The third kid who tracked us down that day, the one who had an offer for us, found us during lunchtime. Or, well, I guess he didn’t find us so much as he had us found.

Vince and I were hanging out near the west goal post of the practice football field, waiting for kids to finish their lunches so we could get a short football game going before the start of fifth-hour classes.

“Remember that time we tried to pull a Rookie of the Year?” Vince asked as we played catch with the football.

I laughed as I remembered that incident. We had been in fourth grade; it was the beginning of the baseball season. Vince and I had watched this old movie called Rookie of the Year because it was about the Cubs. We watched everything we could find that mentioned the Cubs. Anyways, in this movie this kid hurts his arm and it heals weirdly and gives him a cannon for a throwing arm. So naturally he joins the Chicago Cubs baseball team to help save their season and end the curse. And because it’s a movie, and not real, it works out in the end. This thirteen-year-old kid ends the Cubs curse and they win the World Series. Overall the movie was just okay, but it gave Vince and me an idea. Probably the best idea we’d ever had up to that point.

I mean, Vince was already a good pitcher, right? So really we thought our plan was pretty genius. And maybe it could have worked if he had separated his throwing shoulder in the fall instead of his other shoulder. But I guess having Vince jump off the roof of the school wasn’t really that good of a plan in the first place. We had never really considered that he wouldn’t be able to control entirely what body part he landed on. But it’s hard to blame us; we were only fourth graders, after all. And being a Cubs fan can kind of blind you to logic sometimes. We were just that desperate to somehow break the curse.

Of course I can’t even begin to explain why even after the first failed attempt we still thought the plan could work and tried again. The second time we had Vince jump off a Jet Ski going at full speed and try to land as awkwardly on his throwing arm as possible. After that fracture finally healed and he couldn’t throw any harder than before, we finally decided to let the idea go.

“That was pretty awesome,” I said.

Vince faked being upset. “Yeah, for you maybe. You’re not the one who had to suffer through two arm injuries!”

“It’s not like you didn’t love all the attention you got from girls because of that sling. They were just lining up to do your homework for you and help carry your books and stuff.”

Vince grinned and shrugged. “Whatever. It still wasn’t as much fun as it would have been to pitch for the Cubs.”

“Speaking of the Cubs,” I said, “I bet I’ve got you.”

“You wish.”

“Who was the last Cub to be inducted into the Hall of Fame?”

Vince scoffed. “Well, sorry, but I’m not an idiot and thus know that the answer is in fact Ron Santo.”

“Yeah, I know that was an easy one. I just thought I would honor the fact that those morons finally let him in like he deserved to be.”

Vince nodded, and we shared a few seconds of silence in honor of good old Ron.

Then suddenly two hands came out of nowhere, grabbed my arms, and pinned them to my sides. I saw Vince hit the ground as someone pushed him.

“Hey!” I said.

My assailant let me go, and I turned around as Vince climbed to his feet next to me. He seemed unhurt—thankfully we were on grass and not gravel or pavement. We’d been ambushed, basically. Had we still been in practice, we might have seen it coming, but with the simple life of not having a business came less paranoia. My head wasn’t always on a swivel like it used to be.

“What gives?” Vince said.

“Jimmy needs to talk to you,” one of our attackers said, pointing at me.

It was Mitch. One of Staples’s former lackeys, a guy who had plenty of reason to dislike Vince and me. The other kid was this brutish eighth grader named Lloyd Ahler, a real gorilla of a kid who I didn’t know much about since he had been new here last year. I had been too busy last year to get to know most of the new kids.

Mitch wasn’t too big and tough, but he did have a year on us. And Lloyd looked like he could have driven Vince into the ground with a single overhanded swing of his giant mallet of a hand. I figured fighting back or running wouldn’t end well, especially since they didn’t seem to be here to fight.

“Jimmy who?” I asked. “Jimmy ‘the Dutch Axe’ Pierson?”

“No, not Jimmy ‘the Dutch Axe,’ you idiot,” Mitch scoffed.

I didn’t see how me not knowing who he meant made me an idiot since there were like seven Jimmys at this school. But I didn’t argue the point. I just stared at him.

“Jimmy who, then?” Vince asked.

“Jimmy Two-Tone, duh,” Mitch said.

“Look, I don’t know a Jimmy Two-Tone,” I said, and started to turn away.

Lloyd “Gorilla” Ahler grabbed my arm with what I could only assume was a robot hand since it squeezed so hard.

“Yeah, well, he knows you, apparently,” Mitch said. “And he has requested a meeting with you.”

“Me? Why?” I asked, even though I knew better. Clearly it was just another kid in need of help. A kid so desperate that he’d hired two eighth-grade goons to come and make me hear his request.

“I’ll ask the questions here, okay?” Mitch said.

I shrugged and nodded. Then a long silence followed. It was kind of uncomfortable.

“Well, are you going to ask me a question, then?” I said finally.

“Oh, well, I guess . . .” Mitch started. “I guess I don’t have any questions, exactly. Look, stop messing around. I said Jimmy wants to talk to you!”

I looked at Vince, who merely shrugged.

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay, then,” said Mitch, clearly not quite used to this sort of thing. There was a definite difference between recreational bullying and bullying for pay, being a strongman, and he hadn’t quite worked out the subtleties just yet.

Lloyd was holding my arm a little harder than was necessary considering I’d agreed to come with willingly, but I wasn’t about to insult this walking lump of hair and muscle that called itself a kid named Lloyd. And so we started back toward the school in silence.