28

STRIKE—DAY 6

On Saturday, for the first time since the strike began, I felt like playing the cello. I’d been practicing for about an hour and a half when my cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Jack? It’s Lucy Fleck.”

She was whispering for some reason.

“Hey, Lucy. What’s up?”

“I wanted to check in with you to make sure you were well.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” She lowered her voice even further, to a level only dogs could hear. “Are you?”

“I’m good,” I told Lucy.

“I think what you’re doing is extreme,” she said, “but I admire your perseverance.”

“Thanks.”

“I can imagine your father is quite upset with you.”

Now it was my turn to whisper, since he was in the next room. “My dad freaked out when I told him. He’s still freaked out. But you know what? The world didn’t end. I’m still here. Not to mention the fact that Brody Newhouse is coming over on Monday.”

“WHAT?!?” Lucy shouted. “I mean, what?!?” she repeated, returning to a whisper.

“It’s true.”

“I imagine there’s a story behind that bit of news.”

“There is.” And I told her the whole story: about the kids coming over, the toe injury, the touch football game, the phone call from Brody, and sleeping in the rain. Afterward, I waited for her to congratulate me and tell me how awesome it was that I was going to be on a popular TV show about brave kids.

But the only thing she said was “Baxter Billows was at your house? That’s interesting.”

“Why, do you like him?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, but I could almost feel her blushing.

“Okay, sorry.”

“I have to go,” she said. And she hung up.

I guess deep down, girls are all the same.

Even piano-playing, fencing, ice-skating girls.