Games

HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

Chapter One

Boot's Turn

I walk down the hall before school starts and nod at the Water Street kids. They say, "hey," or nod back, like we're brothers. I hardly look at the jocks or the pretty boys. I'm a ghost to them, invisible—they don't even know I'm here. Everybody's opening their lockers and slamming them shut.

"Hey, Boot!" a voice calls out. I turn to see Jerrod Kitchen standing at his locker. "We got a game after school," J.K. says. (All the Water Street kids call him by his initials.) "Meet at the Corner."

I hold up my hand to tell him I'll be there. That's when I see Mick Sullivan coming down the hall. He's watching me, and he's got this big smile on his face that says he thinks he's better than everybody else. That smile alone makes me want to smash him. He's a big kid, built like a road grader. He plants himself right in front of me so I have to look up to see him, and he grins down at my face. "Hi, Boot, you lunatic. You've been on my mind. . . . You want to know why?"

"No," I say.

People stop to watch. Some are my friends—kids from Water Street. They have big, staring eyes and kind of a bloodthirsty look. They expect me to throw the first punch as usual. Even though he's got thirty pounds on me, I'm not scared.

He goes, "It's because I realized last night who you remind me of: Yosemite Sam. You know, that guy in the Bugs Bunny cartoons with the cowboy clothes and the long mustache? He's got a very bad temper, and he's always shooting off his guns the way you shoot off your mouth."

I hear a few snickers around me.

"I think I'll start calling you 'Yosemite.' How do ya like that?"

More snickers.

I'm tired because I didn't get much sleep last night, so I don't punch him, even though he deserves it. Instead of hitting him, I look up his nostrils and say, "You got a booger up there."

Everybody laughs loud now, so on the scorecard in my head, I give myself a point.

Mick takes a step back and laughs. "That's it?" He holds out his hands, palms up. "That's all ya got?" He laughs again. "I expected you to take a punch or at least insult me."

"He said you got a booger up your nose, Sullivan," J.K. says. I realize now he's standing behind me. "Seems like an insult to me."

"Yeah." But I say it a second or two too late, so I sound like a little kid who's letting his big brother do the talking.

Mick goes, "That's no insult. You should've said something really insulting like . . ." He stares over my head and squints like he's thinking real hard. "Hmm, something like, 'I once scraped something off the bottom of my shoe that looked like you.' Or wait, here's another one: 'You look familiar—oh, no, I was thinking about something I baited my hook with once.' That wasn't too bad. Or you could even have said, 'Hey, is that your face, or did your neck throw up?'"

Even my friends laugh at that one. I suddenly feel hot, and my armpits are sweating.

Mick grins down at me. "That last one is especially funny, if I do say so myself."

"How about this one?" I ask him. "'I hear your dad was thrown in the slammer for drunk driving again. He might as well be lying in a gutter somewhere with the rest of the garbage.'"

That gets him like I thought it would. He freezes a second, then lunges at me, and knocks me over. He gets down and starts slugging me in the stomach. Mick isn't tough, but he's big, and he's really mad, so he doesn't pull his punches. I don't feel the pain now—that'll come later. Right now I'm thinking about holding my own. I get in some good licks before Mr. Jefferson hauls Mick up by his collar to a standing position.

"That's it, Sullivan," he yells in Mick's face. "You, too, Quinn," he hollers at me as I get to my feet. "What's the matter with you boys? Didn't your last suspensions teach you anything?" He grabs my arm in a steel-vise grip and marches us down the hall toward the principal's office. Everyone turns to watch; some look disgusted, but a few of my friends hold their fists up in kind of a salute to me.

Mr. Jefferson doesn't let go till we're in the main office. He points at two chairs. "Sit. And no talking." He leans over and says something I can't hear to Mrs. Taylor, the principal's secretary. She nods and shoots us a mean look. He walks into the principal's office. I don't hear too good out of my left ear, so I turn to point my right ear in the direction of the office. I figure he's talking to the principal. His name is Mr. Block, but most of us call him Blockhead. Not to his face, though.

Then I remember. Mr. Block had a heart attack. I heard the teachers say it was because of all the years of putting up with the rotten kids at this school, but they're wrong. He didn't put up with us at all. He was always suspending people for a week. Two weeks ago it was me. And Mick Sullivan.

Mick sits on the chair across from me. I don't look at him. I'm sick and tired of how he's always in my face, acting like he's better than me. I knew calling his old man a piece of garbage would make him mad, but I didn't make up the part about the drunk driving. I heard it from three people.

Excerpted from Gamesby Carol Gorman Copyright © 2007 by Carol Gorman. Excerpted by permission.
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