Chapter Four

SHOP TILL THE PUCK DROPS

The next morning, Dad, Milo, and I piled into the minivan and headed to the sporting goods store. I still wasn’t sure that a new pair of skates would make me a good skater, but I’d give anything a shot!

As we walked through the aisles, we passed a section of used equipment.

“Dad, look at this baseball mitt!” I exclaimed. “It’s super expensive at the mall, but it’s only ten dollars here!”

I shoved my hand into the used mitt and pounded my fist into the webbing a couple times. It felt great.

“And it fits like a glove, Jim.” Milo laughed. “Get it?”

My dad looked puzzled. Then, after a moment he exclaimed, “Oh, HA! I get it, Milo! HAHA!” He turned to me. “Throw the glove in the basket. It’s worth the money just for the joke!”

“You sure that’s okay, Dad?” I asked. “We’re here for hockey equipment, remember?”

“Of course! You’ll need it for baseball next spring,” Dad replied. “Let’s just hope your hands don’t grow too much. Otherwise, that glove won’t fit like a glove anymore. Ain’t that right, Milo?” He jabbed Milo with his elbow and chuckled.

Milo and I both groaned.

I threw the glove into our shopping basket. Then we headed to the hockey aisle. Sticks, pads, helmets, and skates were stacked floor to ceiling.

“Try these on for size, Jim,” said Dad, holding up a pair of shiny black-and-silver skates.

“Wow! These are great!” I said.

I ran my fingers over the white laces and studied the razor-sharp blades. Then I wrestled the skates onto my feet. My feet sunk into the cushy, warm padding inside.

At least part of my cold-feet problem is solved, I thought.

I stood, balancing on the blades, and asked Dad, “What do you think?”

“Hey, Jim!” came a voice from behind.

I spun, tripped, and fell to the floor with a THUD!

When I looked up, I spotted a familiar face standing over me. “Bobby Studwell,” I grumbled.

“Hey, Nasium,” said Bobby, “the figure skates are over there.” He pointed to the other side of the store.

“Well then I guess you made a wrong turn,” Milo chimed in, smiling.

“Always the wise guy, Cabrera,” Bobby sneered.

“Oh my, I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!” shouted a woman as she ran up to us. “Did my little Bobby-Poo do this?”

“Bobby-Poo?” said Milo, puzzled.

We both snorted with laughter.

“My little Bobby-Poo isn’t himself today,” she explained. “His tummy-wummy is feeling queasy-weezy.”

The lady rustled Bobby’s blond hair and then kissed his cheek.

“MOMMM!!” Bobby cried. “Stop!”

“Anyway,” continued Mrs. Studwell, “I thought some new skates would make him feel better.”

“We had the same idea,” my dad chimed in. “I’m Jim’s father.” He shook Mrs. Studwell’s hand and then turned to Bobby. “And you are?”

“Bobby,” he groaned.

“Nice to meet you, Bobby. Jim’s mentioned you before,” said my dad. “You two must be good friends.”

“I’m going to be sick,” said Bobby.

“Manners!” shouted Bobby’s mother.

I stared at Bobby. He looked dizzy and his face was turning green.

“No I think he’s actually going to be sick,” I told everyone.

Bobby’s eyes went wide. He frantically searched for a toilet, a bucket, a trash can — or, a shopping basket!

“Dad! Heads up!” I shouted.

BLAAAAHHHHHHH!