I’ve never been in trouble before because I figure I was enough trouble as a seven-pound, four-ounce baby, so I should probably give my dad a break now. Plus, my stomach always has this way of flipping and flopping and telling me when what I’m doing is wrong.
Marcus and Shane haven’t been in much trouble either, but it’s because they’re sneaky, not because they’re angels.
One time they decided to steal a candy bar from the grocery store, and once they wrote on the bathroom stall in permanent marker. Both times I was pretty good at walking the other way and pretending I didn’t know them or what was going on. It left that feeling in my stomach, though, to know that they were doing something bad and even though I wasn’t a part of it, I kind of was.
But I’m the one in trouble now.
I’m sitting on the kitchen stool and Dad is standing with his arms folded, looking down at me. He’s not yelling, he’s not even talking, but I can tell he’s thinking and thinking and thinking of what a terrible thing I did because he’s shaking his head.
“You weren’t where you said you’d be.”
I’m looking down at my shoes.
“I always need to know where you are, Cy.”
I nod my head, but my eyes are still on my Vans, studying the old scuff marks on the right toe and thinking that I didn’t even want to try skateboarding, but Marcus made the call and Shane defended him and before I knew it I was flying down the driveway and dragging my toe and scuffing up my new shoes.
He takes a big breath and I’m pretty sure he’s going to ask me a hundred questions, and even though I can’t imagine my dad getting loud, I bet his voice will rise with each one until he’s yelling at me.
But instead he starts telling me, in his regular, calm voice, what happened at the firehouse.
“It was a half hour until the end of my shift,” he says.
His voice is still steady and normal, but I can’t look at him. I stare at my hands and then out the window and right before I glance back down at my shoes I hear a ding and my Dad’s cell phone vibrates on the counter. It’s probably a voice mail from Coach Matthews, so I cross my fingers and shove them under my legs on the stool and say B Team, B Team in my head.
“I was thinking we’d go get your school supplies tonight,” Dad says. “That’s when the call came in. We sounded the siren and hopped in the engine. We were headed toward Eleven Chestnut Street, sirens blaring.”
Then he pauses for a long time. Or at least it seems really long. And I’m starting to feel really bad that he was thinking about buying me school supplies tonight while I was off faking him out.
“I called Marcus’s mom to tell you to go to Grandma’s after running routes. She said that Marcus and Shane were playing in the yard, but you hadn’t been there all day.”
I hang my head lower, mostly because I hate that I made my dad worried, but a little bit because I’m nervous about the message on Dad’s phone.
“So when we pulled into Eleven Chestnut Street and saw the smoke, I was still thinking about where you were,” he continues.
I nod.
“We flung open the doors and unwound the hose. The family was already out in the yard, and asking us questions. And I was worrying about what could have happened to you on the way to Marcus’s house.”
Dad tells me to look at him. His eyes are watery, and I don’t know if it’s because of the smoke or because he’s sad.
“The fire was small and easy to extinguish, which was lucky,” he says.
I’ve never been in trouble before, but I’m positive it would be better if he would just yell at me and tell me I was grounded.
Imagining Dad worrying about me is way worse.
“Where were you?”
I look at his watery eyes, and I can’t believe how easily one lie turns into two, because I know if I tell him about Parker and the humane society he’ll tell me again about not getting attached, and how he said no, and then that’s it. I’ll never get to walk Parker again. And I promised him I’d be back.
“I—I found out at tryouts that I’m going to have to write a review of the best book I’ve ever read in Mr. Hewett’s English class. I thought I might want to read something new.” I glance up quick at his face to see if he’s buying it.
He shifts his weight and raises his eyebrows.
“I was at the library. But I didn’t find anything.”
He lets out a little snort and pulls me into a hug that lifts me right off the stool. He doesn’t give hugs like this that much, and it feels good and bad because now there are two lies edging their way between us.
“Don’t ever do that to me again,” he says low, right next to my ear. “My old heart can’t take it.”
Then he lets me go and turns around to look at his cell phone. “Well, well,” he says. And I almost fake that I have to go to the bathroom so I don’t have to stand next to Dad when Coach Matthews tells me what team I’m on because no matter what, it’s going to stink. If I make the B Team, I’ll have fewer practices and fewer hits and fewer people on the sidelines watching me fumble, but then there will be an Olson on the B Team, and it’ll be my fault. If Coach Matthews gives me a spot on the A Team, I’ll have to practice three days a week and everyone on the team will know I’m only there because of my dad, and Marcus will roll his eyes and spit every time I drop the ball, but maybe my dad will be proud.
Dad pushes speaker and sets the phone between us. “Brooks. Cyrus. This is Coach Matthews.”
I’m holding my breath. But then he says it. B Team. I’m on the B Team. I just didn’t quite make the cut. I need a year to get stronger and more confident, and he hopes I come back out for the A Team next year. Practices are Tuesday and Friday, starting this Tuesday, after the first day of school. And I wince because Tuesday and Friday are volunteer walk days at the humane society with The 7. With Parker.
“I’m sorry, Brooks,” Coach says. Then the voice mail is over.
I look up at my dad. “I’m sorry too,” I say.
He looks right in my eyes, and I’m blinking fast because I think I feel tears starting to burn and I don’t want them leaking out. “Coach Matthews shouldn’t be sorry. You shouldn’t be sorry. I don’t know why everyone is saying they’re sorry.” He clears his throat. “You did your best, Cy. I’m proud of you.”
That makes me feel even worse, so I nod fast and say OK and do the jiggly have-to-pee dance and disappear down the hall.
That night, Dad walks by my bedroom door and peeks in.
“Hey, Cy, haven’t you read dozens of books? Can’t you just choose one of those to write about?”
And it’s amazing how two lies can turn into three, because I say yes, even though I haven’t read any books ever—not really, anyway.
“If you want to read something new, didn’t Grandma just give you a book for your birthday?” he asks.
“Oh yeah.”
Wonder is on my dresser, and it’s thicker than the two padded wide receiver gloves stacked next to it.
“Just read that one,” he says.
“OK.”
I roll over, and now my eyes are getting all watery again because that feels like a bigger lie than Parker and the library. It feels deeper down and impossible to pull up and show him—that I can’t. I can’t just read that one.
I hear his footsteps down the hall, but I don’t want him to walk away yet. I want him to come back and keep talking to me. I don’t even care about what.
“Hey, Dad?”
His footsteps return and stop outside my door. “I’m here.”
“Whatever happened at Eleven Chestnut Street?”
He sighs. “Young kid playing with matches. Burned it down too close to his finger. Got scared and threw it in the trash.”
I shake my head because I know what happens next. Fire spreads quick. It catches. You have to act fast.
And my dad is fast. Even when his head is full of worrying about where I am and if I’m OK. He stopped that fire before it spread because he’s brave like that. Brave like stand-close-enough-to-burn-you brave.