by W. C. Mack
It seemed like I’d barely sat down to read before it was time for the next soccer session. I slipped my shoes back on before rolling off the bed and heading for the door.
I’d ended the first session on a surprisingly high note and hoped the trend would continue.
As I reached for the doorknob, I heard someone turning it from outside. When the door swung open, I was facing Danny.
“Oh, hey, Russ,” he said, grinning as he passed me on his way into the room. “I’m just grabbing my old shoes. These ones aren’t worn in and they’re giving me blisters.”
“Blisters are the worst,” I agreed.
“Hey, I didn’t see you in the cafeteria.”
“I uh . . . ate in here.”
Danny frowned. “Why?”
I wanted to be as tactful as possible about the fact that I was dreading an entire week of shared accommodations and that I was someone who needed ample time alone.
I pointed to the novel I’d been reluctant to leave behind. “So I could read and—”
“That must be a pretty awesome book,” he said.
“It is,” I told him, feeling a smile fill my face. “It’s the latest in a series about an alien culture living on—”
Danny held up a hand to stop me. “I’m not really into sci-fi.”
“Oh, well it would actually be better categorized as fantasy,” I started to explain, but could tell by the expression on his face that it wasn’t helping.
Danny slipped off his shoes and left them in the middle of the floor, in a move reminiscent of Owen. Then he pulled another pair out of his gym bag and sat down on the edge of the bed. My bed.
Terrific.
On top of being a social butterfly, he was a space invader.
After he’d tied the first bow, he looked up at me and said, “So, T. J. noticed you . . . noticing him.”
“What?”
“You know, the nose thing.” He raised his eyebrows in a question.
“The nose thing,” I repeated, thinking of that constant sniffing.
“He has a tic, Russ.”
I winced. I should have realized that’s what it was. “Oh. I didn’t mean to stare.”
“It’s okay. I’m just telling you so you know. It only happens when he’s nervous or uncomfortable.”
“He sniffs,” I said, nodding.
“Yeah. Some people sniff, some people blink or clear their throats . . . and some people reach for a book.”
What?
I looked at the novel in my hands and felt my cheeks get hot. “I wasn’t—”
“Geez, I’m kidding, Russ,” he said, chuckling. “Anyway, once he gets used to you, it’ll stop. Just try not to stare in the meantime, okay?”
“Absolutely,” I said, embarrassed that I’d already done it.
“So, if you’re interested, me and some of the guys are putting together some pranks for tonight—”
“Pranks?”
“Yeah, short-sheeting beds and stuff like that.”
“Uh . . .”
He raised an eyebrow at me. “You don’t know what that is?”
“No,” I admitted.
“It’s when you sneak into someone’s room and you take the flat sheet on their bed and tuck it in at the head instead of at the feet,” he explained, excitedly. “Then you fold it in half, so when the guy gets into bed, his legs get jammed up.”
I stared at him. “But . . . why?”
He laughed. “Because he won’t know what’s wrong, and the look of surprise on his face—”
“You stay in the room?” I asked.
“What? No, but—”
“And isn’t it dark, anyway? How can you see the look of surprise?”
Danny looked somewhat deflated. “It’s more about the morning after, when everyone’s talking about it.”
I seriously doubted I’d tell anyone if I got “jammed up” in my bed due to sabotaged sheets.
“Anyway,” Danny continued, not to be deterred. “We thought we’d get the guy next door. You know, the one with the suitcase and the attitude.”
“Owen,” I said quietly. I felt like my entire body was wincing.
“Yeah. The one you met on the stairs. Big Mike told me about how he was holding everybody up.”
It wasn’t the first time in my life I’d been tempted to pretend that I didn’t know my own brother. But, like every other occasion, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
“Uh, we didn’t actually meet there,” I told him, adjusting my glasses. I took a deep breath and confessed, “He’s my twin brother.”
Danny howled with laughter. “Now that is hilarious.”
“What?” I asked, stunned. It was a reaction I’d never come across before.
“Russ, you’ve got to say that to Big Mike when he comes over later.”
“I’m serious,” I told him.
He laughed even harder. “That you’re twins.”
“We are. Fraternal twins.” I paused for a second. “Look, I know you guys want to have fun, but could you please leave Owen out of it?”
He stopped laughing and tilted his head at me. “Hold on. You really are serious, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head. “But if you’re brothers, why aren’t you sharing a room?”
I explained the whole situation as concisely as I could, trying not to make Owen sound like a total jerk.
“Huh,” Danny said when I was finished. “So, he snagged the better room and the better camp.”
Apparently I’d failed on the jerk front.
“Yes.”
Danny was quiet for a moment, then said, “I know the guys will want to mess with him a bit, just because of, you know . . . the way he is.”
“I know.” I sighed.
“But I’ll try to keep him out of it.”
Surprised, I choked, “Really? Thank you!”
Danny shrugged. “No problem,” he said, tying the other shoe and standing. “I’ll catch you later, Russ.”
“Yeah,” I said, smiling. “Definitely.”
I was feeling better than I had in weeks when I headed to my second soccer session. And when I arrived, I was immediately welcomed by Coach Hernandez.
“Good break?” he asked, moving to stand next to me.
“Absolutely,” I told him.
“I’ve got some plans for you, Russ.”
“Plans?”
“I’m going to try you out in goal.” He paused. “You’re focused, you’ve got a good reach . . . and, other than throw-ins, goaltending is the only time you get to use your hands in this sport.”
I cringed a little, remembering my catch during that first scrimmage.
“How does that sound?” he asked.
“Good,” I told him, glad that he saw some potential in me.
“Great,” he said, slapping me on the back. “We’ll get you into position for this next drill.”
Smiling to myself, I made my way over to the goal.
He was right.
I was focused.
I did have a good reach.
It was quite possible that goal could be the perfect spot for me. And the added bonus? It didn’t require running.
Assistant Coach Baylor gave me a long-sleeved yellow jersey to wear over my T-shirt, along with a pair of gloves with bumpy grips.
I stepped past one of the white posts and into the goal. The first thing I noticed was that the distance to the other post was a lot greater than I’d expected.
Hmm.
I walked from one end to the other, surprised by how many steps it took.
The area I was expected to cover was . . . huge.
“Have you played goalie before?” Baylor asked.
I shook my head. “Never.”
“How about I give you a couple of pointers?”
“That would be excellent,” I said, relieved.
“When they’re coming toward you, you’ll want to get in a crouch, like this,” he said, bending his
knees while keeping his legs apart.
“Like a guarding position in basketball.”
“Very close,” Coach Baylor said, nodding. “You want to be able to spring in either direction quickly.”
“That makes sense.”
“Different goalies have different styles, but I like bent elbows, hands up and ready.”
I nodded, mimicking his stance. I wondered whether I looked like a mime in a box and sort of chuckled.
“There we go,” Coach Baylor said. “That’s the first smile I’ve seen you crack all day.” He paused. “Camp is supposed to be fun, you know.”
“I know,” I told him.
A lot of things were supposed to be . . . a lot of things.
For example, my Masters of the Mind team was supposed to be on our way to nationals.
I shook my head to clear the thought away. I needed to concentrate on the positive.
“Are you ready?” Coach Baylor asked.
“Sure,” I told him.
But I was dead wrong.
Coach Hernandez blew his whistle and all of the other guys formed two lines, one to my right and one to my left. Each of the boys in front had a ball and the assistant coaches were standing by, holding mesh bags filled with more.
“Okay!” Coach Hernandez shouted. “At my whistle, we start on the left and alternate.”
Alternate what?
I found out soon enough, when the sound of the whistle pierced the air and the first guy in line dribbled toward me.
I got into position, hands up and ready to catch the ball.
The player was moving awfully fast.
How was I going to—
The ball flew passed me at a tremendous speed.
Stunned, I turned around to see it tangled in the back corner of the net. I heard another whistle blast, but by the time I turned back around, another ball was racing toward my face.
I jumped out of the way, tripping over my feet in the process.
Bweep!
Another ball came out of nowhere, this one hitting me in the chest with much more force than expected.
“Nice block!” Coach Baylor shouted.
“Block?” I choked.
Bweep!
Another ball rocketed toward me. I lifted my elbow to shield my face and it bounced off my funny bone.
“Use your hands,” Coach Hernandez called out to me.
I was tempted to raise them in surrender.
Bweep!
The redhead took his shot, and I felt a light breeze through my hair as the ball missed my ear by inches.
“Hold on,” I said, but no one was listening.
Bweep!
“Hey,” I said a bit louder as another player took aim.
When yet another ball came right at me, I turned away and felt it pound against my back.
“Time-out!” Coach Baylor shouted.
Of course. That was the word I’d been searching for.
“What’s the problem?” Coach Hernandez asked, meeting Coach Baylor a few feet away from me.
“Russ, you’ve got to go for the ball,” Baylor said.
“But the ball’s going for me,” I explained, “like a guided missile.”
“I thought you wanted to try goal,” Coach Hernandez said, looking disappointed.
“I did. I mean, I do.”
“Then let’s give it another shot,” he said.
“Great,” I muttered as he walked away. “More shots.”
I sighed as I adjusted my glasses. The mud from my gloves smeared the lenses, but I didn’t have time to clean them off.
Bweep!
The next ball was coming in way above my head.
“Jump for it!” Coach Baylor shouted.
I leaped into the air, arms stretched as far as they would go, but my fingertips barely grazed the ball.
“Nice effort!” Baylor called out to me.
I took a deep breath, reminding myself that nothing is easy the first time.
Except maybe algebraic equations.
Bweep!
And calculating atomic weight.
This time, I watched closely as the player dribbled, trying to figure out what he was going to do before he actually did it.
To my surprise, I noticed that he leaned left just before he took the shot with his right foot.
Aha!
I took a couple of steps, anticipating the ball. I raised my hands to chest level, and when it came toward me, I actually caught it.
I barely felt the sting in my hands as Coach Hernandez shouted, “Nice save!”
Astonished by my success, I was tempted to take a bow, but a whistle blast brought me back to my senses.
At dinner that night, I grabbed a sandwich to take back to the room. After a rather exhausting but satisfying day of soccer, I couldn’t wait to relax with my book.
To my surprise, when I was on my way through the cafeteria, heading for the exit, I was invited to sit at a couple of different tables.
“Come on, Russ,” the redhead I’d learned was Sam urged. “We’re trying to come up with our team name.”
That was intriguing enough to pull me in.
“What have you come up with so far?” I asked as I stood at the end of the table.
“Nothing,” my teammate James said. “We’re the C team, so we figured it should start with a C.”
“Hmm.” I thought about it for a moment. “What about the Catalysts?”
“Huh?” Sam asked.
“You know, because a catalyst causes action or change and—”
“I think we need an English name,” James said.
“It is an . . . never mind.” I thought for a second or two. “We could be Team Combustion,” I suggested.
More blank looks.
“I don’t know,” Sam said doubtfully.
I wasn’t ready to give up. “We could be—”
“The Cougars,” James announced triumphantly.
The rest of the table nodded in agreement and murmured their approval.
“Great idea,” I lied, wishing they’d settled on something a little more . . . clever. I started to walk away from the table.
“Wait,” James called after me. “Don’t you want to hang out?”
It was a kind and unexpected offer, but I was keen to get back to Chapter Four in the temporary solitude of my room.
“I’ll catch up with you guys later,” I said, offering the group a wave before I made my exit.
I smiled to myself as I crossed the courtyard and managed to get back to my room without seeing any sign of Owen.
Perfect!
Once I’d finished eating my delicious sandwich, I was lying on my bed, fully engrossed by life on another planet, when the door swung open.
Danny walked in, with Big Mike and T. J. right on his heels.
“Hi, Danny,” I said, tucking my finger between the pages to mark my place and trying to hide my disappointment at the interruption.
“Hey,” he said, crossing the room with a clenched fist.
Oh!
Was he going to punch me?
Why?
He stopped abruptly at the side of my bed and held the fist toward me.
I’m sure I looked terrified as I stared at him.
He frowned. “I’m just looking for a bump.”
“A bump?”
“A fist bump,” he said, looking confused. He lifted his other fist and gently tapped the two together to demonstrate.
“Is that what that’s called?” I asked, recognizing the gesture from the NBA games I’d watched with Owen and Dad.
Danny studied me for a few seconds, before saying, “You’re kind of different, aren’t you, Russ?”
I’d certainly been called worse. “I suppose.” I lifted my own fist for the tap and let it fall onto my chest when the greeting was complete.
“Hey, Russ,” T. J. said, with a nose twitch.
Big Mike nodded at me.
“So,” Danny said, “pranks.”
&
nbsp; I cleared my throat, preparing to say something that had been on my mind since he’d mentioned it earlier. I knew it could potentially create some awkwardness, but I was compelled to express my opinion.
“Uh, I think the pranks sound . . . fun,” I began. “But I’m just hoping no camp property will be damaged.”
“No way,” Danny said, shaking his head.
Whew. That was a good start.
“And no one will get hurt?” I asked.
“Geez, we’re not into hurting people,” Big Mike said.
“Or humiliating them?” I asked hopefully.
“Nope,” Danny said. “We’re talking about goofy little pranks, Russ. Just for fun.”
“Great,” I said, relieved.
“You should do it with us,” Danny said.
“No, thanks,” I said, holding up my book. “I have plans for tonight.”
Danny chuckled. “Like I said before, that must be an awesome book.”
“It is.”
“So,” T. J. said. “Are we short-sheeting beds?”
Content that no unnecessary cruelty was on their schedule, I turned my attention back to my book.
“I don’t know,” Big Mike said. “That’s kind of a lame prank.”
“That’s the idea,” Danny told him. “We start with something nice and simple. Then we take it up a notch every day.”
“Short-sheeting today, duct taping tomorrow?” T. J. asked.
That got my attention.
“Duct taping what?” I asked, curious.
“Anything,” T. J. said, with a shrug and a quick sniff. “We could tape up someone’s suitcase, totally wrap their bed, or just do the doorway.”
I thought about that for a second. “You’d be better off using plastic wrap in a doorway.”
“What?” Danny asked. “Why?”
“The element of surprise,” I explained. “If they see the duct tape, they’ll stand back and admire it. But if you wrap the inside of the doorway in clear plastic—”
“They’ll walk right into it,” Big Mike finished for me.
Danny looked at T. J., who smiled and said, “Nice.”
“I like it,” Danny said. “Okay, so we’ll work on that for later in the week. In the meantime, let’s get started on the sheets.”
“Should we just do this floor?” T. J. asked.
“Nah, let’s get the whole building,” Big Mike said.
“Don’t forget your own beds,” I said.
They all turned to stare at me.
“What?” Danny asked.