“Really? Me, too!”
“You’re thirteen?” Lainie said. She sounded surprised.
“I know, I look eleven, right?” Kirby sighed again and looked down at the ants crawling in the street.
“No, I guess you could be thirteen,” Lainie said generously. “It’s just that —”
“I know. I’m short, right?”
“Well, no offense, but you are.”
“I know. It bites.”
“Hey, you think being taller than all the boys in your class is fun? I’ll trade you.” She smiled.
Kirby smiled back. “I wish,” he said.
“Hey, Kirby, you play hockey?” she asked.
“I’ve played ice hockey,” he replied. “Goalie, actually.”
“Good!” Lainie clapped him on the back. “Hey, you guys!” she shouted. “I found us another goalie!”
“Oh, no, wait a minute,” Kirby quickly objected. “I’ve never played hockey on in-line skates… and I’m not —”
“All right!” number 14 said, skating up to Kirby and Lainie. “Who’s my next victim?”
“Ha, ha, Marty. This is Kirby. He’s new in town. Take it easy on him, okay?”
“Hey, Kirby,” he said. “I’m Marty. You really wanna get in there and try to stop my famous slap shot?”
“Actually —”
“Yes, he does!” Lainie interrupted him before Kirby could say no. “Here, we’ll tighten up the mask and gear for you. Man, I’ve been waiting forever for a chance to play forward!”
“Hey, Nick! Trev! Jamal! Check out the new goalie!”
“All right! Excellent!” came the shouts of approval, mixed with laughter as Kirby stood there, decked out in goalie gear that was way too big for him.
“Let’s get ready to rum-bull!” Marty yelled, and they all got up to shoot the puck at Kirby.
Kirby stood there in front of the goal, feeling terrified. This was it — this was his big chance. If he flopped, would they ever want to be friends with him?
Zing! A shot winged at him before he even knew it was coming. Kirby raised his arm to protect himself — and miraculously, the puck caromed off his catch glove!
“Nice save, Kelly!” Marty said.
“Kirby. It’s Kirby,” Kirby said.
“Get it right,” Lainie demanded, and took a pretty good shot at Kirby herself.
“Kirby, whatever,” Marty said good-naturedly, getting the rebound. “Hey, Kirby — curb this one!” And he fired a bullet at the goal, low and to the left.
Kirby dropped to the ground, his legs splayed out in a split. It hurt like crazy — he hadn’t warmed up at all — but his left leg pad smothered the puck.
“Not bad, for a little dude,” the other forward said to Marty. “Of course, with your wimpy shot…”
“Be quiet, Trevor,” Marty said. “Let’s see if you can get one past him.”
“All right,” Trevor said, accepting the challenge and taking the puck from Marty’s stick. “Here you go, goalie!” He skated three steps closer to the goal, wound up in full flight, and fired.
The puck was past Kirby when he instinctively flashed his catch glove out and grabbed it.
“Score! Score!” Trevor shouted. “It was past the goal mouth!”
“Never mind. That was some save,” Marty said, skating over to Kirby. “What did you say your name was?” he asked, interested this time.
“Kirby. Kirby Childs.”
“You’re how old?”
“Thirteen.”
“Get out.”
“Seriously.”
“Okay, whatever you say. Listen, Kirby, can you skate and shoot, too?”
“Uh-huh. I think so. When I used to play ice hockey, I was mostly a goalie, but I scored two goals the one time they let me play forward. Then they put me back in goal. They thought I was too small to play forward. Like I might get hurt or something.” He rolled his eyes to show what he thought of that.
“Yeah. Except we’ve already got a goalie.” Lainie was standing there, with her hands on her hips. “Me. Remember?” Staring at Marty in annoyance, she yanked the stick out of Kirby’s hands. Kirby took off the mask and handed it back to her, too.
“I thought you were too hot and sweaty under the mask and all that gear,” Marty said, rubbing it in.
“You know I could have stopped those wimpy shots just as well as Kirby,” she said hotly.
“She could have, too,” Kirby agreed. He didn’t want to get Lainie mad at him. She was the first friend he’d made here in Valemont.
“Thanks,” Lainie said in a calmer tone. “Why don’t you give him a shot at forward, Bledsoe? I’ll get back in goal.”
“Next time,” Marty said. “I’ve gotta get home for dinner.”
“Oh, no — me, too!” Kirby said. “What time is it?”
“Five forty-five,” the overweight defenseman said, checking his watch. “I’d better head out, too. Same time tomorrow?”
“Four o’clock, Nick,” Marty agreed. Then he turned to Kirby. “Wanna join us?”
“I’ll be here!” Kirby said excitedly.
“Cool,” Marty said. “See you then, little guy.”
The boys all skated away in the other direction, but Lainie was going a couple of blocks in Kirby’s direction.
“So, you guys just get together to practice?” Kirby asked.
“No way! We’re a team — the E Street Skates!” Lainie said proudly. “See the uniforms?”
“Pretty cool. Who do you play against?” Kirby asked.
“There’s only one other team in town,” she told him. “The Bates Avenue Bad Boys. We hate them, and they hate us. Once every week or two, we get together for a game.”
“Who wins?”
“Mostly them. But we’re getting better. Hey, we just got ourselves a new player, didn’t we?”
Kirby beamed as she waved and skated off down G Street, toting her big gray gear bag over her shoulder. “See you tomorrow!” she called.
“Bye!”
Kirby skated for home, filled with energy and excitement. Living in Valemont isn’t going to be so bad after all, he thought hopefully.
Just then, he skated by the row of stores he’d passed on the way there. Those two mean kids had gone. Kirby looked up at the street sign on the corner.
“Bates Avenue,” he said under his breath. “Uh-oh.”
3
Kirby got home, tired and sweaty, just moments after the church bells in town all rang six o’clock. “Mom!” he called out as he plumped down on the front steps and began unlacing his skates. “I’m home!”
“Hi, Kirby!” It was his father’s voice instead, coming through the open screen door. He sat down next to Kirby and put an arm around his shoulders. “How was your day, son?”
“Great!” Kirby said, pulling off his helmet and starting on his elbow pads. “I met these kids, and —”
“That’s terrific,” his dad interrupted, giving him a squeeze. “I knew you’d get into the swing of things.”
Kirby’s dad had straight blond hair, like his own, except that his dad’s hung straight down, while Kirby’s tended to stick up. His mom’s hair was like that, too. His dad also wore wire-rim glasses, was skinny, had blue eyes, and was a worrier. That was the only bad part about him.
Kirby washed up quickly, then came down when his mom rang the bell for dinner. The Childs family had always done that — Kirby’s great-great-grandparents had probably rung a dinner bell, too.
Earlier that day, Kirby had been wishing he had a brother or a sister, like so many of his friends back in Minford. Being an only child was okay, because you didn’t have to share any of your stuff. On the other hand, it could be lonely when none of your friends was available. Of course, now that he’d met the E Street Skates, that didn’t matter anymore. He was going to be all set for the summer.
Dinner was ravioli — Kirby’s favorite, with broccoli, one of the few green vegetables he was usually willing to eat, and mint chip
ice cream for dessert. Clearly his mom had gone to the trouble of making foods he liked for their first dinner in their new home.
As they were eating, Mr. Childs told them all about his first day at his new job. “It’s quiet up there in that office,” he said. “Not like down on the plant floor, where I used to be, back in Minford. I think I could get used to this.” He seemed really happy about things at work.
Good, Kirby thought. Because he had a really big favor to ask both his parents.
“So, Kirby, what did you discover on your skates this afternoon?” his mom finally asked as they were finishing dessert. “Did you meet any kids?”
“He sure did!” his dad said. “First words I got out of him when he came home.”
“Dad,” Kirby said, rolling his eyes. His dad was always doing that — answering for him. “She asked me, not you.”
“Oh. Sorry,” his dad said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Go on with what you were about to say.” Kirby could tell his dad was smiling under the napkin. It irritated him. His parents still thought he was a little kid.
“Anyway, these kids were playing in-line hockey, and they let me play with them. I did really well, too — I was in goal, and I stopped all of their shots… well, except one. They call themselves the E Street Skates, and the best thing is, they said I can practice with them again tomorrow.”
“E Street?” his father echoed. “You went all the way over to E Street?”
“Kirby, you told me you were just going around the block,” his mother chided. “If I had known you were planning to skate all the way over there, I don’t think I would have let you go.”
“But Mom —”
“No buts, Kirby. E Street is just too far away,” his father admonished. “What if something had happened to you? If you’d gotten hurt? I’m guessing roller hockey is a very physical sport, with lots of bodychecking and cheap shots. Or what if you’d gotten lost? You could have been skating around for hours, after dark, trying to figure out where you were.”
“We don’t know anything about those kids or their parents, either. I’m sure you’ll find some other friends to play with tomorrow, closer to home,” his mother added in her patient, therapist voice.
Kirby couldn’t believe his ears. “I don’t want to find other friends!” he yelled. “I want these friends!”
Ignoring his parents’ shocked faces, he stormed out of the kitchen. He hated it when his parents treated him like a baby. Kicking a pebble as far as he could, he trudged into the garage and started rummaging through boxes of stuff. He pulled out an old deflated basketball, a skateboard with a wheel missing, and a pair of muddy soccer cleats.
As he did, he remembered when his mother had packed the gear up. She had commented wryly that he was pretty hard on sports equipment, then asked him if he still wanted it all or if they could get rid of it before the move.
“Don’t throw it out!” he had insisted. “I might use it again someday.”
His mother had given him a disbelieving look and mumbled something about his trying out sports like he was trying on new clothes: If he didn’t like them after a few months, he just tossed them aside. But she had packed up the gear anyway.
Now Kirby fished around, looking for his old hockey stuff. After a minute of searching, he found it and tried putting it on. It was all too tight on him.
Well, thought Kirby, at least that means I’m getting bigger.
On the other hand, it also meant that if he was able to convince his parents to let him play, there was no way he could use the equipment. Worse than being too small, his old stuff was for playing goalie. He didn’t want to play goalie anymore. In ice hockey, he’d never liked standing there in goal while everybody else was skating around. Especially since he’d always been faster on skates than any of his friends. And another thing he hated about playing goalie — the worst part — was being shot at.
Besides, he wasn’t about to make an enemy of Lainie by competing for her spot.
Kirby started to take the gear off but then had an idea. Maybe if his parents saw how small it was on him, they’d realize that he wasn’t a little kid anymore. He waddled back inside, in full regalia.
His mother took one look at him and smiled ruefully. “Oh, my!” she said. “That outfit doesn’t fit you anymore, does it?”
“Well, it is two years old. I’ve grown up a lot since you bought it.” He started to take the equipment off, then glanced up at his parents. “I’m sorry I yelled before. But listen, I didn’t get lost today, did I? I used the map.” He pulled it from his back pocket to prove his point.
“Plus, their goalie lives close to here, so I can always come most of the way home with her, like I did today.” Of course, G Street was only two blocks closer than E Street, but he decided not to mention that.
“And all the kids I met today were really nice,” he added. Not counting, of course, the two boys he had run into on Bates Avenue. But after all, they didn’t count. He wasn’t going to be playing hockey with them, was he?
His father heaved a sigh.
“All that may be true, but as you’re so clearly demonstrating, you don’t have the proper equipment even if we did agree to let you play. And given how your interest in a particular sport usually fades after a short time, I’m not sure your mother and I are ready to lay down money on expensive new equipment for you.”
Thinking back to the stuff he had just unearthed in the garage, Kirby knew better than to protest. So he took a different tactic instead.
“What if I work around the house to help pay you back for new equipment?” he asked.
His father shook his head. “Even if you save your allowance, it’s not just money that’s the problem. Beyond everything else we’ve mentioned, we’re against the idea of you playing in the street. If you want to skate, there are plenty of sidewalks right here in our neighborhood. But playing hockey in the street just sounds dangerous.”
“What?” Taken by surprise, Kirby looked from his mom to his dad and back again. “You used to let me skate in the street back in Minford. Just so long as I was careful, you said it was okay. And no more than two or three cars came down E Street the whole time I was there!”
There was a short silence. Then his mom said to his father, “Well, he’s got a point there. But that doesn’t mean we’re in favor of you playing,” she added quickly as Kirby’s face brightened. “We just don’t know enough about this town, its streets, or your new friends yet. I’m sorry, Kirby, but until we do, I want you to stick around here.”
“I’m telling you, it’s not dangerous!” Kirby insisted. But he could tell his words were falling on deaf ears. After all, what did he know? He was just their son.
If only someone else could talk to them, and make them see reason. If only he could call one of the kids from E Street.
Unfortunately he didn’t remember any of their last names. Lainie had told him hers, but he couldn’t remember it, except that it was also the name of somebody famous.
And then there was that Marty kid.… Lainie had called him by his last name once. What was it… ?
“Bledsoe!” Kirby shouted out loud, remembering. He went over to the kitchen phone, dialed Information, and asked for Bledsoe. Sure enough, there was one — a Kenneth and Ilene Bledsoe, on Ridley Lane. Kirby wrote down the number and dialed it.
“Hello?”
“Hi, is Marty there?”
“Speaking. Who’s this?”
“This is Kirby. Remember me from today? The short kid?”
“Oh, yeah. Did I give you my number?”
“I got it from Information. Listen, could you do me a favor? I’m trying to convince my parents to let me play hockey with you guys. But they’re freaking out. They’ve already said I can’t come to your practice tomorrow. They say it’s too dangerous, that E Street is too busy, and the new equipment is too expensive.”
“They don’t know what they’re talking about, okay? First of all, in roller hock
ey, you’re not allowed to check with the body. Anybody makes heavy contact, it’s a penalty, understand? So it’s not even really a contact sport. And because you wear padding, you don’t have to worry about getting hit with the puck or a stick. Worst you can do is fall on your rear and stuff like that. As for expensive, you can get used gear pretty cheap.”
“You can?” Kirby felt his heart pounding. Things were definitely looking up. “Listen, can you tell this all to my parents?”
“Sure, but they won’t believe me. I’m just a kid. Hold on, and I’ll put my parents on with them.”
“Fantastic!” Kirby turned to his parents, who had been watching the whole time. “Mom! Dad! Pick up the phone. Somebody wants to talk to you.”
His dad went into the living room to grab the cordless extension, and his mom took the phone from Kirby. Five minutes later, after a real gabfest, Kirby’s parents hung up.
“Well, what do you know?” Kirby’s dad said as he came back into the kitchen. “Looks like we’ve got our first dinner invitation here in Valemont — all thanks to you, son!”
Kirby smiled and said a quiet “Yes!” under his breath. Maybe the Bledsoes would talk his parents into letting him play!
4
The next morning, Kirby busied himself unpacking his things and setting up his new room. It was definitely bigger than his old room, which had basically been the attic, dressed up to look like a small bedroom. But Kirby had liked the way the ceiling slanted low over the top of the bed. Every once in a while, after reading to him, his dad would bump his head on the wall with a big thud. It was never as bad as it sounded, but it always made Kirby giggle to see his dad look so silly — and his dad had always laughed, too. Kirby was going to miss his old room.
Still, this one had a lot to recommend it. There was a big double closet, instead of the tiny one with the low door, into which he’d had to cram every last thing in the world he wasn’t using. Here, he’d actually be able to get organized.
He started looking through the posters that used to hang on the walls of his old room, to see which ones he wanted to put up now. Funny, but they didn’t look as cool to him as they used to. He was getting too old for the animal ones, and the movie ones were of old, old movies — at least two years old!
Roller Hockey Radicals Page 2
