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  LAUREL-LEAF BOOKS

  LOSING IS NOT AN OPTION, Rich Wallace

  PLAYING WITHOUT THE BALL, Rich Wallace

  WRESTLING STURBRIDGE, Rich Wallace

  THE WHITE FOX CHRONICLES, Gary Paulsen

  THE BEET FIELDS: MEMORIES OF A

  SIXTEENTH SUMMER, Gary Paulsen

  KIT’S WILDERNESS, David Almond

  HOLES, Louis Sachar

  HOOPS, Walter Dean Myers

  THE WHITE MERCEDES, Philip Pullman

  CRASH, Jerry Spinelli

  Published by Laurel-Leaf

  an imprint of Random House Children’s Books

  a division of Random House, Inc.

  New York

  Text copyright © 1997 by Rich Wallace

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address Alfred A. Knopf Books for Young Readers.

  LAUREL-LEAF and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  www.randomhouse.com/teens

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at

  www.randomhouse.com/teachers

  eISBN: 978-0-307-47778-1

  Reprinted by arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf Books for Young Readers

  First Laurel-Leaf Edition October 2001

  v3.1_r1

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Also Available from Laurel-Leaf Books

  Title Page

  Copyright

  1 Stutter-Steps

  2 Narrating My Life

  3 A Punch in the Stomach

  4 Deeswashing

  5 The First of One Hundred

  6 Soccer Weather

  7 Footstepper

  8 Opportunity

  9 Nerves

  10 The Mental Court

  11 Haircut

  12 Home

  13 Eleven Musketeers

  14 The Methodist Pope

  15 Sorting Pennies

  16 Dirt and Sweat

  17 Little Juke

  18 The Octoberfest

  19 Work

  20 Moving Forward

  21 Payback

  22 The Truth

  23 Halloween

  24 The Champions

  25 Twenty Seconds

  26 Bigger Steps

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  1

  STUTTER-STEPS

  You sweep it away with the outside of your foot, dodging quickly left, then right, and spurting past the defender. You’re as tough as anybody out there, you keep telling yourself, racing now to keep up with the ball.

  You need to arc toward the goal, but they’re closing in from every angle. You pivot and stumble and the ball bounds away. Now it’s whizzing past, waist-high in the opposite direction, and you turn and curse and scramble down the field.

  It’s mid-September, and the sweat evaporates quickly in the less-humid air. It’s easy to breathe hard. You’re fifteen, and she’s watching, and the blood is close to the surface as you dodge and twist and chase the ball over thick, evenly mowed grass that shines in the slanted light.

  Here it comes, shoulder-high but dropping, and you stop it with your chest, bumping it forward and catching it after the first bounce with your foot. Then you’ve crossed midfield, with running room ahead, and you and the ball and your teammates and the breeze are funneling toward the goal, angling away from the sideline with your chin upraised and eyes open wide.

  A stutter-step and an acceleration get you past a defender, and in two more strides you send a long, floating pass toward Joey by the goal. There’s contact, a flurry of wrists and knees, and the ball suddenly bullets into the net, beyond the outstretched arms of the goalkeeper.

  You drive your fists in exhilaration. Your whole body is a fist, flexed but not tense, and you’re as tough as anybody out there. You run and leap and drive your fists again.

  You’re fifteen and she’s watching and you’re winning. You’re aware of the grass shining in the late afternoon sunlight, of the strength and fatigue in your muscles, and the dryness in your throat you deserve to quench.

  Aware of your teammates, of the shouts of the sparsely gathered crowd, and the something in the air that says autumn.

  Joey asks me about her after the game, grabbing me lightly above the elbow. “She here to watch you?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug, pausing, halfway to the locker room. Shannon’s standing back by the bleachers with two other girls. She glances my way. My mouth is hanging open.

  “You going to the game tonight?” Joey asks, meaning the football game, on the big field downtown.

  “Yeah. Why not?” I look around again. She’s getting into a car. Joey’s started walking again, so I bite on my lip and jog a couple steps to catch him. “You come by for me?”

  “I might.” Joey’s shorter than I am, just as fast, and really is as tough as anybody. He nods. “I’ll swing by about seven.”

  She’ll be at the game. Everybody will. I stare at her in the afternoons from the back of the study hall, while she twirls her tawny hair around a finger and reads novels with shiny paper covers. I’ve seen her watching me, too, as I head for the practice field after school or sit on the hood of a car in the lot.

  And I’ve said hello once or twice, even went as far as “How’s it going?” the other day.

  She looks at me, too. And she came to the game.

  I sit on the bench in front of my locker, pulling off my spikes and examining a long new scratch on my knee. There’s a cloud of steam rising from the showers and I strip off my jersey, running my fingers through my damp tangled hair.

  Guys are snapping towels and laughing, proud; nobody figured on three straight wins. I grab my towel and a tube of shampoo, pushing the green cage locker shut. Joey’s got the tape player on and the floor’s wet and I can taste dried sweat on my lips.

  The water beats down on my chest and the few wiry hairs there look darker, pressed against my skin. The heat loosens my muscles; there’s a whole weekend ahead.

  I step into work boots and dungarees and a denim shirt. Joey pokes me in the shoulder and says, “That was a really nice pass, Bones. Catch you later.”

  I’ve been coming to Friday night football games at this stadium since I was about seven, sitting high in the bleachers with my father. Tonight I can feel the electricity like never before as me and Joey approach from a side street a few blocks away. The school band is assembled; we hear the thin, brassy music in the distance.

  “You watch Bugs Bunny tonight?” Joey asks.

  “No. My mother doesn’t let us have the TV on when we eat.”

  He stops walking. “How come in almost every one there’s this scene where Elmer Fudd or somebody is chasing Bugs, and Bugs runs into a bedroom to hide, and when Elmer busts in, Bugs is standing there in lacy women’s underwear? And then Bugs screams and Elmer slams the door and blushes.”

  “Sounds familiar.” I kind of pull him on the shoulder and we start walking again.

  “They had one of the really old ones on,” he says. “Porky Pig, of all people, is out hunting and he thinks Bugs gets shot. So Porky tries to do CPR, but he has to pry Bugs’s hands off his chest, and when he does, you see that Bugs has a bra on. So Bugs screams and jumps up, and he flutters away like a ballerina or something.” Joey puts his hands up and wriggles his fingers and takes some little prancy sidesteps.

  “You do that good,” I say.

  He frowns. “I was demonstrating.”

  “So, what ar
e you saying? He’s … what?”

  “I think he likes it. I think maybe he bats left-handed now and then.”

  I shrug. “He’s an actor.”

  “Yeah, but you can tell he’s enjoying it. I think he’s a transvestite.”

  I put my hands over my ears and fake like I’m horror-stricken.

  We’ve reached the field. It’s bright and noisy, as if all the town’s energy is compressed into this bowl. The stands are just about full.

  We sit near midfield, ten rows up. I’m wearing a blue windbreaker with the school’s name and a soccer ball decaled on the back. The teams are warming up on the field.

  It looks like Joey shaved. He’s got his glasses on tonight, so he looks kind of refined. He’s wearing the same jacket I am.

  Shannon’s down there by the fence, alone, looking up at the crowd. I catch her eye and lift a finger in recognition, and there’s no question that her face brightens. Any room? she mouths, and I nod with my whole face and wave her up.

  Joey shifts to the left, I shift to the right, and she’s sitting where I want her, soft and firm on the concrete bleachers. She’s the best contribution to the mix of cigar smoke and powder and cologne under lights that are brighter than daylight.

  I try not to smile too wide as she squeezes in, but I’m almost laughing with happiness. She says something to Joey about a history assignment, and he smirks and waves it off. “I’ll do it the night before it’s due,” he says.

  She’s got on this tan kind of coat and a dark shirt underneath, and she seems somehow livelier than I’ve ever seen in school. She waves to two of her friends who are walking down below, and they make faces at her like We can see what you’re up to, honey.

  “You played really well today,” she says, poking me on the arm.

  “Not bad,” I say, pumping up a little more.

  Fourth quarter comes and we’ve been laughing for most of the game, me and her. But the Pepsi I bought at halftime needs to escape, so I get up and head for the bathroom, pushing through the crowd.

  I bump into Herbie the goalie with some others from the team. “Hanging out later?” he asks.

  “Yeah, I’d say so.” I’ve got on a wry kind of smile, hands in the pockets of my windbreaker.

  “We’re hitting McDonald’s after the game. You up for it?”

  “Think I’ll pass. I got other plans.”

  “Yeah, I saw you up there with her. Decent.”

  “Well, I gotta go,” I say. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  I get back to the stands and offer her some M&Ms. She takes two red ones. Our school is ahead by a couple of touchdowns. When the game ends I kind of nudge her. “You wanna, you know, go get something to eat or something?”

  She looks a little embarrassed all of a sudden. “Oh. Didn’t Joey tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Well, I asked him to take me out after the game.” She smiles, tilting her head just a bit in consolation. “Sorry.”

  I look at Joey and my mouth hangs open again. Joey looks down at his shoes, then out at the field.

  “Oh,” Shannon says in a hurry, “why don’t you come along?”

  I bite down on my lip, scanning the crowd. “Nah … I see Herbie over there. I’ll catch up to him and see what’s going on. Thanks anyway. See ya.”

  Sure I will.

  I walk down the bleachers and head to where Herbie and the other guys are, glancing back once to see her and Joey walking up toward street level. I stand around while Herbie and the others bust chops, staring out across the field to the highway, at the traffic headed for home.

  I inch away from the group, toward the exit at the far end of the stadium. The band is still playing the fight song, but it’s far away now. I’m numb.

  I shuffle through the excited crowd, out the gate in a hurry. After two blocks I’m clear of the lights and the sounds of the stadium, my boots kicking up the first fallen leaves of the season. I begin to run easy, to get the feeling back, and bite down on my lip.

  Joey hadn’t said ten words the whole game. I’d been at my best; I had things to say, for once. Her warm brown eyes held some genuine interest. She’d been at the game this afternoon.

  I move into the street to pass a guy walking home from the stadium with his little boy, no more than seven.

  I pass by the school, dark and closed, and now I’m running faster, hopping the curb to cross a side street. The sweat is starting under my clothes, and I shake my hair back out of my eyes. I dodge quickly left, then right, chin upraised and defiant. A stutter-step and an acceleration get me past the defender, urging the ball ahead, my eyes taking in the whole field but focused on that area of ground between me and the sideline.

  There’s running room ahead, but they’re closing in from every angle. You’re tough, as tough as anybody out there, taking in the grunts of the opponents, struggling with unskilled feet to work the ball down the field; so keenly aware of the immediate space you need to conquer, less sharply aware of the goal.

  2

  NARRATING MY LIFE

  My bedroom is in the back corner of the upstairs, across the hall from my brother Tommy’s. I’m lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about our next game. It’s hard to believe that we’re 3–0. We went 2–11–1 a year ago. Suddenly we’re 3–0.

  Nobody can believe it. Not to say that many people have noticed, of course. Not in this town.

  We’ve got our fourth one on Tuesday, a home game against the defending league champions. Last year they shut us out both times, 7–0 and 5–0, when we had five freshmen starting and they had mostly seniors. Now we’re sophomores and we’re undefeated. But we’ll be lucky if forty people show up to watch the game. I’ve seen forty people at one time in the bathroom at a wrestling match. Sturbridge is a football and wrestling town.

  My brother wrestles. Tommy’s been varsity since his freshman year; placed second in the state last winter, and he’s still only a junior. But he and I are different. Lots different.

  Tommy lives in the here and now. He’s direct. He makes sense when he talks. I narrate my life as it occurs. I have conversations in my head, and I forget sometimes what I’ve said aloud and what I’ve only practiced saying in my mind. I get myself in trouble that way, with girls, with teachers, with my friends.

  My mother sticks her head in the doorway and smiles at me. “Whatcha thinking about, Barry?” she asks.

  “Nothing,” I say. “Soccer.”

  She walks into the room and looks at the pictures on the wall by the window. I’ve got photographs from every team I’ve ever been on—two years of Little League, three seasons of Biddy Basketball, about ten seasons of indoor and outdoor soccer at the Y.

  “Ever talk much with Carrie?” Mom asks, pointing to a girl kneeling next to me in one of the soccer photos.

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Seems like a nice girl.” This is a nudge, but I won’t bite.

  “I guess,” I say. “She’s going out with a senior.”

  “Oh.” She turns toward me and smiles again, brushing back her hair, which is dark and sort of curly. She’s worried about me. I’m too into sports, I only have one close friend, I spend a lot of time in my room with the door shut, and I’ve never had a girlfriend. That’s what she sees, anyway.

  “Come downstairs soon,” she says. “Don’t waste a Sunday afternoon.”

  She leaves and I get up and close the door. I sit on the bed and look at the wall.

  Joey’s in just about every picture; his father coached everything and I almost always landed on his team because me and Joey have been best friends since second grade. But it was never Joey’s team, or my team, or the Sharks or the Jets or the Blasters—whatever the official name was that season—it was Bones-and-Joey’s team. Always. An inseparable partnership.

  Joey was the star of those teams, scoring lots of goals, making the lay-up off the fast break, driving in the winning run. I was the guy who made Joey look good, ta
king the outlet pass and finding him in the clear, or crossing the ball in front of the goal so he could knock it in.

  I’m still doing it. He’s got five goals this season and I’ve assisted on four of them. It also looks like he’s got a girlfriend, and I think I deserve a double assist for that one. The jerk.

  My life has been lived within two shadows: my brother’s and Joey’s. Even my name, what everybody calls me and doesn’t really fit, came from Tommy. His first sentence, the legend goes, was “Boney wet,” Boney being his fifteen-month-old pronunciation of Barry. It stuck, although I’ve never been particularly boney. I’m five-foot-seven, 140.

  Joey’s shadow is different. He and I have always been there for each other. Until the other night, I mean. First fight I ever got in was during second-grade recess. We were playing touch football and I was mostly blocking. This kid Steven Bittner—who was twice my size—kept trying to punch me in the nuts to get past me. Finally I got mad enough and swung at him, and he whacked me good in the teeth. Then he pinned me down and had his knees on my shoulders, and Joey yelled, “Let him up, you pig!”

  Steven turned his head to look at Joey, and I started squirming like crazy to get out from underneath.

  “Let him up,” Joey said. “He can’t fight like that.”

  So Steven started to get off me. He was big and slow, and I was small and fast. I got to my knees real quick and caught him square in the nose with my fist. By then some teachers had noticed the commotion and started running over. Steven and I had to stay in for the next week of recesses, but he never bothered me again.

  Joey’s always been a half-step ahead of me in sports, but we’ve been on even ground in everything else.

  He just took a step past me with Shannon, though. And I don’t think that’s fair.

  3

  A PUNCH IN THE STOMACH

  The rain starts while we’re warming up, standing in a semicircle and firing shots at Herbie. I sneak a look down the other end of the field, where the Greenfield guys are working a wheel, running clockwise around the man in the center, sending the balls back and forth from the center to the rim. They’re good.