Page 11 of Without You, Scotch and Sammy 2

“A few hours, I think. You can rest for now while I clean you up. I’ll get you in to see her as soon as I can.”

– Scotch –

Macallistar Blair

“Morning, Turner.”

I look up and grin at my eleven-year-old basketball buddy. “Mornin’ Mac. Ready for me to whip your ass today?”

“You’re dreaming,” he scoffs, walking toward me in red high top’s and a shirt that goes half way down his thighs. Macallistar is the only son of Katrina Blair, a mid-twenties single mom who works at the local diner more hours than she’s home. She’s not a negligent mom, she’s simply doing the best she can, but that leaves Mac home alone a lot, and as is the case with most kids his age, too much boredom leads to getting into trouble.

Last year, at the ripe old age of ten, Mac was caught trying to break into a car. He had nowhere to be, he was simply bored and wanted to know if he could do it. He could and he did.

Alex was patrolling that day and happened across the foul-mouthed little shit. He brought him into the station where Mac promptly transformed from big mouth to mute for hours. Eventually, he fessed up his and his mom’s names. Katrina came flying into the station with tears in her eyes and twitching hands ready to beat his ass for being so bad.

Alex gave them a bit of a scare, they talked about juvi and what it would mean for kids like Mac, then he told her he’d be by the following week to check in with them. And the week after that. And the week after that. Mac didn’t go quietly though. He told my brother exactly what he thought of the police and how much he liked them, but I guess with familiarity and Alex’s non-reactionary behavior, Mac started to cool it toward him. Eventually, Alex happened across Mac at the local basketball courts instead of screwing around and in trouble, so as a reward for not being a shit, he bought the kid a new ball. They played some one-on-one for a few hours and a new friendship blossomed between a couple of foul-mouthed assholes as they bonded over cheap shots and cheating.

It’s not uncommon for Alex to introduce me to kids like Mac. I play in the band a few nights a week and I may have gotten my law degree because I needed to prove to myself that I could do it, even if Fred Ricardo will never know about it, but by day, I work with kids like Mac at the local community center. Troubled youth in need of impartial adult guidance and someone to perhaps give them advice if they ask for it.

I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with my life while I was in high school. I couldn’t see past the band and Sammy, but eventually, once the dust settled and real life continued to speed past me while I stood still and watched the blur, I decided maybe I’d like to help kids; kids in situations similar to the one Sammy and I found ourselves in.

Mac is only eleven, but I also help the older teens. Fifteen and sixteen-year-old trouble making boys, seventeen and eighteen-year-old pregnant girls. Thirteen-year-old thugs who’ve had their hands on guns they should never have even laid eyes on. I’ve had them all walk through my office, and I do the best I can to give those kids a voice, get them straight, and give them a hand up.

Maybe I can give a kid something, something I wish someone could have offered Sammy when she was a scared teenager in a situation she found spiraling out of her control. For reasons I’ll never know, she didn’t come to me, but maybe she could have gone to someone else. If she’d had someone else, then maybe that someone’s voice might have counteracted that of her parents.

Mac stops in front of me, smiling like a goof ball and bringing me back to reality. I refocus on his moppy hair and smile. I think it’s ugly as shit the way he’s shaved one whole side of his head, then the other side is all Justin Bieber-esque as it flops down over his eyes and ear. He assures me this was the style he asked for, and no, the clippers didn’t have a stroke, and no, he didn’t fall head-first under a lawn mower. He actually paid for that monstrosity, but hey, my job is to not judge; drug use, delinquent activities… terrible haircuts.

“Did you do your homework? I’m not playing ‘till you show me your papers.”

He smiles the smile of a man beyond his years, and two tiny little dimples pop below his lips. “I’ve got somethin’ even better than that for ya.” He swaggers toward me with a blue and white basketball under one arm while his other hand reaches around to his back pocket. He pulls out a cream card, folded in half, then folded in half again, and thrusts the small square toward me.

“What is it?”

He sniffs arrogantly and shuffles from his left foot to his right. “You can just call me Santy Claus.”

I laugh at his cocky attitude and begin to unfold the card, then my eyes stop on the neat row of A’s and B’s. My gaze snaps to his as the pride shines in his green eyes. “Your report card?”

He smiles wide and tucks his hair behind his ear. “Yup.”

I literally run my thumb along the A’s and B’s. “This is the best report card I’ve ever seen in my life, Mac!”

“Aw, nah.” The cocky man is replaced with a shy child. “Bet that’s not true.”

It’s not true, but it’s right up there, and I’m so fucking proud of the little shit, I’ll never tell him different. “It totally is. You just made my day, bud.”

“I showed my mom last night.”

My eyes come back up to his. “Yeah?”

“She cried.” He says the word cry as though it was covered in girl germs, but damn, I know he’s proud of himself too. This time last year, he wasn’t even being handed report cards. He was given notes to take home to Katrina to attend parent teacher meetings.

“I think I might cry too.” I wipe a knuckle below my eye mockingly.

“Shut the hell up!” Mac steps forward and punches me in the chest. “Let’s play some ball. I gotta kick your ass. I owe you from last time.”

I snatch the ball from under his arm, then turn and swish it through the hoop twenty feet away. “I was gonna treat you to a celebratory ice-cream or something…”

His eyes pop wide with excitement. “Yeah?”

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