Chapter 6
Three days after the meeting, an official-looking notice appeared on our apartment door.
I found it when I came home from school.
NOTICE OF LEASE NONRENEWAL.
My hands went numb.
I read it twice.
The property manager claimed the building would undergo renovations and that our lease would not be renewed when its current term ended.
There was no immediate eviction order.
But the message was clear.
Someone wanted us gone.
I carried the paper inside.
Mom was sitting on the sofa with her work shoes off.
When she saw the notice, her face changed.
"Where did you get that?"
"It was on the door."
She read it.
Then she looked toward the window.
For a long moment, she said nothing.
I knew what she was thinking.
We had lived in that apartment for seven years.
It wasn't beautiful.
The kitchen faucet leaked.
The heater made terrible noises.
And the walls were so thin that I could hear our neighbors arguing.
But it was the only home I had known since Dad died.
Mom worked two jobs to keep us there.
Now somebody wanted to take it away because I had thrown a baseball.
I sat beside her.
"Mom, I'm sorry."
She turned sharply.
"Don't."
My eyes filled.
"If I quit baseball, maybe they'll leave us alone."
She took my face in her hands.
"Malik, I need you to promise me something."
I swallowed.
"What?"
"Never trade your dreams for somebody else's comfort."
I stared at her.
She continued.
"I've spent years teaching you how to survive. Maybe it's time I taught you how to fight for something."
That evening, Rebecca reviewed the notice.
She explained that the landlord couldn't simply remove us without following the lease and applicable housing laws.
She also said the timing raised serious concerns about retaliation.
Mom gathered rent receipts, maintenance requests, and copies of every communication with the property manager.
For the first time, I watched her organize evidence instead of apologizing for needing help.
Rebecca helped her contact a tenant advocacy organization.
Arthur offered emergency housing assistance through a separate charitable fund, but Mom insisted we first understand our legal rights.
"I don't want to run away," she said.
Arthur nodded.
"Then we'll make sure you have the support to stand your ground."
The next morning, something unexpected happened.
A local reporter named Jasmine Cole contacted us.
She had seen the false accusations about me online.
Then she learned that Coach Marcus had been placed on leave.
She wanted to know whether Westbridge had treated me fairly.
Mom was hesitant.
So was I.
I had already spent enough time being discussed by strangers.
But Jasmine offered to focus on the league's eligibility process, the documented facts, and the way low-income children could be excluded from opportunities.
Rebecca reviewed the plan with us.
We agreed to speak.
The interview took place at Riverside Youth Baseball Center.
Jasmine asked me why I had started working at Westbridge.
I looked toward Mom.
Then I answered.
"Because we needed money."
She asked whether I had ever wanted to play baseball.
I laughed nervously.
"Every day."
"Then why didn't you join a team?"
I looked down at my shoes.
"Registration fees. Equipment. Transportation. All of that costs money."
Jasmine nodded.
"What would you say to the people who called you a fraud?"
I thought carefully.
Then I looked directly at the camera.
"I would tell them I'm fourteen. I'm not trying to steal anybody's place. I just want the chance to play."
My voice shook.
Then I added something I hadn't planned to say.
"And I want other kids like me to get that chance too."
Jasmine smiled.
"Thank you, Malik."
The interview aired two days later.
I was terrified to watch it.
Mom sat beside me on the sofa.
Arthur and Coach Harris joined us.
The report showed the baseball field.
The worn equipment at Riverside.
My mother describing how she had struggled to afford sports programs.
It also showed the league's confirmation that my age was legitimate and no improper payment had been established.
Then Jasmine spoke about the housing notice.
She didn't accuse anyone of a crime.
But she reported that the landlord's company was connected to Richard Brooks.
She noted the timing and said our family had requested an explanation.
Within hours, the story spread across the city.
People began sending messages.
Some were kind.
Others were cruel.
But the messages that mattered came from families like ours.
A mother wrote that her son had stopped playing soccer because she couldn't afford the uniforms.
A grandfather said his granddaughter loved basketball but had no transportation to practices.
A former player offered to donate equipment.
For the first time, I realized my story wasn't just about me.
It was about children who had been told they didn't belong because they couldn't pay.
The next afternoon, Coach Harris called me into his office.
Arthur was waiting.
He held an envelope.
"Malik, the league has completed its review."
My heart raced.
"What happened?"
Arthur smiled.
"The allegations were dismissed."
I froze.
"Really?"
He nodded.
"Your eligibility is confirmed. You can enter the regional development tournament."
I shouted so loudly that Coach Harris laughed.
Then I hugged Arthur.
For a moment, everything felt perfect.
But when I pulled away, he looked serious.
"There's something else."
I swallowed.
"What?"
"Tyler has asked to speak with you."
My smile disappeared.
"Why?"
Arthur shook his head.
"I don't know. He says it's important."
I thought about the torn shirt.
The false rumors.
The way Tyler had laughed when I stood beside the mower.
"I don't want to talk to him."
Arthur nodded.
"That's your choice."
I started toward the door.
Then he said, "He told me he has information about his father's involvement in the complaint."
I stopped.
Slowly, I turned around.
"What information?"
Arthur looked troubled.
"He says Coach Marcus didn't act alone."
May you like
My heart began pounding again.
Then he added, "And Tyler claims he can prove it."
