AS SOON AS HE WALKED IN THE SIDE DOOR AT ST. PATRICK’S, THE SIDE FACING the baseball and soccer fields, Danny knew that everybody knew.
As if somehow his classmates had all Googled up “Danny Walker” and there was a place you could go to read all about how he hadn’t made seventh-grade travel. How being a small, flashy point guard in Middletown wasn’t nearly as big a deal as it used to be.
How Richie Walker’s kid hadn’t made the team.
He walked down the long hall to his locker, eyes straight ahead, imagining they were all watching him and they all knew.
Even the girls.
Tess Hewitt, who he really liked—though he was quick to point out to Will that didn’t necessarily mean liked liked, and to please shut up—was standing next to his locker when he got there about ten after eight, five minutes before first period. So was the red-haired witch, Emma Carson.
Danny believed that Emma got to St. Patrick’s every morning by taking the bus from hell.
Emma had started liking Danny in fifth grade, and had continued liking him right up until it was clear that not only did he not feel the same way about her, he was never going to feel the same way, he didn’t even want her on his e-mail buddy list. That was when she apparently made a decision to torture him any chance she got.
Which meant today was going to be the closest thing for her to a school holiday.
Or a national holiday.
“Any word yet on travel?” she said.
Tess gave her a look and poked her with an elbow at the same time. Tess was taller than Emma, taller than Danny, too, by a head, with long blond hair that stretched past her shoulders, and long legs, and blue eyes.
Next to her, Emma Carson looked like a fire hydrant.
She wasn’t as pretty as Tess, as nice, as smart. As skinny. Even at the age of twelve, Danny Walker knew that Emma going through middle school and maybe even high school standing next to someone who looked like Tess Hewitt wasn’t the most brilliant idea in the whole world.
Danny tossed his backpack, the one his mom said was heavier than he was, into his locker, grabbed his algebra book; he’d done his homework in study hall the day before, knowing he wasn’t going to be much interested in cracking any school books later if he happened to find out early that he hadn’t made the team.
“I didn’t make it,” Danny said, his words landing harder in his locker than the backpack had.
He turned to face Emma. “But you knew that already, didn’t you, M and M?”
Danny knew she hated that nickname, whether the other kids were talking about the rapper Eminem or the candy. Probably the candy more, since it was generally acknowledged by the male population at St. Patrick’s School that Emma Carson could stand to lose a few.
“I didn’t do anything, Daniel Walker,” she said. “You’re the one who didn’t make travel.”
“Well, you got me there,” he said.
Tess said, “I’m sorry, Danny.”
He wasn’t sure whether this was technically commiserating from Tess or not, since Emma was the one who’d originally brought up the subject of travel, and him not making it. He was sure of this, though: He wanted to talk to Tess about this in the worst way; he’d even thought about going online last night to see if she had her own computer up and running and open for business.
It was a lot easier to talk about stuff like this online. To talk about almost anything, actually.
It’s why he wished his dad would get a computer. Maybe then they could have a real conversation.
Maybe then they could talk.
“Whatever,” he said.
Emma said, “I heard the whole team is from Springs.”
Danny said, “Boy, you have all the sports news of the day, don’t you? Tell me, Emma, have you ever considered a career in broadcasting?” And then before she could say some smart-mouth thing back to him, Danny said, “Wait a second, considering how you spread news around this place, you’ve started your career in broadcasting already, haven’t you?”
“C’mon, Tess,” she said. “I guess it must be our fault he won’t be playing travel basketball this season.”
Tess looked as if she wanted to stay, but knew that would be violating some code of girl friendship. So the two of them walked away from him down the hall.
Before they turned the corner, Tess quickly wheeled around, made a typing motion with her fingers without Emma seeing, and mouthed the word “Later.”
Danny nodded at her, and then she was gone.
If yesterday was the worst day of his whole life, you had to say that today was at least going to be in the picture.
His best friend at St. Pat’s was Will Stoddard, whose main claim to sports fame in Middletown was that his uncle was the old baseball pitcher Charlie Stoddard, who’d been a phenom with the Mets once and then made this amazing comeback a few years ago with the Red Sox, pitching on the same team with his son, Tom, Will’s cousin.
Will’s other claim to fame, much more meaningful to all those who knew and loved him—or just knew him—was this:
He could talk the way fish could swim.
He talked from the moment he woke up in the morning—this Danny knew from sleepovers—until he went to bed, and then he talked in his sleep after that. He talked in class, in the halls, in study halls, on the practice field, in the car when Ali Walker would drive him to St. Pat’s, on the computer. When Danny would go to Will’s house, he would watch in amazement as Will would carry on one conversation with him, another on the phone, and have four instant-message boxes going on his computer screen at the same time.
Knowing that he was going to have to listen to Will go on about travel basketball for the entire school day wasn’t the most exciting prospect for Danny, but he’d caught a break when Will didn’t show up at the locker next to his before the bell for first period; didn’t, in fact, show up for algebra until about two minutes after Mr. Moriarty had everybody in their seats and pulling out their homework assignments.
When Will came bursting through the door, red-faced as always, his thick dark curly hair looking as if it had been piled on top of his head in scoops, Mr. Moriarty looked over the top of his reading glasses and said, “So nice of you to join us, Mr. Stoddard.”
At which point Will stopped in front of the class and theatrically produced a note from the pocket of his St. Pat’s–required khaki pants, like it was a “Get Out of Jail Free” card he’d saved from Monopoly.
“From my mother, sir,” he said. “Car trouble. We had to drop the Suburban off at Tully Chevrolet this morning, and pick up a loaner, which turned out to be a piece of cra…junk, which meant we had to turn around and go back and get another one when we were halfway here. Plus, my father is out of town, and the car conked out at the end of the driveway….”
“If it’s just the same with you, Mr. Stoddard, I’ll wait for the movie to find out the rest of it.”
As he walked past Danny’s desk at the front of the classroom, Will said, “Does this suck, or what?”
Danny knowing he meant travel, not being late for class.
Will had tried out for travel even though he knew he wasn’t going to make it the way he hadn’t made it last year or the year before. He had more heart than anybody Danny knew, more heart than Danny himself, he had always tried out, had always spent more time diving for loose balls than anybody in the gym.
But knowing the whole time he wasn’t good enough.
Sometimes Danny thought that the only reason Will was even there was to cheer him on, to watch his back.
That kind of friend.
Now he was the friend saying “suck” too loud in Mr. Moriarty’s classroom.
Mr. Moriarty said, “I don’t believe I quite caught that, Mr. Stoddard.”
Will stopped where he was, turned to face the music.
“I said,” Will said, “that being late for a great class like yours, sir, really stinks.”
There were some stifled laughs from behind Danny. When they subsided, Mr. Moriarty said, “Why don’t we just say it now, and get it over with.”
To the rest of the class, Will Stoddard said, “You’ve been a great audience, don’t forget to tip your waitresses.”
It was his favorite line from some old Saved by the Bell rerun.
As always, there was a brief round of applause. Mr. Moriarty was older than water and liked to carry himself like a bit of a stiff, but he was a good guy. One who seemed to get it.
Or most of it, anyway.
Will was definitely right about one thing, though:
This did suck.
Even for a streak of light, even in the light of stinking day.