Two-Minute Drill - Mike Lupica [20]
“Eighty-five seconds,” Scott would say.
Or eighty-three. Whatever it was. Chris seemed to knock off a couple of seconds every time Scott put him on the clock.
When they did their last page on Wednesday, studying at Scott’s this time, he got under eighty seconds for the first time.
“And I slowed down for a second when I got here,” Chris said, pointing to the word sight. “Another one that doesn’t sound the way it looks,” he said.
Words like that, ones he couldn’t sound out, were still a problem for him, Scott had discovered. But he kept telling Chris that he couldn’t let words like that make him feel like he’d run into a door.
“You just gotta keep moving,” Scott said.
Chris grinned. “Like I’m getting chased by a couple of linebackers.”
“If you stop,” Scott said, “you’re gonna get sacked.”
“Mr. Dolan calls it getting dough-popped,” Chris said. “Some kind of Southern expression.”
“Yeah,” Scott said. “And, remember, dough is spelled d-o-u-g-h.”
“I hate words like that!”
Scott said, “Get over it and start reading the next page.” Pointing to his watch as he said that.
“You have turned into Mr. Dolan,” Chris said.
They read until Scott’s mom said Chris’s mom was there to pick him up. Wednesday wasn’t a practice night this week, but they were studying together anyway, because the test was tomorrow.
When Chris was gone, Scott’s mom said, “So how are we looking there, Professor?”
“Chris calls me Coach.”
“So how is he doing, really? He seems to be in a much better mood lately. Mrs. Conlan says she’s noticed it, too.”
Scott said, “He’s gotten a lot better in just a week. The last page we did today, he had his best time ever. Then I had him read a whole chapter and talk about it afterward. Mom,” Scott said, excited, “he got it.”
“You think he can get through this tomorrow?”
“He’s definitely nervous,” Scott said. “Chris said he never chokes at football, but when it comes to quizzes, he gags his lungs out.”
“You’re more nervous about his test than you’ve ever been for one of your own.”
“Not even close,” Scott said.
She put her arms around him then. “Have I told you lately what a great kid you are?”
Scott said, “Well, not in months and months.”
“You are an unbelievably great kid.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“You are most welcome.”
Scott looked up at his mom and said, “He’s got to nail this sucker.”
THIRTEEN
Chris nailed it.
They didn’t know for sure he’d nailed it that day, because they weren’t getting their grades until the next morning. At lunch all Chris said was that he thought he’d done a solid job.
“I was going to stop a couple of times,” he said. “I’d get stuck on a word and get that bad feeling. But I made myself keep going, like we talked about.”
English, their last class before lunch, had just ended a few minutes before, and he was still all fired up, like he really had just played a big game. “The whole time, I pictured you standing over me, looking at that cheesy watch of yours.”
Scott said, “What do you mean, cheesy? Do you know how many tickets at the video arcade this watch cost me?”
The book Mr. Dykes had given them was called Hoot, about some cool kids in Florida trying to save baby owls. He’d had them read the first chapter, then told them to write an essay about what had happened and how they felt the author had made them want to read the rest of the book.
When Mr. Dykes handed them back their blue books on Friday, Scott could feel himself holding his breath the way he would during the best parts of a movie, could actually feel his heart beating inside his chest.
Chris stared at the grade on the front, not changing expression until Mr. Dykes was past him, then holding up the front of the book so that Scott could see the grade written in red Magic Marker on the front:
B.
Scott knew that the best Chris had done on the first three quizzes so far this semester was a C-minus.
Making sure Mr. Z couldn’t see, Chris pointed across at Scott and mouthed “you.”
Scott smiled, then shook his head.
When Mr. Dykes dropped the blue book on his desk, Scott saw the A at the top and “Excellent