The League (3 page)

“Sorry,” Mr. Leland said, starting to push the door closed.

“A month!” I added.

“School will be over in a month,” Mr. Leland replied. “Try something new. It’s a big world out there. Go enjoy it.”

“But I like it in here,” I said.

“Shoo.”

Then the door closed in our faces.

“Where do you want to go?” asked Francis. “We could try the cafeteria.”

“No thanks. The last time we ate in there, Spencer poured a carton of milk on my head. Remember?”

Francis pushed his light brown hair away from his eyes. “How could I forget? It was my milk.”

“How about the playground?” I asked. The playground was really for the elementary school kids next door, but we were allowed to go there as long as we didn’t leave school grounds.

Francis nodded. “Wide open, good sightlines, plenty of places to run if we have to. I guess it’ll have to do.”

So we went outside.

Francis and I sat on opposite sides of the merry-go-round so we could see in all directions. We were both using our feet to spin slowly in a circle while we ate our lunches.

Not far away, on the grassy area, McKlusky and Raj were tossing a football back and forth. McKlusky was on the same rec-league baseball team as me. He was one of the tallest kids in our school. If Francis stood on my shoulders we still wouldn’t be as tall as McKlusky.

“Football is stupid,” Francis said. “It’s just physics. If you’re bigger, you win.”

“I don’t think it’s that simple,” I said, unwrapping my sandwich.

“Trust me,” said Francis. “It is.”

I didn’t argue with Francis. He’d never admit he was wrong anyway.

I watched from the merry-go-round as McKlusky lobbed a high pass that sailed just over Raj’s hands. “Nice catch,” I heard McKlusky say.

“How am I supposed to reach that?” Raj asked, annoyed. “Do I look like I have a ladder? I don’t have stilts like you.”

“Stilts,” McKlusky said. “I like that. Call me Stilts.”

“Don’t even try it,” Raj replied, picking up the football. “Nobody is going to call you Stilts.”

I ate my sandwich and wondered what it would be like to play football. Would I be any good or would I get totaled the minute I stepped onto the field? Could I take a beating?

“I’d rather play a sport that requires some skill,” Francis said a minute later. “Like golf.”

I was finishing my sandwich when Francis got up from the merry-go-round and walked over to the garbage can. On his way back, he was facing the school. He suddenly froze. “Oh, great,” he said. “It’s Spencer, and he’s closing in fast.”

The merry-go-round slowed to a stop, and now I could see Spencer too, crossing the open space between the school and us like an elephant.

I kept chewing the last bite of my sandwich. I knew what I had to do: avoid eye contact, make no sudden moves, and most important of all,
say nothing
. That was how to survive an encounter with Spencer Randle.

I kept glancing casually in Spencer’s direction, ready to run for my life if I had to.

Spencer was making his way down the path that led from the school building past the playground and out to Boardman Street. He stopped a few feet away from us. “What’s up, dorks?” he asked.

“We’re just eating our lunches,” Francis said.

“Good for you,” said Spencer, coming over to the
merry-go-round. “Don’t you losers want to know where I’m going?” He said it like it was a big secret.

“Not really,” Francis answered.

Spencer fixed his evil eyes on me. “You got something to say, Wyatt
Twerp
?” he asked.

“Not me,” I said.

“Good. Keep it that way.”

I watched nervously as Spencer leaned forward and grabbed one of the merry-go-round bars. I made a fist in case I needed to defend myself, but I knew if it came to that, it would be useless. I was no match for Spencer Randle in a fight. I was a puny little runt with chicken legs and no muscles, and my only hope was to run as fast as my chicken legs could carry me.

“I’m going to Pilchuck Market,” Spencer said, looking over his shoulder. “For a corn dog.”

“Sounds good,” said Francis.

“Corn dogs aren’t good,” said Spencer as he let go of the bar. “They’re awesome. They taste awesome, they come on an awesome stick, and they’re awesome healthy because of the corn.”

“I don’t think that’s actually corn,” I said before I could stop myself.

Spencer turned around. “What did you say?” he asked.

“Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”

“That’s funny,” said Spencer. “I thought I heard
you say you wanted to give me some money for my corn dog.”

“Uh-uh,” I said, praying that a teacher would appear.

Spencer put his face right up to mine. “Either you said you wanted to give me some money or you said I didn’t know what corn dogs were made out of, which would mean I was stupid. So which is it? Do you want to give me some money or do you think I’m stupid?”

Kicking myself for opening my mouth, I stood up and reached into my pockets. Spencer held out his hand while I gave him everything I had: a dollar bill, a quarter, and two pennies.

“Thanks, wimp,” said Spencer, dropping the pennies on the ground. “Keep the change.” Then he used his foot to shove the merry-go-round hard enough to make Francis lose his balance. “I’m outta here,” he said as we spun slowly in a circle. “Don’t try to follow me.”

“Enjoy your corn dog,” Francis called.

“It’s not even for me. It’s for a girl. Do you know what that is? Probably not.” He laughed. “Oh, by the way, if you tell anyone where I am, I’ll smash your brains in.” Those were his last words. We watched him disappear around the bushes behind the playground and then he was out of sight.

“I hope he gets busted by Principal Groton and has to go to summer school,” I said.

“Who cares what Spencer does this summer?” Francis said. “I’m pretty sure he won’t be at the golf club. They wouldn’t let a thug like him past the front gate.”

That was one good thing about golf camp, I thought. Spencer and his tank tops would not be welcome at the Pilchuck Golf and Tennis Club. “I bet he could hit the ball a mile, though,” I said.

“Speaking of hitting balls, we’re on for golf after school today, right?” Francis asked. “I wonder if we’ll have time to play eighteen.”

“I think nine is enough,” I replied. “I have two tests this week.”

“Okay, you’re right,” Francis agreed. “We’ll have all summer to play golf.”

McKlusky and Raj came jogging over from the grassy area where they’d been throwing the football. “We saw the whole thing,” said McKlusky. “How much did he get?”

“A dollar and twenty-five cents,” I said, picking up the two pennies Spencer had dropped.

“You’ll never see that money again.”

Not unless I get a lot bigger, stronger, and braver in a hurry
, I thought. And that wasn’t going to happen hanging around a golf course with Francis. I had
to do something dramatic that would show Spencer I wasn’t afraid of him and make Evan think I was a man like Brian Braun.

It was drizzling when we reached the ninth hole, the last we’d play that day. My ball was lying in the tall grass about six feet from the green. I gave the ball a gentle tap with my chipper, getting underneath just enough to lift it over the grass. The ball landed softly on the green and picked up speed as it changed direction at the top of the hill.

“Looking good, Wyatt!” Dad called.

“Get in there!” Jim shouted.

“Find the hole,” Francis said.

Now the ball was headed straight for the hole and it wasn’t slowing down. I watched without blinking as it rolled right on top of the hole, hit the back rim, rattled around, and dropped in.

Dad put his arm around me. “That’s one to remember, Wyatt,” he said. “I’ve never hit a shot like that.”

“I got lucky,” I said, retrieving my ball from the hole.

“Luck?” Dad said, following me back to the cart. “Luck had nothing to do with that. You’re a good golfer, Wyatt. Give yourself some credit.”

I knew I had hit a great shot, but something weird was happening. The more excited Dad became about me and golf, the more I wanted to be anywhere else, doing anything else. Golf was the sport Dad had chosen, and I didn’t like having decisions made for me. A round of golf now and then was okay, but two whole weeks of golf camp was another story. Especially when there were so many other sports I could be good at. Like football.

I stuffed the chipper in with the rest of my clubs and lifted my bag onto the cart. “Dad, it was no big deal,” I said. “Can we just go?”

“Can you believe how humble this kid is?” Dad asked Jim as he sat behind the wheel of the cart.

“I guess you’ll have to do all the bragging when you win the father-son tournament,” Jim said with a smile.

“What did he say?” I asked as Dad drove us back to the clubhouse.

“I was going to surprise you later, but I guess the cat is out of the bag. I signed us up for the father-son tournament over the Fourth of July weekend, right after golf camp.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Because I think it’ll be fun.”

“No, why did you do that without asking me?”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“Well, congratulations. I’m surprised.”

“Cut it out, Wyatt. I don’t like you talking to me like that. I want you to keep an open mind about the tournament. I think by July you’ll be really glad I signed us up.”

I didn’t see that happening. As far as I was concerned at that moment, there was zero chance I would ever be glad Dad had signed me up for that tournament. I doubted Evan would be cuckoo over Brian Braun if he was the best golfer in Pilchuck. I wondered if Brian Braun’s parents entered him in tournaments without asking.

I was alone at my locker on Tuesday morning when Principal Groton walked up to me.

“Wyatt, did I see you go outside for lunch yesterday?” he asked. He sounded like he had something on his mind.

“We were at the playground the whole time,” I said. “We didn’t go anywhere else. It was Mr. Leland’s idea.”

Mr. Groton put his hand on my shoulder. “Relax. I know you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m asking about Spencer Randle. I saw him leave the building and I thought you might have seen where he went.”

I didn’t say anything.

Mr. Groton fixed his eyes on me. “Did you see Spencer?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Was he outside?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see where he went?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. Technically, I hadn’t seen where Spencer had gone. If Mr. Groton had walked away after that, I would have been in the clear. But instead he asked me one more question, and there was no way to avoid answering it without lying.

“Did he tell you where he was going?” Mr. Groton inquired as packs of kids swept by.

“Yes, he told me where he was going,” I said, being sure not to reveal any more than I had to. “Can I go now?”

“Where did he say he was going, Wyatt? I promise anything you tell me will remain confidential.”

“He said he was going to Pilchuck Market,” I told Mr. Groton. “For a corn dog. But I didn’t actually see him go, so he might have been making it all up.”

Mr. Groton nodded and tightened his lips. “Thank you, Wyatt. Thank you for always telling the truth. I’ll take it from here.” He turned and quickly walked down the hallway.

I closed my locker. My heart was pounding. Maybe Mr. Groton would uphold his promise to keep our
conversation confidential, but something was bothering me. I was afraid I had said too much.

Just then, Francis appeared through the crowd. “Wanna go to the driving range this afternoon?” he asked. “My dad is picking me up after school and we’re going straight there. He can hit a ball three hundred yards with an iron. It’s unreal.”

“I don’t think so,” I said quietly.

“What’s with you?”

“Mr. Groton just asked me if I knew where Spencer Randle went yesterday. Actually, his exact words were ‘Did he tell you where he was going?’ ”

“What did you say?”

“What could I say? I told him Spencer was going to Pilchuck Market. But don’t worry, Mr. Groton won’t say how he found out.”