Two-Minute Drill - Mike Lupica [2]
Scott went down hard, landing on knees and elbows.
All he could hear now was laughter.
Until he heard this: “Cut it out, Dolan.”
Not a teacher’s voice. Not a voice belonging to any grown-up. A kid, definitely.
Scott picked himself up and saw that it was Chris Conlan.
You only had to be at Bloomfield South for one day to know that even though Jimmy Dolan was one of the bigger football players in the sixth grade, Chris Conlan was the best.
Chris Conlan wasn’t just the quarterback, he was the boy all the other boys in their class wanted to be.
“What’s the problem, Chris? I was just playing—”
“Give him back his picture.”
Scott could see by the look on Jimmy’s face how much he didn’t want to back down.
“Why’re you standing up for him?” Jimmy said, sounding whiny all of a sudden. “You don’t even know this guy.”
“I know you, though,” Chris said. “And I know you’re acting like a tool. Now, for the last time, give him back his picture.”
And, to Scott’s amazement, Jimmy Dolan did just that.
TWO
It was like a play Chris had called in the huddle.
Jimmy handed the picture back to Scott, saying, “Whatever. Take your stupid picture.”
Then he walked away shaking his head, maybe for once knowing what it felt like to look bad in front of the other kids.
“I’ve got a dog, too,” Chris said to Scott. Then he grinned and said, “But pictures sort of don’t do him justice.”
“Thanks for doing that,” Scott said. He stuck the picture of Casey inside his math book, started putting the rest of his books back inside the pack.
“Don’t worry about it,” Chris said. “He was acting stupid.”
Scott smiled for the first time since school had let out. Maybe the first time since he’d showed up at Bloomfield South on Monday morning. “I don’t think he was acting,” he said.
Now it was Chris’s turn to smile. “He’s actually not such a bad guy,” he said.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Chris said, “It’s just that the only thing he’s really good at is knocking people down, like in football. And sometimes he forgets the game’s over. Or hasn’t started yet.”
Then, as if he’d remembered something, Chris stuck out his hand.
“I’m Chris,” he said.
It felt funny, and Scott was sure it looked funny, a couple of sixth-graders shaking hands, but they did it.
“I know who you are,” Scott said.
“And I know who you are,” Chris said. “The smartest kid in our class.”
“No way.”
“Way,” Chris said. “Like way the smartest. I watch you in class sometimes when somebody else is answering, and I can just tell you know the answer.”
Scott said, “Maybe that makes you the smart one.”
Chris gave him a funny look.
Just then the bus line finally started to move. Scott said he’d better get going, thanked Chris one last time.
“Dolan won’t bother you anymore,” Chris said.
“I wish.”
Chris grinned. “You’re cool now,” the coolest kid in their class said. “I got you.”
“Well . . . cool,” Scott said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
He started to walk toward the bus, and Chris walked with him, saying, “Hey, maybe we could hang out sometime, or whatever.”
“Yeah,” Scott said, “anytime.”
He said it like it was no big deal, but what he really wanted to do was yell “Yeah!” and pump his fist windmill-style, the way Tiger Woods did after he sank a big putt in Tiger Woods PGA Tour ’07.
“See you tomorrow then,” Chris said.
“Yeah,” Scott said again.
He had to keep himself from running up the steps to bus number three.
Flying.
Just like that, he had a friend.
THREE
His mom was waiting for him when he got home.
This was the third time they had moved in the past five years. His dad worked as a salesman for Titleist golf balls, and the more he sold, the bigger his job seemed to get. Every time it got bigger, they moved.
But no matter where they were living, one thing hadn’t changed:
Scott Parry couldn’t think of a day in his entire life when he’d walked into whatever house they were living in and his mom hadn’t been there.
And ever since they’d gotten Casey, his golden retriever, as a pup two years