to lose by less than thirty, when we didn’t even have jerseys. It ain’t like that anymore. Now we show up and kick ass. Now we scare teams into staying home. Last week we had two games canceled because every kid on the other team conveniently had a sick abuela to take care of. “Some weird
flu going around,” they all lied. We haven’t lost in forever, and after every game we shake hands, real cool, like we knew we were going to win all along.
 
Justin and I got a special handshake. It’s hard to explain but it takes a full minute to finish and includes a part where we pretend to turn Super Saiyan.
 
“I couldn’t even see you when I made that pass,” I tell him.
 
“That’s crazy,” he says, smirking. “How do you pat yourself on the back with such short arms?”
 
I try to surprise him with a punch in the shoulder, but he shrugs it off and puts me in a headlock. I’m pinned against his chest, inhaling armpit fumes. Part of his jersey ends up in my mouth and I swallow a bunch of vinegary sweat. His biceps press against my throat. He’s got a little meat on his bones now, I’ll give him that. There was a time when he wouldn’t even have dreamed of putting his hands on me. But now that he’s got a girlfriend he’s all grown up, real tough. I’m happy for him, I really am, but that doesn’t stop me from winding up for a couple of kidney shots.
 
“Just say, ‘Justin Shaw is better than me at everything and he gets more girls than I do’ and I’ll let go.”
 
“Okay, okay,” I say. “Justin Shaw is—” and as soon as he relaxes I elbow him in the gut. He bends over and groans like a tied-up dog.
 
Everybody’s laughing. Sometimes it’s scary to feel this good. I mean, we just won and the crowd’s still buzzing and the sky’s Crayola blue and there’s an older girl in the crowd eyeing me and I got money in my pocket and I got no issues with nobody. The problem is that these moments never last. A fun fact about my life is that there’s always some bullshit right around the corner. Always a fly in the soup. Life Lesson #508: If one thing is going really well, that just means something else is about to go really, really wrong. So I’m not even surprised when I see Officer Appleby, my court-appointed Community Mentor, politely squeezing his way through the crowd.
 
“All I can say,” he says, shaking his head, “is wow. My goodness, what a game! What. A. Game! The way you passed! The way you dribbled!”
 
I can feel a bunch of eyes suddenly on us. A dark ring of sweat lines the collar of Officer Appleby’s polo. The whole thing is starched cardboard-stiff. Officer Appleby’s the least police-officer-looking police officer I’ve ever seen. Just looking at his wide-legged khakis makes me cringe.
 
He shakes everyone’s hand. Officer Appleby doesn’t take shaking hands lightly. The first time he came to see us play, he gave us all a lesson on it. Extra-firm grip, bold eye contact, confident nod. Let the other guy release first. A good handshake, he said, will open “many a door.” He never did say which doors or where they went. Now, Justin and I have an “Appleby” part of our handshake routine where we squeeze each other’s hand until we can feel our bones rubbing together and one of us quits.
 
As my Community Mentor, Officer Appleby’s responsible for keeping tabs on me between 7:00 a.m. and 7:00 p.m. Every morning I have to text him and tell him about my daily plans. A couple of times a week we’ll spend a few minutes talking about my feelings, about where my “disruptive behaviors” come from. If he’s got a call in our neighborhood, he drops by to see what I’m up to. But it’s not as bad as it seems. He never yells, not even when I lie and throw him off with a b.s. schedule. And sometimes he’ll stop by for dinner and tell us about the funny calls he gets during the day: the guys trapped in the bathroom by their angry cats, the neighbors mad at each other for leaving their Christmas lights up too long. When we’re done, he’ll take everyone’s plates to the sink, roll his sleeves up, and start scrubbing, even if Mamá protests.
 
“What?” Officer Appleby will say. “I can’t hear you over the water. Let me finish these dishes first and then we’ll talk.”
 
Mamá will pout but stay seated. When you’ve been in the kind of trouble I’ve been in, the Officer Applebys of the world ain’t too bad.
 
 
 
As I walk up my block I see; Mamá standing barefoot on the lawn, trying to smooth out the wrinkles in her pajamas. Her hair is all crazy-looking, a frizzy brown bun, a bird’s nest. My spidey senses are tingling. Mamá can be a little weird—you should see her when she’s painting—but she never steps out in nothing but the flyest. She’d die before she let the neighbors catch her without lipstick on. Wrapped around her leg is my kid brother, Tomás, also in his pajamas, his thumb stuck deep in his mouth. I’m still a couple of houses down when she waves me over.
 
“A bird’s in the house!” she yells. Tomás buries his face in her leg. “Papi’s trying to kill it!”
 
“Why don’t he just open the windows?” I ask.
 
She tries to tuck a couple of stray strands into her bun but they fall right out. “Please, Frankie, just go help him. I can’t work with no bird in the house.”
 
When I get inside, curtains are blowing in the breeze like little ghosts. Papá is watching a baseball game.
 
“You need my help?” I ask.
 
“Oh,” Papá laughs. “The bird?...

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Verlag
Penguin Young Readers Group
Erscheinungsdatum
2017
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
1101995661
ISBN 13 
9781101995662
Einband
Taschenbuch
Zeichner
Allen Raul
Anzahl der Seiten
128
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
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gpsr@phaidon.com

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