by Rich Wallace
I shut the light and stand in the hallway in silence, with my hands in the big pouch pocket of the sweatshirt. Then I walk down the stairs to my father. I touch him lightly on the shoulder and he rolls, opening his eyes and looking surprised. “Thanks, Dad,” I say.
“Oh … yeah,” he says, sitting up and rubbing one eye with his hand. “Just, you know … I don’t know.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I know.” We stare at the TV for a few seconds, then I turn to the door. “I’m just going for a walk,” I finally say. I haven’t been alone yet, to absorb this day, to make it permanent.
The woods are quiet, but my vision is good. The moon is out and shining. This was a day. This can be the day Al begins reliving his father’s life, or the day he breaks free. I think of Hatcher—too dumb to be a doctor like his dad, but just dumb enough to relive everything else about him. Only Digit is sure to break the pattern. Me, I don’t know.
I can see the lights of the town far below me, and a dog is barking in the distance. My father is asleep again by now, snoring on the couch with the TV on softly. He’ll be punching in at the plant in eight hours.
I look at the moon, and it’s right where it should be, a quarter million miles away. I stop walking and shut my eyes in the cool, clear breeze, lifting my arms above my head and inhaling. The air smells piney, with just a hint of cows and of midnight.
Life is good. I have Kim.
I am tired and warm and alive.
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PLAYING WITHOUT THE BALL
by Rich Wallace
Here’s what they can list under my mug in the yearbook:
Early-morning basketball, late-night hamburger chef, weekend basketball, honorary Methodist, weeknight basketball, background vocalist, playground basketball, voluntary orphan.
If I make the team, they can add varsity basketball, but I know the odds are against me. I’m a decent player, but I don’t quite fit the system. I don’t quite fit anywhere, so I live alone above a bar and work part-time in the kitchen to pay the rent. My father’s gone to California to straighten himself out, so I’m left to bounce my life off Spit, a punk-rock genius who has bigger problems—but bigger potential—than I have.
I could join my father in L.A. if I wanted to, but I’m not ready to leave yet. I’ve got chances here—with girls, with basketball. And if those don’t work out, I just might step from the shadows, join Spit on stage, and see if I can cut it as a singer.
You never know.
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SHOTS ON GOAL
by Rich Wallace
Half a block from the Turkey Hill convenience store, there’s a town bench. And lately, if I’m not in school or at soccer practice, chances are I’m sitting there, thinking, for a lot of reasons.
For one thing, my best friend, Joey—the jerk—has a girlfriend now, the girl he knew I was after. And then there’s soccer. Me and Joey are the backbone of the first strong soccer team our school’s ever had, and we’ve got a chance to win the league this season. But that’ll take teamwork, and that’s the one thing we’re missing.
Joey hogs the ball and gets the girls. But he’s always been there for me—until now. Or maybe I’m just tired of being there for him. I suppose we ought to grow up. Maybe we’d win more soccer games.
“An excellent choice for all those boys who want only sports books, this is also a good read for any teen, male or female.”
—Booklist
“Wallace’s ear for locker-room banter … shines through in his vibrant characterizations.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A deftly written book, and a solid addition to any YA collection.”
—School Library Journal