Midnight Lily(8)

The kid looked at me silently for a couple seconds and then said, "I don't live in an apartment building, I think you mean Japanese, and that story is not imaginative at all—it's a clear Karate Kid rip-off. And also, it could get an innocent janitor in a whole lot of trouble—maybe even fired from the job he might need to feed his three foster kids."

"That guy has three foster kids?" I did a fake shudder.

He shrugged. "He could."

"See, that's what's wrong with social services. They give foster kids to guys like him. I hear, like, the whole system is a joke."

The kid narrowed his eyes—well his one good eye at least—and stared at me for a few moments. Then his lip tipped up slightly and he laughed a short laugh. When he stopped, he looked . . . bewildered. Yeah, bewildered. That was the word. And it'd just been on a vocab test the week before. I took a moment to pat myself on the back for using it.

"I'm Holden," I said. "Holden Scott."

He paused for a second before reaching out and gripping the hand I held out to him. "Ryan Ellis."

Two guys from my team walked by and I heard them snicker under their breath. "Hey, Holden, dude," Vince Milne said, "is it adopt-a-loser day and no one told me?" He ribbed Jeremy Pratt who was walking next to him and Jeremy laughed.

"Yeah it is, Vince," I called. "Are you already taken?"

"Eh, f*ck off," he muttered under his breath before walking away. I hated that *. And he was a suck-ass football player, too.

I turned back to Ryan who was trying to look like he was busy organizing his backpack and hadn't heard anything Vince and I were saying. I could tell he had though because his face was hot and bright red.

"Anyway, what way do you walk? I'm headed home if you are, too."

"Uh, I walk toward Bridgetown Road," he muttered.

"Me, too. Come on." I stood up, gathering my helmet, and he stood slowly as well. We were about the same height, although Ryan was real skinny. He zipped his backpack and hefted it onto his shoulder.

"Your backpack looks like it weighs two hundred pounds."

Ryan smirked. "It does. It's how I got all these muscles."

"Ha. So what grade are you in?"

"Seventh, same as you," he said.

I nodded, feeling bad that he obviously knew who I was, but I'd never noticed him before. I cleared my throat. "So, hey, do you want to stop at Skyline and get a couple Coneys? Are you hungry? I'm starving. I go there after practice a lot. Some of the other guys might be there, too. The cool ones."

He shook his head. "No, I can't. I have to be home."

"Oh, okay. Another time then."

As we started walking, Ryan said, "So you, uh, obviously play football."

"Yeah, I love it. Man, it's my life. I'm number twenty-two. I'm gonna go pro someday," I said excitedly. "I'm gonna live in a big mansion and date celebrities, and have my own personal chef, and drive the coolest cars." It was all I ever dreamed about. "Do you play at all? Even just for fun?"

Ryan shook his head, sticking his hands into his pockets. "Nah. I like watching, though. I like the Cowboys."

I turned to him. "That's my favorite team. Holy shit, they're awesome!"

Ryan smiled and nodded.

"If you like football so much, why don't you play?"

He pressed his lips together and stared down at his shoes as we walked. "My dad . . . the gear and stuff, you know. It's just . . . not in our budget." His face turned kinda red. I nodded so he would know I understood.

"My parents are on a budget, too. I know what you mean. My dad had to pick up extra hours so we could afford for me to play."

Ryan nodded, looking like I'd made him feel better. "I go to all the school games. I think I've seen your parents at them, too—holding up number twenty-two signs."

I nodded. "Yeah, that's them, all right." I rolled my eyes. "The one's dressed entirely in our school colors, waving pom-poms, foam number-one fingers, and holding up signs with my number. It's so embarrassing." I kept talking. I always talked so damn much. Like my brain had no off switch. All my thoughts just flowed right out of my mouth. "My parents thought they couldn't have kids. They tried for years and nothing, then, boom! When my mom was forty-nine, she found out she was pregnant with me. You should see her, when she tells the story, she looks all dreamy like God himself came down and knocked her up, you know? So they kinda go overboard with the whole parenting thing. Like I'm their miracle child."

Ryan smiled a small smile. "I guess you kinda are."

"Yeah, I guess," I said. "So what about your parents?"

Ryan stiffened and stared down at his shoes again. "It's just me and my dad." I waited, but he didn't go on. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye as we walked in silence for a few blocks, getting up the nerve to ask the question I really wanted to know.

"Did your dad do that to you?" I asked as casually as possible, nodding to his eye when he turned his head to me. His expression was surprised for a second, then he looked kinda mad, then he closed his eyes and looked ahead, deciding to answer honestly.

"Yeah."

I was quiet for a minute, wondering what it was like to have a dad who hit you in your face. What did a kid do to deserve something like that? "Your dad sounds like a real *."