Ralph

Fatso had me so nervous I felt like praying, just to calm down. But who would I pray to? Jesus? So He’d help me not be nervous so we could talk Fatso’s mom into giving us money to set up a tent and charge money to look at His head? That would be worse than praying for a base hit, a lot worse.

I didn’t even want to look at Lou. I knew how mad at me she probably was. I knew she probably thought I was being like Judas.

But she’s just a kid, let’s face it.

I remember about a year ago we were peeling potatoes for supper and she found one that looked like Ed Sullivan and went crazy. I kept telling her, Okay, so it looks like Ed Sullivan, so what?

Same with the rock, you know? So it looks like Jesus, so what?

And actually? I would say the rock doesn’t even look as much like Jesus as that potato looked like Ed Sullivan. And you know what we did with that potato? Ate it for supper, mashed.

I got up and followed Fatso into the house, Lou right behind me, holding on to the back of my sweatshirt.