The Wednesday Wars Read Free Page A

that the watching Mrs. Baker was almost giddy at the thought.
    "Get in front of him!" screamed Danny Hupfer, who was our goalie. "In front of him!" His voice was cracking, probably because he was imagining the propulsion of a soccer ball as it left Doug Swieteck's brother's foot and hurtled toward the goal, and wondering what it might do to his chest.
    I didn't move.
    Danny screamed again. I think he screamed "In front!" But I'm not sure. I don't think he was using language at all. Imagine a sound with a whole lot of high vowels, and I think you'd have it.
    But it didn't make any difference what he screamed, because of course I wasn't going to get in front. There was no way in the world I was going to get in front. If Doug Swieteck's brother scored, he scored. It was just a game, after all.
    I stepped toward the sideline, away from the goal.
    And Doug Swieteck's brother veered toward me.
    I ran back a bit and stepped even closer to the sideline.
    And he veered toward me again.
    So as Danny Hupfer screamed vowels and Doug Swieteck's brother growled mesozoically, I felt my life come down to this one hard point, like it had been a funnel channeling everything I had ever done to this one moment, when it would all end.
    And that was when I remembered Jim Hawkins, climbing up the side of the
Hispaniola
to steal her, tearing down the Jolly Roger flag, sitting in the crosstrees and holding Israel Hands back.
    Guts.
    So I glanced up at Mrs. Baker's window—she wasn't there, probably so she wouldn't be accused of being an accomplice—and then I ran toward the goal, turned, and stood. I waited for Doug Swieteck's brother to come.
    It was probably kind of noble to see.
    I stood my ground, and I stood my ground, and I stood my ground, until the howling and the roaring and the slobbering were about on top of me.
    Then I closed my eyes—nothing says you have to look at your destiny—and stepped out of the way.
    Almost.
    I left my right foot behind.
    And Doug Swieteck's hairy brother tripped over it.
    Everything suddenly increased in volume—the howling and the roaring and the slobbering, the whistling of Doug Swieteck's brother's airborne body hurtling toward the goal, the screams of Danny Hupfer, my own hollering as I clutched my crushed foot. Then there came an iron thunk against the goal post, which bent at a sudden angle around Doug Swieteck's brother's head.
    And everything was quiet.
    I opened my eyes again.
    Doug Swieteck's brother was standing and sort of wobbling. Mrs. Sidman was running over—though, properly speaking, what she did wasn't really running. It was more a panicky shuffle. She probably saw "Negligent Playground Monitor" headlines in her future. When she got to him, Doug Swieteck's brother was still wobbling, and he looked at her with his eyes kind of crossed. "Are you all right?" Mrs. Sidman asked, and held on to his arm.
    He nodded once, then threw up on her.
    He had eaten a liverwurst-and-egg sandwich for lunch. No one ever wants to see a liverwurst-and-egg sandwich twice.
    And Mrs. Sidman's rain hat did not help at all.
    That was the end of the soccer game, except that Danny Hupfer—a very relieved Danny Hupfer—ran up to thump me on the back. "You sure did take him out!"
    "I didn't mean to take him out."
    "Sure. Did you see him fly? Like a missile."
    "I didn't mean to take him out," I hollered.
    "I never saw anyone get taken out like that before."
    Doug Swieteck ran over. "You took out my brother?"
    "I didn't mean to take out your brother."
    "Everyone says you took out my brother. I've been wanting to do that since I was out of the womb."
    "It was like a missile," said Danny.
    I limped back into school, trying not to look at an unhappy Mrs. Sidman, who was holding the wobbling Doug Swieteck's brother at the same time that she was using her rain hat to do not very much. Liverwurst is like that.
    Meryl Lee was waiting for me at the door. "You took out Doug Swieteck's brother?" she