The Fourth Stall - Chris Rylander [87]
Everybody was sweating pretty hard by the time we got back into town. I thanked them all at least a billion times and told them to meet me in my office at morning recess. After we parted ways, I had Vince ride to Staples’s house. I went onto the porch and tossed his car keys inside the mailbox.
Then we rode to my house. Once in my driveway I hopped off the bike and faced Vince. He looked at me, squinting into the sun.
“Hey, Mac, I’m glad you’re okay. I was pretty worried there for a while,” he said.
“Yeah, me, too. Thanks for rescuing me.”
“Hey, no problem. It’s like my grandma always says, ‘A real friend is someone who is there for you when he’d rather be anywhere else.’”
I smiled. “Hey, that one’s pretty good. She really says that?”
“No, of course not. I made some changes. Hers goes something like this: ‘A friend is like an eagle with no wings because they’ll both get eaten by a giant spaghetti noodle.’”
We both laughed.
“Hey, why didn’t you guys ever call the cops?” I asked.
“We didn’t really know for sure if you really were out at the Yard. Plus, the bullies didn’t want the cops around to witness the sort of revenge that they were planning,” Vince said.
“Makes sense,” I said with a shrug. “Hey, Vince?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry again that I actually thought that you were the traitor for a while. It was horrible to have believed it,” I said. I looked at him, not knowing what else to say.
He shook his head. “Remember a few years ago when I was so convinced that you stole my Ron Santo rookie card because you just happened to buy one on the same day that mine went missing? I was so mad at you that I wouldn’t even look at you, let alone talk to you. Yet, when I found my card a few days later, you forgave me instantly. You weren’t even mad that I suspected you. So now I figure that I should do the same.”
“I still feel bad, that’s all,” I said.
“I’m just glad you’re still alive. And that we got all our money back and that we’re still friends and business partners and stuff like that.” He rolled his bike’s front tire back and forth across a line on the sidewalk.
“Me, too. That was like the worst three days of my life,” I said as I scratched my eye. I thought I’d gotten some sand in it while I was on the ground out at the Yard.
“Hey, you’re not going to get all weepy on me, are you?” Vince said.
“No, no it was just—”
“Because it’s totally okay if you do,” Vince interrupted. “I’ve actually been collecting tears. I’m planning on building a time machine that runs on tears, bleach, and oranges. Then I can go way back and tell the Cubs not to trade away Greg Maddux and draft Mark Prior. Oh, it would also be cool to, like, see the Gettysburg Address or something, too.”
He had stepped off his bike and was now holding a little clear tube up to my cheek. He had a serious look on his face, as if missing a single tear would mean the end of the world.
I pushed his hand away. He had such perfect timing.
“Come on! Get out of here with that,” I said. “Where did you get that anyways? How long have you been carrying that vial around, waiting for a time like this?”
Vince laughed. “We did a dumb science lab today in Bolig’s class. I stole it. Don’t you believe me? Start crying, please.”
I shoved him back a little again and said, “I can get a few going if you give me some space, you needy creep.”
“No, I’m just messing around, Mac. It’s too late to save the Cubs of the past, and the Gettysburg Address would be totally boring, I bet.” He chucked the little vial into the garbage can on the curb. “But I do have a good one for you. For real this time. I thought of it back when Staples had you in a headlock, but I figured that wasn’t the best time to ask.”
“Yeah, no kidding. All right, let’s have it,” I said.
“Who was the first Cub to win the Rookie of the Year award?”
“Oh man . . . that