Whoosh!
A coil of rope flew across the kitchen. It landed with a thump around Brady’s shoulders.
Gramp popped through the doorway. He wore a black cowboy hat and boots with high heels and pointy toes. “Gotcha!”
“Hey!” sputtered Brady. He tugged at the rope. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Ropin’ you!” said Gramp. “Ha! You’re an ornery cow. Might have to throw you down and hog-tie you!”
“Very funny.” Brady wriggled and the rope pulled harder. “Would you mind getting this thing off me?”
“If you promise to play Crazy Eights.”
“I’m playing with my race car.” Brady had laid out an imaginary racetrack on the patterned squares of linoleum. For a few minutes he’d forgotten about Grit and the dog show.
Gramp jiggled the rope. “Crazy Eights.”
Brady’s shoulders sagged. “Okay, okay.” He glared at Gramp. He was the one who was crazy.
Gramp untied Brady. He coiled his rope and slung it over a chair. “I’ll be waiting for you. Bring us some grub while you’re at it.”
Brady grabbed a bag of potato chips, some cookies and four cans of orange pop and carried the food into the living room. He slid deeper in his chair as Gramp skunked him, game after game. It was hard to concentrate on the cards. His mind drifted to Desert Racer. He’d love to ask Gramp a million questions. How fast could it go? Had he ever won a race in it? And why was it such a secret anyway?
Brady sighed. He couldn’t think of a way to bring it up without making Gramp suspicious. He drained two cans of pop. Then he said, “I quit.”
Gramp crunched a potato chip. “Can’t. We’re playing best out of twenty-five.”
“What?” Brady’s voice shot up.
Gramp stuck out his chin. Grit growled softly at his feet. Brady rubbed his hands through his hair. “Look, as soon as I win one game, we quit.”
Gramp snickered. He dealt a new round. His fingers looked like old tree roots, but they moved as fast as spiders. Brady checked his cards gloomily.
They played for a few minutes. Slap, slap went the cards. Brady felt horrible. He’d had way too much orange pop. He sneezed. “I think I’m allergic to the dust in here.”
Gramp snorted. “You’re the house–keeper.” He slapped his final card down. “Skunked!” He made a tally mark on a piece of paper. His side of the paper was filled with tally marks. Gramp took a slurp of pop. “Yee-haw!”
Brady hated it when Gramp used his dumb cowboy talk. Cowboys probably never even said yee-haw. He leaned over and fiddled with his shoelace. He’d heard somewhere that hanging your head upside down made you smarter. It had something to do with the blood rushing to your brain. Maybe it made you luckier too. Grit watched Brady, his chin resting on the floor. Brady stuck out his tongue. Grit curled back his lip.
Zzzz, zzzz, zzzzz. Brady beamed a potato chip laser gun at Grit’s head. Got him!
Gramp banged his can on the table. “Get into the game, boy!”
“Brady, the name is Brady.” Brady sat up slowly. Instead of feeling luckier, he felt sicker. His eyes flickered over the photo of Grit in the gold frame on the wall behind Gramp. It looked as if Grit was staring right at him and laughing. Brady’s stomach felt hollow.
In the next round, Gramp slapped an eight of spades on the pile. He peered slyly at Brady. “I change it to diamonds.”
Brady blinked. He stared at his cards. An eight of hearts. And the rest were diamonds. Brady looked back at the pile of cards on the table. Then at his hand. I can win this, he thought.
Brady stood up. “I’ll just be a sec. I need some water.” On the way to the kitchen, he walked behind Gramp’s chair. He peeked at his cards. No eights.
Brady took his time in the kitchen. He splashed cold water on his face and stuck his mouth under the tap for a drink. When he got back, Gramp was hunched over the cards. His cheeks were pink. His gray hair stuck up like an owl.
Whack, whack, whack! They banged the cards on the table.
“Ready for the kill,” murmured Brady. He stared at his last diamond.
Gramp threw down an eight of clubs. “Changing it to spades. Gotcha, boy!”
“NO WAY!” Brady’s head pounded. He jumped to his feet. “Where did you get that eight?”
Brady knew he was shouting, but he didn’t care. He swiped his hands through the cards. “You’re a cheater. You probably cheated in every game.”
Gramp’s eyes popped out. “I did not!”
“You did too! That’s how you keep winning. You’re nothing but a crazy old cheater.”
Brady’s head swam. Sweat prickled the back of his neck. “And my name is BRADY,” he gasped. Then, with a huge shudder, he threw up all over the scattered cards.