BACK TO THE DRAWING BOARD

When I got home, even though I was worn out from practice, I still had to walk Junior. Then we had dinner. Then I had to do my homework and show Mom that I’d marked it off in my Learning Skills notebook. She wanted to see my art report for Ms. Donatello too.

Yeah, that’s right. Ms. Donatello was making us do written reports—for art! That’s kind of like making someone climb a rope for math class, if you ask me. But Ms. D didn’t ask.

We were supposed to pick an artist, write a report, and then do an “art-class-worthy” cover for the whole thing. Ms. D was going to give one grade for the report and one for the cover.

I chose this guy named Jackson Pollock. He’s one of Mom’s favorite artists. I like how his stuff looks like a big mess, but everyone says he was a genius anyway. His most famous paintings are just drips and spatters of different colors, and they’re also worth jillions of dollars.

For the report cover, I drew the guy’s face with a soft pencil, just dark enough to see. Then I dripped different colors of paint for his eyes, his hair, and that kind of thing, to make a portrait.

And even though I was so tired I wanted to fall asleep in my tray of carmine red, I really enjoyed making the cover. I guess if you love something, it never gets to be a chore. The best part was, when I showed it to Mom, she knew who it was right away. That made me feel good. Really good.

“I’m proud of you, Rafe,” she said. “You’re doing really well. And I’m glad Mr. Fanucci talked me into letting you play football. I can’t wait to see a game.”

“Uh-huh” was all I could say to that.

“You must be excited with the season getting ready to start,” she said.

“Coach already told me he wasn’t going to put me in the first game,” I said. “Don’t get your hopes up. I’m still kind of playing catch-up.”

“Oh, you’ll be in there before you know it,” Mom said. “Don’t you worry, sweetheart.”

“Uh-huh,” I said again, because I didn’t know what else to say. I mean, I was worried, but not in the way she thought. The idea of actually playing in a real football game made me want to shake right out of my socks… and then throw up inside them.

Maybe I was wasting my time. Maybe it was crazy to think I could pull off this stupid “arrangement” with Miller. Maybe the only thing that was going to get rearranged in the end was my face, either by Miller when I failed or by the other teams that were going to clobber me on the field.

The problem was—as usual—I had no idea what the right thing to do was. Even though I wasn’t really enjoying football, I couldn’t just quit it. Not when it was basically a Get Out of Punches Free card from Miller. But I couldn’t really imagine ever liking it.… It didn’t make me feel happy the way drawing did, just worried. I’d never be a jock like Flip. Or even half the jock he was.

And since I’d already decided I couldn’t talk to anyone else about all this, I did something I hadn’t done in a while. I waited until I was alone in my room, and then I had a long talk with my original, number one best friend.

Good old Leo.