Kid Owner Read Free Page B

the radio to fill the quiet.
    Ten minutes later, my mom parked the truck in the fire lane in front of the school. It was almost 7:25, and I hopped down and walked real fast, tugging her toward the main entrance. Two boys I didn’t recognize walked out just as we got there. Both were big and hulking and my mom looked them over before turning to me and tilting her head in a way that asked if I was really sure I wanted to do this.
    I flung open the door and held it. “After you.”
    In she went and we marched up to the table in the front hall of the school just outside the principal’s office. The fluorescent lights above the table glowed, but the rest of the hallways were dark and eerie, and it made the whole thing seem like a dream, whichmade me think about how it was a dream, a dream come true. Me, playing football. Finally.
    Jason Simpkin’s dad sat on the other side of the table with a man who I thought I recognized as the father of Bryan Markham, one of the biggest, strongest—also meanest—kids in the third grade. I knew from talk at school that Bryan’s dad was Mr. Simpkin’s assistant and had himself played middle linebacker at Baylor. While Mr. Simpkin, the former SMU center, reminded me of a neckless rhino, Mr. Markham was more like a balding gorilla, complete with long arms and dark furry hair on the backs of his pale hands and neck. In his mouth was the unlit stub of a fat greenish cigar. The two youth-league coaches were in the process of gathering up their papers when they saw us, stopped, and looked at each other. I thought Mr. Markham rolled his eyes, but the sudden chill I felt left me uncertain of exactly what I had seen.
    â€œHey!” Mr. Simpkin found his smile and rubbed his forehead with a thick stubby hand. “Jason’s little buddy . . .”
    My mom extended her hand. “Ryan. He’s Ryan. I’m Katy. Katy Zinna. We’re here for football sign-ups.”
    Mr. Simpkin shook my mom’s hand, dainty as a rhino. “Yes, well, it’s nice to see you. I—”
    My mom fished through her purse, then handed him my birth certificate and slapped her checkbook down on the table. “Seven hundred ninety-five dollars? Is that right? How do I make that out?”
    â€œWell, you see . . .” Mr. Simpkin looked to Mr. Markham for help.
    â€œSorry,” Mr. Markham grunted, adding a few more wrinkles to his thick brow, “but you missed it.”
    â€œMissed what?” My mother had that thunderstorm look.
    â€œSign-ups.” Mr. Markham shrugged in a not-so-nice way and spoke around his stub of a cigar so that it wiggled. “We’re full. Maybe next year, though. Anyway, it’ll give the little guy a chance to grow.”
    I closed my eyes, ’cause I knew what came next. And it was not going to be good.
    â€œExcuse me?” My mom’s shrill voice could have cracked a glass.
    Mr. Markham’s face contorted into a mean smile and his voice got smooth, so you knew he was no stranger to nasty situations. “I’m just telling you the facts. You missed sign-ups. It’s over. Sorry, lady.”
    I glanced at Mr. Simpkin, hoping he’d vouch for my speed and suggest I was worth bending the rules for. I’m the third-down slot receiver, remember? You said so at Jason’s party. I wanted to say that, but didn’t.
    â€œAnd you’re the coach?” My mom glowered at Mr. Markham.
    â€œOne of them.” Mr. Markham puffed up and yanked the cigar from a picket of yellow-stained teeth.
    â€œGood, then I wouldn’t want my son being coached by a pompous jerk like you, anyway. Come on, Ryan. I’m betting there are better teams than this you can sign up for.” She took my arm and we headed toward the door. Out on the sidewalk, we passed a father and his son, a boy both tall and lean.
    â€œThey closed them down, the sign-ups,” my mom said, trying to be helpful.
    â€œOh.