by W. C. Mack
Grand prize? There was something better than signed jerseys and helmets? “What is it?”
Kenny cleared his throat, then leaned over and started slapping his knees really fast. I waved as the O’Donnells drove by, Kate and Nick’s noses pressed against the windows as they stared at us. I smiled like Kenny wasn’t totally nuts, which wasn’t easy.
“What are you doing?” I finally asked.
“A drum roll,” he said, slapping even faster.
“Knock it off,” I told him, laughing. “What do you win?”
He stood straight and grinned at me. “Tickets to a Canucks game.”
“No way!” I almost screamed.
“Against the Flames.”
“No way!” I shouted, even louder. I was so excited, my hands were sweating.
“Good seats, too.”
“That’s awesome,” I said, shaking my head.
I’d never seen an NHL game. Sure, I’d watched on TV, but that wasn’t the same. I’d even been to Vancouver a few times, and we drove by Rogers Arena when the Canucks were playing, but I’d never, ever, been to a real live game. I tried to imagine walking into the stadium, surrounded by the rest of the fans. We’d all be wearing blue and green, shouting at the top of our lungs.
“That’s not even the best part,” Kenny said.
I stopped walking, thinking I’d heard him wrong. How could anything be better than a real live Canucks game? Against the Flames, no less. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, you get two tickets to the game and …” he wiggled his eyebrows.
“What?”
“It’s big,” he teased.
“What is it?”
“Huge.”
“Kenny,” I warned.
“Guess.”
I had no idea. Could it be a chance to meet one of the players? What if it was Jean Ducette? What if I got to shake hands with my hero? I’d pass out, for sure.
“I’m waiting,” Kenny sang.
“Just tell me.”
He folded his arms across his chest and made me wait a few more seconds. I was ready to tackle him and I think he could see it in my eyes, because that’s when he blew me away with five magical words.
“A shot from centre ice.”
What? My head buzzed. “Are you kidding me?”
“Nope. And if you score, you get money and a bunch of autographed Canucks stuff.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously,” he nodded. “PUCK Radio at eight o’clock.”
I was so excited I could barely breathe, and the second Kenny turned off on Arbutus Street I hightailed it home. When I got there I ran up the back steps and threw open the kitchen door.
“Geez!” my sister Wendy snapped. She was on the phone as usual. “Close the door! It’s freezing out there, Nugget.”
I didn’t bother reminding her about J.T. I had bigger things to think about. I tossed my knapsack into the mudroom, poured myself an ice-cold glass of milk and went straight upstairs.
My door was covered with the WARNING: CONTAMINATED AREA, DANGER and DO NOT ENTER signs I’d pulled out of my Christmas stocking the year before. I had to shove hard to open it because of the pile of sweats and jeans I kept dropping on the floor instead of into the laundry basket.
My walls were plastered with posters of Jean Ducette, and other great players too, like Roberto Luongo and Henrik Sedin. My bulletin board was covered with cutouts from the sports pages, a few team stickers and the Canucks schedule for the season. Right next to the bulletin board was my bookcase. On the bottom shelf were the things I needed for school, like a dictionary, spare pencils and junk like that. On the second shelf were a couple of puny hockey trophies from when I was little, along with my Atom team photo.
But what I really needed was on the top shelf, mixed in with the rest of my growing hockey library. I had biographies of some of the old players, like Gordie Howe, Maurice “The Rocket” Richard and Bobby Orr, as well as histories of almost half the teams in the league.
But I also had the key to winning the contest and I smiled when I pulled my hockey encyclopedia off the shelf.
Shoot! Third Edition.
They’d come out with a fourth edition almost a month earlier, and I couldn’t wait to get it, but it was on backorder at Chapters.
I straightened my blankets and flopped onto my bed, ready to start studying. Sure, I already knew a ton of trivia and facts, but I also knew that with the prizes PUCK Radio was giving out, the questions wouldn’t be easy. I’d have to tune in every night, no matter what, because practise made perfect. That was something I knew from working on my slapshot all summer.
I’d have to read Shoot! Third Edition from cover to cover, at least twice.
Just as I settled in to get started, Mum knocked on the door. “Jonathan?”
“Come in,” I called to her.
It took her a couple of tries to push the door open, and when she made it into the room, she immediately put her hands on her hips. “Kind of a fire hazard, hon.”
“I’ll clean it up,” I told her, for probably the seventh time in the past two weeks.
“I know you will. Today.”
“Okay,” I sighed. I’d have to fit it in around my hockey studying, somehow.
“I didn’t know you were home. Wendy said you barrelled through the kitchen.”
“I was in a hurry.”
“Apparently,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “You didn’t even stop by the den to say hello.”
“Sorry,” I told her, hoping we could wrap up the conversation quickly so I could get back to work.
“How was school?” she asked, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorway like she might stay there … forever.
“Okay.”
“And practice?”
“Fine.”
“One word answers aren’t going to do the trick.”
What would do the trick? “School was fine.”
“What are you doing?” Mum asked.
It was kind of a weird question, considering I was lying on my bed, glued to an open book. “Reading,” I said, then remembered she’d want more words. “It’s a hockey book.”
“I can see that.” She frowned. “I thought your English class was reading Over the Moon?”
They probably were. “Uh, yeah. I’m a couple of chapters into it.” Well, more like a couple of pages, but close enough.
“Don’t you think Over the Moon is what you should be reading now?” I knew from experience that it might have sounded like a question, but it really wasn’t.
“I guess so,” I sighed.
She stepped into the hallway for a second, then came back with my knapsack. “I brought your books up so you wouldn’t need binoculars to do your homework.”
“Thanks,” I said, reaching for the bag. How was I supposed to win a shot from centre ice if I had to spend all my time on assigned reading?
* * *
By dinnertime, I’d only read three pages of the stupid book because I’d been too busy sneaking peeks at Shoot! Third Edition and daydreaming about scoring from centre ice.
When Mum called me to the table for the second time, it was a lot louder than the first, so I rolled off my bed and went downstairs.
“Salmon,” Wendy said, as I sat down next to her.
It was one of my favourites, especially when Mum made wild rice to go with it, which she had. While the four of us ate, we talked about what had happened that day, like we always did.
When I went to Kenny or Colin’s houses for dinner, the kids ate in front of the TV in the living room and the parents ate at the kitchen table, which was too weird.
I liked dinner our way, even if Wendy never stopped talking.
“Can you please pass the rice?” I asked Dad.
He handed me the bowl and I loaded up my plate, then grabbed a roll and sliced off a bit of butter.
“I don’t see any salad on your plate, Jonathan,” Mum said, while my sister was in mid-sentence.
Wendy handed me the bowl with a dirty look. “Mum, I’m kind of in the middle of something, here,” she whined.
I scooped salad onto my plate and added some of Mum’s homemade Italian dressing.
“Go ahead, Wend,” Dad said, reaching over to pat her arm.
“Okay, so Danielle says she won’t go to the dance unless Chris asks her, but he already asked Lisa and —”
“Which one is Lisa again?” Mum asked.
“Blond hair, plays ringette.”
“Right, okay,” Mum nodded as she chewed.
“So anyway, Lisa wants to go with Jason, who is kind of seeing Carmen and —”
“This is like a soap opera,” Dad whispered to me.
“A bad one,” I told him.
“Do you mind?” Wendy asked, staring at me. “I always listen to your hockey stories, so I’d appreciate it if you’d do the same for me.”
“This is about to turn into a hockey story?” I asked, knowing that wasn’t what she meant.
“Geez, Nugget, can I just —”
“J.T.,” I reminded her.
Wendy rolled her eyes. “You know what? You don’t get to pick your own nickname.”
“Why not?” I asked, taking a bite of my salmon, which was awesome.
“Because that’s not how it works.”
Dad turned to look at me. “You want us to call you J.T.?”
“Where have you been, Dad?” Wendy asked.
He didn’t answer her, but asked me, “You don’t like Nugget?”
Was he kidding? Who on earth would want to be called Nugget? “No way,” I said, through a mouthful of food.
“Gross,” Wendy groaned. “I don’t need to see that.”
“Then don’t look,” I told her. I was ready for a change of subject. “Hey, there’s a new contest on PUCK —”
“Can I finish my story?” Wendy snapped.
I doubted it actually had an ending, since they never seemed to.
“Go ahead, honey,” Mum said, but I could tell she was about as interested as I was in whether Katie-Ali-Jenny-Susie-Lisa-Sarah went to the dance with Jason-David-Chad-Peter-Gavin.
Wendy chattered away for the next few minutes, while I tested myself by trying to remember the starting lineups for every team in the Northwestern Division. It was harder than I expected.
I cleared the table, since Wendy had set it, and when I carried the plates into the kitchen, I saw that Mum had made dessert.
We never had dessert on weeknights!
Even better? It was apple crisp.
I ate mine slowly, enjoying every single bite, and watched the clock as it inched closer to eight o’clock, glad that my rotten day was almost behind me.
As I chewed, Mum started telling us about her day.
“There’s a new woman at work, who just moved here from either Comox or Shoreline, I can’t remember which. Anyway, she has two boys, around your ages.”
“I saw him in homeroom,” Wendy said. “Shane something.” She shrugged. “He’s not as cute as Tyler Bradshaw.”
“But who is?” Dad said, laughing.
“Very funny,” Wendy said.
I was stuck on the name of the Oilers’ goalie, amazed I’d forgotten. I chewed slowly as I went through the alphabet, trying to come up with it.
“Anyway,” Mum said, “the older one plays rugby and the younger one recently won a provincial Math award.”
The goalie’s last name was McNeal or something. Maybe McDougall? McAllister?
“A Math award?” Dad asked, glancing over at me. “Impressive.”
“Yes, and apparently this boy has done some tutoring in the past, so I told his mother we’d be interested. Isn’t that right Jonathan?”
I almost had it. I could practically see the guy’s face.
“Sean McCallum!” I finally announced, totally relieved.
“What’s wrong with you?” Wendy asked.
“Jonathan?” Mum asked, looking worried.
“Sorry,” I said, shaking my head to warm my brain up a bit. “What did you say?”
“Math, honey. We know you’ve been struggling and this seems like the perfect solution, dropped right into our laps!”
Perfect solution?
“Solution for what?” I asked.
“This boy,” Mum told me. “This Eddie Bosko. He’s going to be your Math tutor.”
Chapter Four
I dropped my fork with a clatter, spraying bits of apple crisp onto Wendy’s shirt.
“Nice one, Nugget,” she snarled, racing into the kitchen to clean herself off.
Oh, brother. It was apples and oats, not toxic waste.
“What’s wrong?” Mum asked.
What’s wrong? My arch-enemy was going to “help” me!
“I don’t need a tutor,” I muttered. “And besides, shouldn’t a tutor be like … a teenager?”
“He’s a prodigy,” Mum said.
“Okay, I don’t even know what that is.”
“A young genius,” Dad said.
I rolled my eyes. “Great. Next I’m going to find out he’s Jean Ducette’s nephew.”
“What?” Mum asked.
“Nothing,” I sighed.
“Gord?” Mum looked to Dad for backup.
He swallowed his last bite of crisp. “There’s nothing wrong with getting some help, kiddo.”
“But —”
“Math is tough, and it’s going to get tougher in the next couple of years. I think a tutor is a good way to prepare for that.”
“But Eddie Bosko?” I groaned, then realized that saying the name out loud only made it worse.
“You’ve met him?” Mum asked, smiling like I’d just told her I aced a Math test.
“Yeah,” I sighed. “He’s on the team.”
“Well,” she said, smiling even wider. “That’s why I thought it was a good idea.”
“That’s exactly why it’s not a good idea,” I told her.
“What do you mean?” Mum asked, frowning.
“He’s …” I wasn’t sure how to explain it nicely, so I just went from the gut. “He’s a knuckle-dragging gorilla who probably eats second graders and their Math homework for breakfast.”
I heard Dad cough, but when I turned to look, I saw that he was actually choking on a laugh.
It wasn’t funny.
“I’m serious,” I told them. “He’s a total thug.”
“He’s an eleven-year-old, Jonathan,” Mum said, shaking her head.
“Trapped in a twenty-five-year-old’s body.”
“It can’t be that bad,” Dad said, still chuckling.
“Oh, it is. It definitely is. He’s a huge jerk. He thinks he’s going to take over as starting right wing and he actually showed up to practice in a Sharks jersey today, if you can believe it. He’s just a big, stinking jerk.”
“Who is?” Wendy asked, joining us at the table with big wet marks all over her shirt.
“Eddie Bosko,” I grunted.
“Right, Bosko,” Wendy repeated, scrunching her face up to think about it for a second. “Shane Bosko. Dark hair, dark eyes —”
“Does he look like the Missing Link?” I asked. “Because his brother does.”
“That’s enough,” Mum said, and her tone was almost as dangerous as the look she was giving me. “You are struggling in Math and need some help. This Eddie Bosko is a prodigy —”
“Do you have to keep bringing that up?” I muttered.
“And he’s a new kid in a brand new town. He’s probably lonely and —”
I couldn’t help snorting. The gorilla? Lonely?
Mom frowned at me. “You can both help each other out, Jonathan.”
“Give it a chance,” Dad said, smiling. “And don’t worry about having another right winger on the team. You’re a great player and a little competition might even boost your game a bit.” He smiled. “Nothing wrong with that.”
“Maybe,” I said, still doubtful.
“So, it�
��s settled,” Mum said, stacking her empty dessert bowl on top of mine so I could load them both in the dishwasher. “And now it’s time for you to tackle your homework.”
But when I walked into the kitchen and glanced at the calendar hanging on the wall, I saw that it was time to tackle something else.
It was the first of the month and there was still a chance my rotten day could improve.
Wendy came in to use the phone while I hurried to finish loading the dishwasher. When I was done I dug around the pens, tape and junk in the drawer under the microwave before I found my ruler. Once I had it in my hand, I was ready for action.
“Yes!” I said, waving the little wooden stick.
Wendy stared at me like I was some kind of an alien, then shook her head. “It’s nothing,” she said into the phone. “Just my brother, being eleven.”
I ignored her and raced to the open doorway. “Hey Mum!” I shouted.
“Can you keep it down?” Wendy called after me. “You’re such a dork, Nugget.”
“J.T.,” I turned to correct her.
“Whatever,” she sighed, rolling her eyes.
“Mum!” I shouted again.
“Where’s the fire?” Mum asked, from the upstairs hallway. She was holding a half-folded towel and probably had three hundred more waiting for her in the laundry room. Wendy took more showers than my whole hockey team put together.
“It’s the first,” I said, flashing the ruler and a grin.
Mum’s lips tightened for a second, then she gave me a smile that seemed a bit stiff. “Hey, why don’t we do it next month. That way you’ll have a whole sixty days to measure, all at once.”
“Mum,” I sighed.
“Okay, okay,” she said, giving the towel one more fold and putting it on the top shelf in the linen closet.
“Yes!” I couldn’t wait.
Mum followed me into the kitchen, where I stood in my usual spot, next to the fridge. I made sure my heels and shoulder blades were as close to the wall as I could get.
“Stand still, Nugget,” she whispered, placing the ruler on top of my head and reaching for a pencil.
“J.T.,” I reminded her again. The nickname sure wasn’t catching on like I’d hoped.
I crossed my fingers for three centimetres, or maybe even four.
“Right,” she said, squinting as she made a mark.