Kid Owner Read Free Page A

at me funny. “We were married, your father and I.”
    â€œYou were ? Then how come I don’t know him? How come everything’s a secret?” I asked.
    She bit her lower lip. “I did that for you, Ryan. I still want to do it for you. You have to trust me. It’s better for you not to know him or who he is. It would only make things harder for you. You have to believe me. It hasn’t hurt you not to know him. It hasn’t hurtyou not to even talk about him. That’s why I call it the F-word. Let’s not even talk about it.”
    This was news that made my head spin.
    Then my mother said the only thing that could have possibly taken my mind off my father.

5
    PRESENT . . .
    I woke up suddenly, my heart beating and my brow sweaty, realizing that I had tangled myself in the sheets, and now I struggled to break free. I turned over and looked at the clock. It was midnight and pitch-black around me. I had practice tomorrow, and I was already exhausted. My mom must have been, too; I could hear her voice floating up from the kitchen, still talking on the phone. I flipped over, trying to get comfortable. It was raining outside again. Shadows cast by the moonlight took on strange shapes, suggesting bad thoughts and deeds, lies and deceit and cover-ups all around me. I wanted to scream, but I kept quiet and untangled myself. I lay panting in my bed as I realized it really hadn’t been the best thing for me not to know my father. Not now, not with him dead. Now I would neverget to make him proud, so that even if I fulfilled my dreams of becoming a star quarterback, he’d never know. I’d never be able to tell him.
    But back when I was in elementary school, my mom distracted me from the fact that I didn’t know who my dad was.
    YEARS EARLIER . . .
    She’d said, “Let’s only have one F-word we don’t talk about. I’m taking football off the list. Let’s go sign you up.”
    She’d had a twinkle in her eye, and I couldn’t believe I’d come through that terrible tantrum complete with broken glass, slammed doors, and calling my mom a liar with her still willing to make me a Highland Knight.
    â€œThanks, Mom,” I said, grinning.
    I didn’t say another word for fear of breaking the spell, but was on my feet in a split second and headed for the door to the garage. “Don’t forget the birth certificate.”
    â€œI know, and my checkbook,” she mumbled. For some reason, she sounded irritated.
    But I knew the birth certificate was a must for PYFL sign-ups. The league had strict age limits on its players. I opened my mouth to explain, then stopped. It hit me why talk of a birth certificate might annoy her. Besides having my date of birth, that official government document would also probably have my father’s name on it.
    I rode up high beside her in the front seat of our big white truck. Lots of moms drive pickups in Texas. The inside of a King Ranch F-350 is like the living room in a hunting lodge, with bigthick leather seats, the kind of place you could put your shoes up on the furniture without a second thought. I kept my shoes on the floor, staring intently at the sunbaked road up ahead but powerfully aware that the folded paper on the console between our seats very likely held the name of the man who was my father.
    The thought of grabbing my birth certificate and quickly stealing a look ran wild around the inside of my head. I stuffed my hands beneath my legs and started to sweat, despite the cold blast of AC from the dashboard vent.
    I looked over at my mom. She scowled at the road, lips tight. I took a deep breath.
    â€œMom, the league makes you bring a birth certificate to prove you’re not too old to play. I’m not going to look at it.”
    â€œOh, I don’t care about that.” She waved her hand in the air, but I could see her face suddenly relax.
    â€œOkay.” I gave a short nod, then turned on