Date: Thu, 2 Jul 2015 14:54:19 -0400
From: Paul Knoke <paulkdoctor@gmail.com>
Subject: INSTALLMENT TWENTY-SEVEN of "THE FATHER CONTRACT"

INSTALLMENT TWENTY-SEVEN
from

THE FATHER CONTRACT
by

Arthur J. Arrington

Edited Paul K. Scott

Please consider making a donation to Nifty to keep our PJ's hopes alive and
well!  Remember, he needs all the help he can get to make his wish for a
father figure come true.

Chapter Fifty: A Case of Depression, a Matter of Inspiration

PJ sat in the back of Bill's big SUV, looking out the window for landmarks
that would show they were getting close to Gordonsville. He knew it
couldn't be too much farther.

Coming back to school this time felt very different from the year
before. Then he'd been anxious to return. He'd been getting bored at the
music camp in western Massachusetts, practicing violin for two-and-a-half
weeks after his Florida camp finished up. Returning to Gordonsville had
been like coming home, despite some of the difficulties he'd faced
there. This year, however, he felt almost nothing at all. Gordonsville was
simply a place he'd become accustomed to.

The dreadful numbness he'd experienced after Jack had sent him away had
worn off. His time with Erik and Travis had at least accomplished that. PJ
had spent every day with his friends, the visit to the shore and Great
Adventure Park a high point of their time together. He was wearing a tee
shirt with the Park logo on its front, a souvenir of the fun the three of
them had had when trying every ride, especially the monster roller
coaster. PJ had a disk of pictures that Coach Drew had taken with his
digital camera, pictures that had made him feel strangely sad when he'd
looked at them on Erik's computer. But he'd kept the disc anyway, tucking
it carefully into his duffle bag, afraid to lose any link to his best
buddies.

Looking back on his summer vacation now, PJ saw it as something he'd
enjoyed, yes. But it was over. And he refused to think at all about his
visit to Jack in Chicago.

The scenery outside the car began to look familiar. When they went past the
county airport, he knew exactly where he was.

"Getting close!" Erik called from the front seat. Ten minutes later, they
were driving down Gordonsville's little main street. As they turned into
the big gate at the School, PJ saw the familiar old buildings on the
Quadrangle and finally did experience a slight sense of homecoming. But it
was accompanied by a feeling of great sadness for all his little hopes and
dreams that had once been--and now seemed gone forever. He bit his lip,
trying to look as cheerful as he could for the sake of his roommate,
because Erik was clearly happy to be back. He bounced excitedly on the
front seat, and opened the door just as soon as they parked, shouting,
"Come on, PJ! Let's find Mr. Williamson and make sure we can have our old
room back."

While Erik ran toward the House, PJ jogged after him, pretending to be just
as eager, and caught up to his friend in the front hall where Erik was
already knocking on the housemaster's apartment door. Mrs. Williamson
opened it, beaming a smile when she saw who was there.

"Hi, Mrs. Williamson!" Erik exclaimed. "PJ and I are here for football
camp. Is Mr. Williamson home?"

"Oh, boys, you just missed him." The motherly woman beckoned them
inside. "He went to the mall to get some things, but he'll be back soon. I
know he'll want to see you right away. It's wonderful to have you back!
Let's hear all about your summer. Come on in and let me get you some milk
and cookies."

By this time, Bill had joined them, so they all went into the kitchen where
PJ and Erik downed big glasses of milk while Bill sipped at a cup of coffee
and explained to Mrs. Williamson that Erik's mother had wanted to come
too. "But she's stuck making a big presentation to a client. She'll be up
on Labor Day." Mrs. Williamson brought out a plate piled with her famous
chocolate chip cookies, which the boys hungrily ate, and Erik gave, between
bites, a quick summary of their summer adventures. PJ looked around a room
that should have been familiar to him, wondering why he felt so strange. It
was like he was starting all over. The fear of being questioned, the
necessary cover-ups, the lies . . . Once it had been because of his
parents. Now it was because of Jack.

"PJ went to the All-Star game with Jack," Erik told Mrs. Williamson. He got
on television again."

"Did you, PJ?" She smiled at him. "Mr. Canon is such a nice person.  And he
likes you so. My husband and I are rooting for the Red Sox. I haven't been
so excited about baseball in years. Is Mr. Canon going to be visiting you
again like last year?"

"Uh-h, I'm not sure," PJ stammered. "Right now he's kinda busy. And if the
Red Sox go to the playoffs I don't think he'll be able to get away."

"Well, maybe we'll see him in the fall after baseball is over. I know my
husband certainly enjoyed talking with him. And I'm sure he'll want to come
see you."

"Yes Ma'am," PJ tried to change the subject. "Can Erik and I have our old
room again?"

"Oh, certainly," Mrs. Williamson assured him. "It's all ready for you. It's
been cleaned and painted. I'll get my keys and we'll open it up so you can
see. And I'll open the storage bin in the basement for you, too, so you can
get your things."

With the housemaster's wife in the lead, Bill and the two boys trooped
upstairs to the top floor and watched her unlock their door. Inside, the
beds were made, there were fresh curtains on the windows, and the walls had
been redone in the same beige color. Just as he'd felt in the kitchen, PJ
thought the room seemed strange, smelling faintly of new paint and cleaning
polish. Even the ceiling that he had stared at so often appeared to have a
different pattern of cracks in the plaster.

"Let's get our stuff!" Erik told him excitedly.

They all went back down the three flights of stairs and then down one more
to the dim basement where Mrs. Williamson unlocked the door to one of the
wire cage storage bins. Erik went inside right away. "It's just like we
left it, PJ."

He and Bill both grabbed a box and started back up with PJ following,
carrying a box of his own. Climbing the stairs, PJ had the most peculiar
feeling that only yesterday he'd taken that box down to the basement, that
the whole summer had never happened. When he got to the room, he examined
his reflection in the mirror over his desk to convince himself that the old
PJ had a new tan and appeared a little taller.

He had to make a lot of trips to bring his things up. Some of the boxes
were so heavy that he staggered a few times on the stairs. Bill and Erik
had their things in the room and were starting to unpack before he'd
finished. As he walked down the four flights to get yet another box, he
reflected that once again, for the third time now at the start of another
term, he was bringing his possessions up by himself. Not that he wouldn't
have appreciated a little help. But at least this time there were no crowds
of other kids around, laughing and talking with their parents, making him
feel lonely and depressed.

Finally he got the last box into the room and began setting up his
computer. Once he'd connected the monitor and speakers, he switched on the
power and attached the Internet connection while his machine was
initializing. When the network screen came up, Erik stopped what he was
doing to peer over his shoulder.

"Hey, you got mail, PJ!"

For an instant PJ's heart leaped. He clicked on the mail icon, bringing up
his Inbox, and Erik exclaimed, "Hey, it's from Travis! What's he say?"

"Hi, little brother," the message read.  "I am sending this to you and
Erik.  Let me know if you got back to school okay.  How is football camp?
Please send me stuff.  It is lonely already with you guys gone.  Coach says
I can send you pictures from his camera as attachments to my emails.  There
is one with this one.  Let me know if it works. Your big brother Travis."

Attached to the message was a digital picture that PJ opened with his
imaging software. The screen filled with a picture of a smiling Travis
holding a big sign with a drawing of a football and lettering that read,
"Good Luck PJ and Erik!"

"Say, that's pretty nice of him," Bill said, coming over to have a look for
himself. "I didn't know you could send stuff like that."

"That's what I need, Dad!" Erik exclaimed. "One of those cameras. Then I
could send you pictures of our games and stuff."

"Hm-m." Bill nodded thoughtfully. "We'll have to see about that."

"Is there anything from Jack?" Erik asked PJ.

"No. I told him not to send anything until I let him know my system was
back up." PJ's quick, improvised answer was accompanied by a
realization. Now you're making excuses for Jack, just like you used to for
your parents. How long you gonna keep it up? How long you think you can
fool Erik?'

With an effort, he pushed that thought away along with the pain it had
brought, and went back to his boxes for more unpacking. He found the things
for his desk, got them all arranged, hooked up his study lamp, and placed
his spare computer disks in a drawer. The next box held his books, and when
he opened the flaps, there on top sat Johnny Tremaine. He picked it up,
feeling another pang of terrible sadness because it was one of the books
Jack had given him. PJ kept his face averted from Bill and Erik while he
started putting the books away on a shelf.

Beneath the books, at the bottom, was the news clipping that showed Jack
signing an autograph for some little boy. Its paper was yellowed and
turning brittle. With it was the picture of Jack and himself taken in
Florida on the day they had first met. It was the one Jack had signed. PJ
stared at it with a hollow feeling. It seemed to have all happened long ago
to another boy. Instead of taping the pictures again to the side of his
mirror, he put both away face down in a desk drawer. Returning to the book
box, he took out a folder containing a collection of miscellaneous papers
and articles. One was the clipping that he'd saved about the street
children of Rio de Janeiro. He stared at it for awhile, then slipped it
back into the folder and put the folder in the drawer on top of the
pictures.

Unpacking his clothes was the next task, and it seemed to take the
longest. PJ hung as much as he could in the closet and put away the rest in
the chest by his bed. In one of the boxes was his old fielder's glove,
which he placed on his bedstand along with his little baseball player
nightlight. The last box held the big cardboard tube with the rolled-up
Jack Canon poster. PJ remembered packing it away carefully, surrounded by
layers of socks and undershirts so it would be protected. He put the tube
away in a back corner of the closet without opening it.

Bill and Erik had already finished their unpacking and Erik was busy
loading his computer with some new games Bill had brought as a
surprise. Noticing that PJ was done, Bill suggested, "If you're all set,
PJ, why don't I take you and Erik out for lunch?"

"Yeah, Dad," Erik said eagerly. "Take us to the Inn so we can get a club
sandwich. I like those."

"PJ?" Bill asked.

"Sure," PJ was trying not to think about the tube with the poster in it. He
forced a smile. "Thank you, Bill."

On their way downstairs, they met Mr. Williamson coming up. "PJ, Erik!" The
elderly housemaster gave both boys a little hug, put a hand on PJ's
shoulder, and asked affectionately, "How's my favorite Red Sox fan?"

PJ smiled up at him, experiencing a sudden rush of happiness at seeing
Mr. Williamson again. "I'm fine. I'm an inch taller!"

"At least an inch!" Mr. Williamson exclaimed. "You boys are growing so fast
it seems to me you grow another inch every time I blink."

"We're heading to the Inn for lunch," Bill explained. "Why don't you and
your wife join us?"

 "Thanks, but no," the housemaster answered, shaking his head
regretfully. "I've got meetings to go to and some things to do around here
before next week when everyone else comes back." He turned to PJ and
Erik. "It's wonderful to have both of you here. I know you're going to have
fun in the football camp. The coaches and the housemasters have a cookout
planned for you on Monday for Labor Day. I'll see you both later this
afternoon. You two are having dinner with us. My wife has something special
for you."

As PJ walked with Bill and Erik to the car, he thought that probably one of
the nicest things about Gordonsville was Mr. and Mrs. Williamson.

At the Inn, Bill treated them to a late lunch of thick club sandwiches
washed down with something called a "Black Cow," which PJ discovered was
Coca-Cola poured over vanilla ice cream. Sitting at the table in the dining
room, he kept getting flashbacks of his previous visit to the restaurant,
when Jack had taken him there for dinner after the swimming
Championships. That was a time when he'd convinced himself that Jack was
actually thinking of him as a son. The memory kept intruding into his mind,
bringing with it a lump in his throat and the ever-present threat of tears.

Fortunately, Erik was full of chatter, wanting to relive their recently
shared adventures as well as speculate on Gordonsville's outlook for the
coming football season. By concentrating on these, PJ maintained a cheerful
appearance throughout the meal and kept that sad memory at bay.

From the back of the SUV on the way home, PJ noticed that up front, Bill
and Erik were both quiet, that Erik sat as close to Bill as he could,
keeping a hand on his stepfather's arm. Once they were parked by the House
and out on the sidewalk, Bill told them, "Well, guys, I guess this is it."
He put his hands on their shoulders. "Have a great time at your football
camp. I suspect you two may show some people a few things this season. If
you need anything, just call me." With an extra squeeze of PJ's shoulder,
he added, "Jack may be busy with those playoffs. If you want some help
reaching him, you call me, okay? I'll help you."

"Thanks, Bill." PJ tried to sound enthusiastic. He hoped he sounded
convincing.

"You know Erik's mom and I think of you as Erik's brother," Bill went
on. "There is nothing you can't ask us for. So you call if you need
something, understand?"

"I will."

"Okay." Bill shook PJ's hand. "Good luck. I'll see you when I come up for
your games. I'm gonna try to make every one of them this year."

PJ said goodbye and walked away to give Bill and Erik some privacy. He
watched as they talked, Bill with a hand on Erik's shoulder, saying
something while Erik nodded solemnly. Then Bill leaned down. Erik threw his
arms around his stepfather and hugged him tightly as Bill picked him up off
his feet, patting him on the back. They stayed like that for awhile. PJ
looked on enviously.

Finally, after putting his stepson back down, Bill said one more thing and
Erik again nodded, smiling up at him. They shared one more quick hug before
Bill got in his car and drove off, waving. Erik watched until the SUV was
out of sight. He eventually came over to where PJ was waiting, brushed away
what PJ swore was a tear in his eye, and said, "I always miss him a lot
every time he has to leave."

"He's a great guy," PJ said. "You're lucky, Erik."

"Well, you're pretty lucky with Jack, too."

"Yeah."

They walked together toward the House. "I think I'll go see if any of the
other kids are here yet for the camp," Erik said. "You wanna come?"

"I'll meet you later. I've still got to unpack some stuff."

While Erik went off to check the other houses, PJ climbed back upstairs to
the room, shut the door, and nerved himself for a decision he knew he had
to make. From the closet he brought out the cardboard tube with his Jack
Canon poster. Carefully, he pulled out its rolled-up content and spread it
out on his bed, using books from his shelf to hold the corners down. If he
didn't put it up, Erik was sure to ask questions. But he wasn't sure he
could bear the sight of it day after day. He stared for a long time at the
picture. Jack's confident image in his Red Sox uniform grinned back at him,
the words "Anything's Possible" in big bold letters across the bottom. PJ
could almost hear Jack saying it.

A dreadful sense of loneliness swept over him, and with it a sadness so
intense that the colors of the poster and those of the room itself turned
to shades of black and white. Tears he'd struggled to suppress at the Inn
came streaming down his cheeks.

"No!" he screamed at the image, his voice breaking. "No! You're a liar!"

He reached across the bed, took hold of the poster, and tore it in two. The
separate pieces sprang apart, curling back on themselves. PJ fell to his
knees by the bed. Sobbing, "You're a liar. A liar!" He pressed his head
against the bedclothes to muffle the sounds, his memory tormenting
him. Everything you told me was a lie. You said it would be for a year. You
promised! Now you've told me you don't want anything to do with me! But
even as the sobs kept coming, PJ knew that it was not the lies that hurt
the most. It was knowing that none of it had ever been real. That Jack had
never wanted any of it. I forced him to make the promise. It was never what
he wanted. It was all my fault!

Gradually, the sobbing stopped. Pulling himself slowly to his feet, PJ
stared down at the torn poster. After wiping his eyes and taking a deep
shuddering breath, he placed the two pieces on top of each other, rolled
them back into the cardboard tube, and put the tube again in the closet. I
don't want your stupid poster, Jack," he told himself.

But he knew that wasn't true. There were times when he missed Jack so much
it was like an aching inside him. And at other times, he was so angry at
Jack that he hated him.

PJ knew he could hurt Jack. All he had to do was call one of the reporters,
tell him the way Jack had gotten his contract, and then how he had broken
his promise. PJ knew that would make trouble. No one would believe anything
Jack said again. PJ had already thought about doing it several times, and
now he thought about it again. Sitting at his desk, face in his hands, he
fantasized about going downstairs . . . picking up the phone. But he didn't
do it. He knew he wouldn't. Jack was safe. Telling anyone about the deal
they had made would embarrass him even more than Jack. There would be no
escaping the "pathetic little orphan" tag then. Staying at Gordonsville, or
anywhere else, would be impossible. Not only couldn't he tell a reporter,
he couldn't tell anyone: not Mr. Williamson, not Bill, not even Erik, his
best friend.

And there was the other reason. The one he hated to admit to himself.

Jack will change his mind. He's gonna make it all right. He'll send me a
messagel. For sure, he'll send me something for my birthday.

 Suddenly, PJ couldn't stand to be in the room any longer. He brushed his
eyes one more time, got up, and went downstairs as quietly as he could
because he didn't want to meet anyone. Outside, after a quick glance around
to be sure no one was watching, he jogged quickly to the main gate and
slipped out, headed for town.

At first he thought he was walking aimlessly, just to get away from the
school, but gradually it came to him that he was heading in the direction
of Billy's house. Billy . . . yes . . . he could surprise him. Maybe seeing
Billy would help him get rid of the awful funk he was in. PJ took his time,
using the back roads, remembering times he and his young friend had
skateboarded over the same route. Golden rays of a late afternoon sun
slanted through the trees.

Reaching Billy's street, he slowed his walk, unsure of himself. Had Billy
forgotten all about him? He'd sent Billy some postcards from camp, a short
letter once, but had never gotten a reply. Probably the boy was busy with
his own friends and activities. He might even have moved away. PJ went down
the road cautiously, staying out of sight. If the Thatchers still lived
there, he didn't want to embarrass himself by intruding where he wasn't
wanted.

There was a sound of laughter up ahead. A young boy's voice called, "Watch
this, Dad!", and PJ heard a man's deeper voice answering. PJ advanced
slowly, coming from behind the trees to the edge of the familiar
yard. Billy and his father were playing catch with a football in the grass
by their house. The little boy was running and his father was throwing
passes easy enough for him to catch. The sound of Billy's high-pitched
laugh floated in the balmy afternoon air. As PJ watched, the youngster
caught a pass, shouted excitedly, and Mr. Thatcher called, "Nice catch,
Son! That's my little champ!"

Hearing those all-too-familiar words, PJ experienced a pain so sharp that
he gave an involuntary little cry like a wounded animal. Squeezing his arms
tightly around himself and biting his lip, he kept himself from falling
down, but only just. Heart aching, he watched Billy and his father a few
seconds longer, but was certain that there was no place for him here. He
was turning away when Billy suddenly spotted him.

"PJ!" the boy shouted joyfully. "PJ! PJ! Daddy, look! It's PJ!" He shot
across the yard to throw himself at PJ, hugging him, then jumping up and
down excitedly. "PJ! You're back! You're back!"

Mr. Thatcher came trotting over, face lit by a huge grin. "I think Billy's
glad to see you!" Reaching down suddenly, he picked PJ up in the air. "And
so am I! How are you, PJ?" He started to give the boy another hug, then
grunted in surprise when the PJ threw arms around his neck and clung to
him.

"Whoa! OK! Guess you're glad to see us, too." Mr. Thatcher held him close,
stroking, patting PJ's back until PJ relaxed his grip. Then he pulled PJ's
head up. "Now what's all this?" he asked gently, seeing tears in PJ's eyes.

PJ hugged him again. "I'm just really glad to be home."

"Of course you're home," Billy's dad whispered soothingly. "Of course you
are. And that's what this is, PJ. You'll always have a home here."

He carried PJ toward the house. Halfway across the lawn, he put the boy
down so PJ could brush his eyes and take his hand. Billy took the other one
as they walked into the house, straight to the kitchen where Billy's mom
and his two sisters greeted PJ just as enthusiastically as Billy had. Soon,
he found himself telling them all about his summer adventures over a
Coca-Cola and some homemade cookies.

"Are you and Erik playing football this fall?" Mr. Thatcher asked.

PJ assured him they were and told him about the mini-camp they were
having. "That's why we're back a little early."

"Be sure and give us your schedule, PJ. I want to take Billy to see your
games."

"I'm gonna play football when I get bigger," Billy asserted
confidently. His dad gave him an affectionate pat.

"You've grown this summer, PJ," Billy's mother told him. "And your tan
looks very healthy. It sounds as if you had a wonderful time."

"Is Jack gonna make it for any of your games?" Mr. Thatcher asked.

PJ's stomach knotted and to make certain his voice remained steady, he took
a moment before answering. "I don't think so. If the Red Sox go to the
playoffs, he's gonna be awfully busy."

"You're right about that," Billy's father said in agreement. "He's had a
tough second half of the season. But I'm sure he'll come around for the
championship games."

"Jack's the best!" Billy exclaimed. "He can do anything!"

Trying hard to smile, PJ nodded and got up. "Guess I better get back. It's
almost dinner time." How can I ever confess to Billy about what happened
between me and Jack? About how it was my fault. He wouldn't
understand. Leave now! Leave before there are any more questions.

"Won't you stay and have dinner with us?" Mrs. Thatcher asked. You know
you're always welcome."

"I'd like to," PJ told her politely, "but they'll be looking for me at
school. I should get back. Thank you, though, for asking."

The whole family accompanied him to the front door, Billy right alongside
asking, "PJ, can you come tomorrow?"

"Erik and I have football camp all this week. Maybe on Saturday afternoon.

 "Yeah! Saturday! The young boy was beaming up at him.

"We'll be looking for you," Mr. Thatcher said.

"PJ, do you see what I'm wearing?" Billy asked hopefully.

PJ stared for a second. "Yeah." Billy was wearing some of PJ's
hand-me-downs. They looked a little baggy.

"They're still too big for him," Mrs. Thatcher said with an indulgent
smile, "but he won't wear anything else."

Maybe he wouldn't if he knew how bad a person I was. It was all PJ could do
to hide his anguish and hold out a palm for Billy to slap. "See you
Saturday, Little Brother." His voice almost cracked as he said it.

To PJ's surprise, Mr. Thatcher waved the rest of the family back and walked
out with him to the road. "You sure everything's alright with you, PJ?
There's nothing I can help you with? All you have to do is ask."

Questions! PJ thought, his stomach knotting in fear again. Just like with
Bill. He did his best to give a cheerful answer. "It's goin' pretty
good. Football's gonna be tough, but me an' Erik are ready."

Billy's father eyed him closely for a moment, but finally nodded as if
satisfied. "Okay. Well remember, if you do need anything, I'm right here."
With a smile he ruffled PJ's hair. "It's good to see you, Boy. We're so
fond of you. I'm glad when you got back that you came straight to see
us. My wife is always after me to check and make sure you're alright. Maybe
that embarrasses you, but she does. And Billy . . . well, Billy really
looks up to you. I guess you know that.

He shouldn't, PJ was thinking. None of you would like me if you knew how
weird I was, how my parents hated me, how I messed everything up with Jack
. . .

He made himself meet the man's friendly eyes. "Erik an' I really like
Billy. We wish he was going to school with us."

"Gordonsville"? With a rueful look, Mr. Thatcher shook his head. "You can
bet Billy'd do anything to be on a team with you boys, and I suppose he
could get through the academics. He's a lot smarter in school than his old
man ever was. But we could never afford that place, PJ. It just can't be."

"I think there's scholarships," PJ said, remembering something he'd once
overheard other boys talking about.

"Well, maybe. . ." Mr. Thatcher looked thoughtful, and then ruffled PJ's
hair again. "I don't think there'd be anything for Billy, though. He's
bright enough, but he's certainly no genius. Now listen, Son--"he put a
hand on PJ's shoulder--when you and Erik come over on Saturday, you bring
me a schedule of your football games, hear me? We want to come see you
play. We're gonna be there for every home game. Billy would never forgive
me if . . . Hey, now . . ."

The word "Son," the hand on his shoulder, the tone of voice. Something in
PJ broke and he was looking up at Billy's dad with tears in his eyes.

The man's arm went around him, a big hand gently stoking his back. PJ bit
his lower lip, blinking to stem the tears, desperate not to cry.

"You're a wonderful boy," Mr. Thatcher was saying. "Don't ever change. Jack
must be very, very proud of you. We're all glad you're back and you can
count on us being there for your games. You okay now?"

 PJ nodded. He brushed his eyes and headed off up the street, first walking
and then jogging as he tried to fend off the thoughts that brought nothing
but pain. It could have been that way between me and Jack. But it won't
ever be. Because I messed it up. It's my fault. . . . It had all gone
wrong, and PJ knew he had to stop thinking about it before he saw Erik or
Mr. Williamson again. Or they'll know. There will be questions!

Behind one of the stores across from Gordonsville's main gate, PJ took some
time to be sure as possible all traces of his pain were gone before
re-entering the campus. He was glad he'd done so, because at the House he
found both Erik and Mr. Williamson looking for him. "Come on, PJ!" Erik
called. "Where ya' been? Mrs. Williamson made dinner for us."

"My wife has her famous meatloaf for you tonight, PJ," Mr. Williamson said
when the boys ran to him. "We want to hear all about the things you've been
doing this summer. Come in and wash up. Erik tells me that both of you went
to Great Adventure Park and rode the big roller coaster ten times!"

PJ made himself look happy and cheerful. Talking about the trip to the Park
was fine, as long as they didn't ask questions about Jack or the meeting in
Chicago. "I think it was only five times on the roller coaster," he told
the housemaster, "but it sure felt like ten."

PJ managed to get through that evening with only one uncomfortable
moment. It helped that the Williamsons kept them busy and
entertained. Before dinner, PJ lent a hand rearranging furniture in a
newly- cleaned and painted Common Room, Erik was drafted by Mrs. Williamson
for potato-peeling duty in the kitchen, and while various parts of dinner
finished cooking on the stove, the Williamsons sat with the boys and
encouraged them to talk about their summer. That was when the bad moment
came. Erik mentioned again that he'd seen PJ on TV at the All-Star- game.

"You were there, P?" Mr. Williamson asked. "That's great. What was it
like?"

"Uh, it was kinda cool, I guess." PJ was careful with his answer. They're
gonna ask about Jack. I know it!  His stomach fluttered in tension, but he
kept his tone of voice as casual as he could. "The game was okay, but you
couldn't get close to any players. They're so busy with reporters an'
interviews an' stuff, you can't even get near 'em. I hardly saw Jack at
all."

"You sure got near him right before he hit that grand slam, though," Erik
eagerly reminded him. "They only showed it it for a few seconds on TV, but
I knew it was you. He said something to you."

At that moment, PJ thought he might murder his roommate.

"Yeah . . ."  Hiding the pain that memory brought took an effort. "Yeah. It
was kind of a good luck thing." Sure. Good luck all right. Jack got me on
TV like he promised. An' then he got mad about it 'cause reporters asked
questions. Then he went into a slump. That all happened because of me. I
messed everything up for him.

PJ felt better after they sat down to eat. Mrs. Williamson's meatloaf was a
favorite of his and he put away two helpings, accompanied by scoops of
mashed potatoes. At Mr. Williamson's urging, he described a few of the big
swim meets in which he'd competed.  Erik broke in with, "PJ won a bunch of
medals! An' he got a football trophy too."

"That's wonderful PJ!" Mrs. Williamson exclaimed.

"We've got to see those," Mr. Williamson told him. PJ was sent upstairs to
fetch them, and when he returned, he not only had his own things, but
Erik's MVP Little League trophy as well, something his roommate, whom PJ
had raised from the dead, had been too modest to mention.

After admiring the trophies and medals, Mrs. Williamson told them, "You
boys should be very proud of your accomplishments.

Yes," her husband agreed. "I want you to display these where they can be
seen. I hope all the boys in the House this year will see your awards when
they come to your room, just as I hope they see the rock collection your
friend Mike has, and Pedro's award for his science project. These things
are important. They set an example. They show what can be done by hard work
and persistence."

The elderly man reached for Erik, put an arm around his shoulder, and
hugged PJ as well. "You two are old enough now to start thinking of how to
set an example for the younger boys. Remember, you're in the upper half of
the Middle School this year. We have a whole new group of ten-year-olds
coming to us. And new eleven, twelve, and thirteen-year-olds too. They'll
be looking to you to see how they should behave. Just the way you're little
friend does who always visits you--what's his name?"

"Billy," both PJ and Erik said.

"Exactly. Billy. He imitates everything you do. And these new boys also
will. Set them an example. Let them see the things you've
accomplished. This kind of attitude will inspire them to accomplish their
own things. That's the kind of leadership role I want you boys to play."

"But will the older kids follow our example?" asked Erik.  I mean, I'm only
twelve and PJ is still eleven."

"Darn right they will," the housemaster answered. PJ had never seen him so
excited.  Those twelve and thirteen-year-olds will say to themselves, Hey,
if these boys can do this, so can we! They'll want to have their own
trophies on display!

Mrs. Williamson arranged the trophies and medals on the table as a
centerpiece and then brought out ice cream with strawberry topping for
dessert. Several helpings of that had PJ well stuffed when he and Erik
finally headed upstairs for bed, their awards in hand. PJ was wishing they
could have stayed even longer. Outside the warmth and comfort of the
Williamsons' apartment, the silence felt spooky. More boys would be
arriving in the morning for football camp. But on this first night, he and
Erik happened to be the only ones sleeping there. It dawned on him that the
Williamsons had set the dinner up for just that reason, so they would feel
comfortable and not lonely or homesick.

That was really nice, he thought. It had worked, too. For awhile some of
the dreadful sadness that had seemed such a constant part of him had
receded. Yet as he followed Erik up flights of stairs illuminated only by
nightlights, dark thinks he hated to recognize came seeping back into his
mind.

It won't work for me. Nothing I do will matter. When they find out the
truth about me and Jack, I'll just be the weird kid nobody wants .I can
never set an example. It'll all go wrong.

 "Football tomorrow, PJ." Erik's said when they reached the top floor of
the House. His eyes glinted in the dim hallway nightlights. He held out a
fist. "Us together. The way we always planned it. We'll make it different
from last year."

"Together," PJ replied, faking enthusiasm, tapping his fist to Erik's. He
felt no real desire to play, but this was something Erik wanted, and Erik
was his best friend, and PJ couldn't imagine letting him down. And then
there was Billy. Billy expected him to play . . .

Billy looks up to me. How will I ever tell him that I screwed up everything
with Jack?

He followed Erik into their room and hurriedly switched on the bright study
lamp on his desk in order to drive the shadows back out of sight. After
changing into pajamas, he and Erik padded down the hall in their slippers
to the bathroom to brush their teeth. Erik finished quickly and left PJ to
himself, calling over his shoulder, "We gotta be ready for tomorrow!"

 PJ lingered over a sink and splashed cold water on his face. The darkness
was invading his thought again, pushing in, a big, black void of loneliness
and despair. Tomorrow the next day, and all the days after that stretched
in front of him, bleak and empty for as far as he could see them.

There were words in his head: You have a lot of wonderful friends. They all
care about you. You have nothing to worry about, okay? Who had told him
that? Jack? Yes, it had been Jack, at that stupid baseball game against
Travis' school, when he had been there, but not been there. "He came and
saw Travis, 'an Erik, an' Billy," PJ whispered, tears trickling down his
already wet cheeks, "but not me. He didn't see me." Even then he didn't
want me around. Even then he was trying to get rid of me. Don't bother me,
PJ. I haven't got time for you! That's why he said that stuff about
sticking with my friends.

"It's not the same, Jack." PJ wanted to scream it at him, but instead only
whispered it into the sink. Friends aren't the same as having a father, a
real father who's there for you just for you. Who cares about you more than
anything!

"It's not, Jack," PJ whispered. "It's just not."

With all his heart and soul, PJ had wanted someone who was just for
him. Sure, Bill was nice, but his job was to take care of Erik, just like
Mr. Thatcher had to be there for Billy. And Mr. Williamson? Mr. Williamson
had a whole Houseful of boys to look after. No, PJ had set his heart on
Jack. Jack had been his last chance.  And Jack had not wanted him . . .

Nobody does. Nobody. PJ squeezed his eyes tight and tried to concentrate on
finishing brushing his teeth. Jack's gone. I'll never hear from him
again. He knew it was true. Still, a tiny part of him was trying not to
accept that. He'll remember my birthday. He will! He'll send something. But
even this didn't help. From somewhere in his mind came a whisper:

Jack's son is dead.

There was a ringing in his ears. PJ felt the odd sense of being outside
himself, a sense that often came with his "weirds." Trying to act as normal
as he could, he went back to the room, where he found that luckily, Erik
was already fast asleep. No dreams, PJ silently pleaded as he crawled into
bed. I don't want dreams. But he knew that dreams, like the "weirds,"
couldn't be wished away. Think of something nice. So he thought about his
friends, Erik and Travis, the best friends he'd ever had. And
Billy. Mr. Williamson says I should be an inspiration . . . set an
example. Don't I owe that to Billy?. . .

The ringing was still there. PJ lay on his back, staring at the ceiling,
the distorted vision of his "weirds'" spell creating shifting lines and
patterns on the freshly-painted surface.

	What was a scholarship, anyway? How did they work? Billy
. . . someday? . . .

PJ's eyes were closing.

	From some place came the noise of a huge crowd roaring in the
distance.

He slipped away into a land of troubled dreams, thankfully none of which he
remembered.

Chapter Fifty-One: Of Footballs and Books



Football camp for the Middle and Upper Schools began the next day, and PJ
got Erik up for an early start. Right after breakfast, they went to the
weight room in the Field House where they were determined to work out every
morning and evening during camp, and at least once a day when school
started.

"This is the year we make things happen, PJ," Erik said. "I don't wanna
ever go through another football season like last year, where everyone
kicks our ass."

"It's gonna be different this time," PJ agreed, loyally. He held up a
palm. "You pass 'em, I catch 'em." The two boys high-fived and began a set
of bench presses.

Morning football practice started at nine A.M. PJ and Erik got to the field
early, dressed in tee shirts, shorts, and their Nikes. But early as they
were, Coach Lewis was even earlier. They arrived to find him already there,
waiting, clipboard in hand, ready to check their names off on his
list. "Okay, early birds!" he barked. "There's a bag of footballs over
there. Get one out and warm-up."

PJ looked around. "Where's everyone else?"

"My assistants will be here in a few minutes and we'll get things going."
With a big smile, Coach Lewis enjoyed their surprised expressions for a
moment before explaining, "That's right! I'm Head Coach for your Middle
School team this year!"

"Yeah!" Both boys slapped his palm.

Coach Lewis leaned over them, his eyes twinkling. "I know you guys are
going to show me something!" he whispered conspiratorially. "This is gonna
be a change from last year!"

PJ and Erik both grinned at him.

PJ sensed a difference right from the first drill. Coach Lewis was upbeat
and encouraging, not a screamer like Coach Simmons had been. But the young
man was also demanding. He wanted one hundred percent effort all the time,
and he wasn't interested in excuses. The camp was set up for the twelve and
thirteen-year-olds who'd been on the team the year before. All the
eleven-year-olds and any other new players would join them in the following
week once school started. "You guys are the veterans," the coach told
them. "We shouldn't have to waste time telling you what we want. If you're
here, we assume you're ready to go to work. Anyone who doesn't want to play
their butts off can leave now and play flag football on a house intramural
team with the other recreational players!"

Some of the older kids grumbled a little at that, but PJ thought Coach had
spoken with just the right note.

The emphasis of the camp was on drills, drills, and more drills. They
worked until noon every morning, took a two-hour break for lunch, and
returned to the field until late in the afternoon. Afterwards, while the
other players showered and dressed, PJ and Erik snuck off to the weight
room for another barbell session before they stopped for the day. In the
practices, the two boys worked as part of the group of ends and backs
directly under Coach Lewis, who pushed them hard every day. Between the
drills on the field and the extra training in the weight room, they were
more than ready to hit their beds early every night. For the rest of that
week, PJ was almost able to forget about Jack.

Playbooks had been issued at the beginning of camp, everyone had been told
to memorize them, and on the sixth day, Saturday morning, the team
performed three hours of scrimmage drills, running virtually every play,
testing their knowledge. Any player who didn't know his assignments got
little to no sympathy. "Football isn't rocket science," Coach Lewis told
them. "It's blocking, tackling--knowing your job on the field for each
play. If you guys can memorize all fifty state capitals for geography, and
can't remember some simple assignments out of our playbook, that tells me
something! Unless you wanna spend a season on the bench, you better get on
the ball!"

Once again, some of the thirteen-year-olds grumbled, but PJ along with most
of the boys who'd been scrubs the previous season just nodded in
agreement. They'd heard it before. "That's what made us lose so much last
year," PJ remarked to Erik. "Kids not knowing what to do on different
plays."

They were still practicing in shorts and tee shirts. No tackling had been
allowed yet, but there was blocking. While Erik and one of the
thirteen-year-olds were taking turns at the quarterback spot, PJ was
getting a workout at several different assignments. If the older boy was
quarterbacking, Erik would be the running back and PJ would line up as an
end. When Erik handled the ball, PJ was in the backfield, sometimes as the
running back, sometimes as the blocking back, and occasionally as an
optional receiver. PJ had studied his playbook at night, drilling back and
forth with Erik, and he was glad they'd put in the extra time because the
job of mentally shifting gears between positions was challenging.

Almost all the other boys, including Erik, found the practices extremely
tiring. But PJ, toughened by his sports-camp conditioning, thought the
drills challenging, but no worse than what he'd been doing all summer. Just
as in swimming, he could push himself hard, yet always be ready for
more. That Saturday during the long scrimmage drill, with the three hours
of non-stop action coming to an end, he still felt pretty good, while all
the other players were dragging. Knowing he had an advantage, he used
it. When his number was called for a running play, he took the handoff from
Erik, tucked the ball under his arm as he'd been taught, and shot through
the line of tired boys, breaking quickly into the clear. Coach Lewis'
whistle stopped the play. "Good job, PJ!" the young Coach shouted. Then he
turned to the defense. "Come on you guys! Get your tired butts in gear!
That was a touchdown! You're making it too easy."

Back in the huddle, Erik winked at his roommate. "Let's burn 'em again," he
whispered and called PJ's number for a pass play. On the snap, Erik made a
fake handoff to PJ all too obvious before rolling out to his right. The
defense, completely ignoring PJ, chased after Erik instead. PJ broke
through the line into the secondary. A quick hip fake on a defensive back,
a move he'd perfected in camp, put him into the clear. The pass from Erik
was already in the air. It dropped into his hands as he took off down the
field, only stopping when Coach Lewis' whistle shrilled again.

"Okay," the coach said, "wind sprints to finish up. You guys need some
serious conditioning!" The entire team was made to run back and forth on
the field for fifteen minutes, a drill that had even PJ worn down at the
end.

"I'll see you guys back here at nine Monday morning," Coach told them when
they finished. "We'll be doing more scrimmage drills, so study those
playbooks! Then we're having a team cookout in honor of Labor Day, so bring
your appetite. You can have a guest. If your parents are here, bring 'em
along. It's up to you. Starting Tuesday, we go to a regular afternoon
practice schedule. Both the scrubs and new guys will join us. Check the new
people coming into your houses. Try to get as many kids as you can to come
try out! I'll see you all Monday!"

As the weary players walked away toward the Field House, Coach Lewis
beckoned Erik and PJ over to him. "I don't remember telling you to run a
pass play on that last snap," he told Erik. "I thought I asked for another
slant off-tackle."

The two sweaty, tired boys grinned sheepishly. "It was just too good a
chance to pass up, Coach," Erik explained. "Those guys on defense were
dragging so bad I couldn't resist."

"Uh-huh." The Coach eyed him. "I also don't remember the play you called
being run in quite that way."

"We sort of have our own twist on it," PJ said, putting on his best
innocent look.

"You guys are somethin' else." Coach Lewis was trying to appear stern, but
not succeeding very well because a smile kept breaking through. "If you're
gonna do something like that in a game, try to let me know ahead of
time. Now, gimme a hand getting all this stuff together."

After the three of them had gathered all the balls and equipment into bags,
PJ and Erik helped lug everything up to the Field House. On the way, the
coach put an arm on PJ's shoulder. "You've really improved a lot since last
year, sport," he told the boy. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised, though,
after what I saw you do in swimming and baseball."

Of all the coaches, PJ liked Coach Lewis best and earning praise from him
was special. He looked up gratefully. "I learned a lot this summer at my
camp."

"It shows," the young man agreed. "So, is your friend Jack coming to any of
our games this season? He sure came to a bunch of your swim meets."

At the sound of that name, PJ's stomach clenched and his self-assurance
vanished. He had to struggle to keep his emotions under control. "I don't
know," he said, pretending to be on the level. "With the playoffs and
everything ,I think he'll be pretty busy."

"Yeah, I guess so." Coach Lewis nodded. "That's too bad. I think we're
gonna have quite a season."

"I sure hope so." PJ forced his voice to remain steady. "Erik and I will
sure try hard."

Coach Lewis gave PJ's shoulders a squeeze. "You know, I'm counting on
that."

After a shower and lunch, the boys sneaked off campus with their
skateboards for a ride to Billy's house. They found him there in the front
yard, throwing a football with his dad, both waiting for the Gordonsville
boys to show up. With a yell of greeting, Billy grabbed his own skateboard
while PJ explained to Mr. Thatcher that there wasn't any schedule
yet. "I'll get it to you as soon as our coach posts it."

Then all three boys raced each other back to the School where PJ and Erik
sneaked Billy onto campus, leading him to the practice field so they could
take turns throwing passes to the youngster, coaching him on how to run
different patterns.

"Oh, nice catch, Billy!" PJ shouted after the young boy had pulled in a
particularly long pass from Erik and come running back, beaming
ecstatically.

"Okay, Billy," Erik said with a mischievous look at his roommate, "whose
passes are easier to catch? Mine or PJ's?"

"Well. . . ." Billy hesitated, looking from Erik to PJ and turning red.

"It's okay, Billy," PJ laughed. "Go ahead. Tell the truth."

"Erik's really are sort of easier to get," Billy admitted. But then he
assured PJ, "Yours are good too!"

Erik grinned in triumph while PJ patted Billy on the shoulder. "You don't
have to worry about saying that, Billy. I know how good Erik is. I think
his passes are easy to catch too. That's why he's the quarterback. But we
have to be careful about telling him how good he is or his head will be too
big to fit into a helmet. Our coach worries about that all the time, so be
careful what you say to him."

"Ha!" Erik said. "Don't listen to him, Billy. PJ's just jealous of my
golden arm. You should see how big his head gets when he runs for a
touchdown! Come on, PJ. I'll throw to you for awhile and we'll teach Billy
a few tricks about pass defense."

They ran more pass drills with PJ showing Billy how to defend against some
of the standard patterns. In time, they were joined by other boys from the
team, with everyone getting into the fun, and soon there was a lively game
of touch football going. Erik, PJ, and Billy stuck together, insisting on
being on the same team. "The way we should do it," PJ told everyone, "is
that it should be one-hand touch for Billy 'cause he's smaller, and
two-hand touch for everyone else." This was agreed to, and the game ended
up with plenty of action and plenty of scoring. Best of all, toward the
end, PJ and Erik winked at their friends on the other team. On the next
play, when Erik handed off to Billy for an end run, the other boys let
Billy get through so he could go all the way for a touchdown!

The youngster was still talking excitedly about his big play while the
three of them skateboarded back to his house. "I made a cut, just like you
showed me, PJ," he said happily, "and I got past all of them. All the big
kids!"

"See what we mean," Erik told him, "size is important in football. But it's
not everything."

The first thing Billy did when they got to his house was find his father to
tell him about his play. "I ran for a touchdown, all by myself! Right past
all the big kids!"

"Hey, great!" Mr. Thatcher gave his son a hug.  Say, the Red Sox are on TV
now," he called to PJ and Erik. "Come on in and you can catch the end of
the game." They all trooped inside to sprawl on the floor in front of the
TV where the game was in its final inning. PJ looked at the familiar
setting of Fenway Park with a pang. Hard effort and fatigue had kept him
from thinking about Jack for nearly a week, but now the sense of loss and
hurt came flooding back.  Suddenly, without any warning, Jack Canon's image
filled the TV screen. He was at the plate, taking his stance in the
batter's box.

"The Sox are down by two," Mr. Thatcher said, "but they've got men on base
and Jack's up. He might hit one out for them."

"He'll do it!" Billy said loudly.

"Come on, Jack! Belt it!" Erik yelled, just as if he were at the ballpark.

When the camera focused on the Red Sox star as he waited for the first
pitch, PJ felt such a sense of longing and abandonment that he had to bite
his lip and hide his face from the others so they wouldn't see his
tears. Meanwhile, the TV commentators talked about Jack's slump and the
battle between the Red Sox and Yankees for lead of the AL Eastern Division.

"The Sox keep scrambling to win games and hold on to their division lead,"
one announcer was saying. "But I don't know how far they can go without
Canon."; "It has to be frustrating for him," the other commentator put in,
as Jack fouled off a pitch. "To have the Red Sox this close to their best
chance at the Series in years and not to be playing well."

Jack took the next pitch right over the plate for a strike. When he stepped
out of the batter's box to adjust his batting gloves, PJ could tell he was
angry with himself but trying not to show it. Don't show them anything,
Tiger! PJ heard the words in his head, just as Jack had said them to him so
often. Don't let them see they're getting to you.

I won't, PJ thought. I won't let them see.

The next pitch broke outside and Jack swung, missing it completely for
strike three. He walked back to the dugout, his face expressionless, and PJ
knew he was upset. The sound of booing came through the TV.

"That's the way it is when you're in a slump," the second commentator
remarked. "You let the good stuff go by and swing at the bad ones."; "He
just can't seem to get going," the other one added.

"What's wrong with him, PJ?" Erik looked at his roommate in dismay.

"He's been having trouble ever since the All-Star game," PJ
explained. "He's working on it."

"Jack'll be okay!" Billy said confidently. "He's the greatest. He can do
anything."

His father looked thoughtful. "I hope so, Billy. The Sox need him awful
bad."

"Are they gonna make it to the Series?" Erik asked anxiously.

"I don't know." Mr. Thatcher shook his head. "They're good enough. They
have a terrific team. But they need to have Jack playing well."

"It would be terrible if they don't win," Billy said.

Mr. Thatcher shook his head again. "Jack's not gonna get the batting
championship if he doesn't improve."

All four of them watched glumly as the next Red Sox batter flied out and
the game ended. From the TV came the first announcer's voice:

"The Red Sox lead in their Division is down to one game. It's anyone's
guess now how the season will end. A lot will depend on how Jack Canon
plays." Then his partner added, "Well, like Jack keeps telling us,
'Anything's Possible,' so let's hope for the best."

Yeah, right, PJ thought, remembering all his hurt and anger. I believed. I
believed everything you told me. You're a liar, Jack. But deep inside, PJ
knew that he would never stop believing in Jack Canon.

PJ did not sleep well that night. Erik awoke in the early hours of the
morning to the sound of his roommate's tossing and incoherent muttering. A
few times he moaned out loud. Erik was about to go to him when PJ finally
turned over and quieted down. With a sigh, Erik readjusted his pillow. He
hoped PJ's bad dreams were not starting up again. Making a mental note to
check PJ's computer when he got a chance to see if there were any messages
from Jack, he finally went back to sleep.



* * *



The next day after lunch, PJ took off on a project of his own. His birthday
was in five days, the following Friday, and although in one small corner of
his mind he still hoped that Jack would remember and send something, bitter
experience had taught him that "insurance presents" were a smart backup. Or
there'll be questions, he told himself. If nothing comes, for sure there'll
be questions.

Before leaving Billy's house the day before, he'd talked alone to Billy's
dad and asked him for a favor. He didn't like asking for favors, but he was
frightened of hitchhiking ever since his experience with the teenagers from
Allentown.

"Remember when you told me not to hitchhike and to ask if I needed a ride?"
he had said in embarrassment. "Well, you see, I need to do a little
shopping at the mall and was wondering if you could take me over there
tomorrow. I promise I'll be quick."

With a smile, Mr. Thatcher had squeezed his shoulder. "Of course I'll take
you, PJ. I'll be glad to. And you don't have to worry about taking too
long. I'll bring Billy and get him a haircut. Take as long as you
want. Don't even think about hitchhiking. Not ever! You can always ask me
for a ride."

They had agreed to drive over to the mall after lunch, so PJ slipped away
from the School following the meal and walked to Billy's house. Soon, he
and Billy and Billy's dad were on their way. Billy was excited, as he
always was, about going anywhere with his older friend. "What kind of
haircut should I get, PJ?" he asked.

"Ummm. Why not get one of those spiky ones," PJ suggested. "And you can dye
your hair all green!"

"Cool!" Billy exclaimed.

"Oh Lord!" Mr. Thatcher said. "PJ, don't encourage him. If I bring him back
from the mall looking like that, my wife will lock me out of the house!"

The two boys exchanged mischievous looks and snickered.

At the mall, they separated. "Take your time, PJ," Mr. Thatcher told
him. "We'll be over at the 'Clip-Joint.'"

PJ went first to the bookstore, where before buying any books, he picked
out the cards he would need. He got three, two of them funny, one
serious. The first showed an old decrepit dog holding a little balloon that
said "Happy Birthday." Along the bottom the card read, "Twelve doesn't
sound so old." Inside, the dog was grinning slyly, saying, "But it's 84 in
dog years!" And underneath was the line, "Happy Birthday, You Old Dog!" The
other funny card showed a cartoon character on the front where it read, "So
You're 12!" On the next page, the character was saying, "Almost ready for
Wine, Women and Song!" Then, on the last page he said, "I couldn't find any
Wine or Women, but I got this card for a Song! Happy Birthday!" The third
card was the serious one. On the front, a boy in a complete football
uniform was throwing a pass. Above was written, "To a Wonderful Son."
Inside, in big letters, was printed, "Happy Twelfth Birthday!"

Along with the cards, PJ selected a black felt tip pen, the same kind Jack
always used for signing autographs. After paying for the pen and cards, he
left the store, found a table in the nearby food court, wiped it clean, and
sat down with his purchases. Using the felt tip pen, writing carefully, he
signed the old dog card, "Many Happy Returns, PJ. Jack," forging Jack's
signature just as he'd been practicing it for the last few days. On the
wine, women and song card he wrote, "Have a great day, PJ. The whole Red
Sox team sends their best wishes!  Jack."

For the third card, the serious one, he wrote carefully, "With Love from
Your Dad, Jack Canon," this time forging Jack's full name.

He placed all three cards into envelopes. For the funny ones he wrote, "To
PJ" on the front. The serious one he addressed to himself at the school,
using Jack's address in Florida for a return in the upper left-hand
corner. Taking out his wallet, he removed a stamp from the inner pocket and
stuck it to the letter. Then he got up. The cards and their envelopes had
been in a paper bag with the bookshop logo on it. After tossing both bag
and felt tip pen into the trash, PJ walked around the mall until he found a
mailbox. Once he'd checked the post office collection times to make sure
that nothing would be picked up until after Labor Day, he dropped in the
card addressed to himself.  He brought the other two cards back to the
bookstore. "Excuse me, ma'am," he told the lady behind the counter. "Would
you please hold these for me while I pick out some books in the back?"

After the lady put his cards under her counter, PJ went to the young adult
section in the back of the store where he decided to treat himself to three
new books. Right away he found two that looked good: a collection of sports
stories called Great Football Stories for Boys, and another one Erik had
told him about, The Hobbit. While hunting around for an interesting third
choice, carefully avoiding any books about baseball, he came across a title
he'd heard Mr. Bingham mention called The Secret Garden. Leafing through
its pages, he vaguely recalled a movie of that name, though he'd never seen
it. The book certainly wasn't about sports, and it had interesting
pictures. He decided to try it.

Up front at the register, the lady behind the counter smiled when she saw
the titles. She looked at him with interest. "You have very good taste in
books."

"Thank you," PJ replied politely. "But, they're not for me, they're for a
friend. For his birthday."

"Well, they're very good choices." The lady rang them up and said, "I'm
sure he'll like them."

After handing over the money, PJ asked, "Uh, can I get these wrapped and
sent?"

"Certainly," the lady told him. "But there'll be an extra charge."

"That's okay." PJ gave her his address at school. "And could you please use
this as the return address?" He gave her Jack's address in Florida. Then he
handed her one of his funny birthday cards. "This has to go in with the
books." The woman wrote everything down, putting PJ's card, books, and her
written notes all together with a big rubber band. "We'll send it out
Tuesday," she told him. "Monday's a federal holiday." PJ paid the extra
charge for the mailing and took his last card with him to a sporting goods
store in another part of the mall. There, he picked out a football and two
brightly colored football jerseys that he thought looked pretty cool. After
arranging to have them sent to himself along with the card, he went to find
the Thatchers.

The Clip-Joint had been crowded, so Billy was just getting done when PJ
arrived. "Perfect timing!" Mr. Thatcher said. He paid for his son's
haircut, put his wallet away with a wry look, and muttered, "I don't
believe what haircuts cost nowadays."

"See?" PJ told him, "You should send Billy to Gordonsville. We get our
haircuts for free right at school."

The man smiled. "That's about the only thing that's free there. Hey, I
thought you went shopping. Where's all your stuff?"

"Uhh, the stuff I got I'm having sent over," PJ answered, thinking on his
feet. "It was all too much to carry."

Billy's dad looked at him curiously but didn't say anything. With PJ on one
side of him and his son on the other, he led both to the Baskin-Robbins
where he bought them ice cream before they left. "Thanks," PJ told him
gratefully. He would've offered to pay, but his shopping had left him
broke. "Yeah, thanks, Dad," Billy said, after a big lick of his chocolate
cone.

"Hey, it's my pleasure." Mr. Thatcher gave the boys' shoulders a quick
squeeze. "Taking you guys anywhere is a great enjoyment for me. PJ, I wish
we could see you and Erik even more often."

PJ thought about the Labor Day cookout the football team was having the
next day. "Our coaches are giving us a big picnic tomorrow," he
said. "Would you and Billy like to come?"

Billy's face lit up. "Can we, Dad?"

His father smiled at him fondly. "I wish we could. Thank you, PJ. It sounds
like fun, but we're going over to Billy's grandmother's place for a family
party. It's kind of a tradition with us. We do it every year."

"Sorry, PJ." Billy was clearly disappointed.

"Don't worry, PJ," his dad said. "We'll still make it to your games. Be
sure to get me that schedule."

After they drove back to the Thatcher's, PJ spent some time throwing the
football with Billy before going back to the School. As he slipped through
the main gate, then walked across the Quadrangle to his House, he
congratulated himself on once again avoiding a birthday disaster. No matter
what happened, he was covered. Even if everyone forgot about him, it would
still look like he'd gotten cards and presents from Jack. Yeah. Covering
for him, just like I did with my parents. How long am I gonna keep that up?

PJ pushed that thought away. He slept a little better that night.



* * *



Monday, Labor Day, dawned hot and clear. "Perfect weather!" Coach Lewis
kept saying as he proceeded to bust their butts with a killer
practice. They ran play after play, along with wind sprints if anyone made
a mistake. Three hours later ("It feels like three years," Erik groaned),
noontime had arrived, and every boy was soaked with sweat when the coach
gathered them around him for an end-of-practice meeting.

"First, I want to say that this was a much better practice than
Saturday's," he told them, smiling."I can see that most of you worked hard
on your playbooks over the weekend. You made some mistakes today, but
you're all trying hard and improving, and that's what counts! Now, I hope
you've worked up a good appetite because we've got all kinds of neat things
for you to eat. Go shower up, get changed, and meet me in back of the Field
House!"

Revived by the prospect of food, the boys all cheered and went excitedly to
the locker room, PJ and Erik trotting along with the rest. "Gee, no one
looks tired now!" Erik said, laughing.

They showered, got into their regular clothes, and ran eagerly to the
parking lot behind the big building where the smell of cooking hamburgers
filled the air. Coach Lewis, his two assistants, and some other volunteers
were all manning various grills in the act of broiling hot dogs,
hamburgers, and chicken. On a big table set up at one side were platters of
salad, coleslaw, baked beans, French fries. Tubs filled with ice held lots
of cold soda. The boys started loading their plates.

PJ looked around and saw a bunch of parents. "Where's Bill and your mom?"
he asked Erik.

"They should be here any time." Erik was looking around too. "If you see
them, give them a wave. You're sure you don't want to come with us? It's
gonna be fun."

Erik and his parents were spending the rest of the day in Hershey, touring
the chocolate factory, swimming at a park, and then having dinner at a
fancy restaurant. Erik had wanted PJ to come as well, but PJ had given him
an excuse about promising to have dinner with Billy's family. Anyway, PJ
was starting to feel guilty about spending so much time with Erik's
family. It was almost as if he was stealing from his best friend. Bill was
Erik's father. PJ didn't want Erik to resent sharing Bill with him.

The boys were working on their third round of food when Mr. and
Mrs. Fournier finally arrived. PJ accepted a little hug from Bill, a bigger
one from Erik's mother, and assured everyone that he was fine. After
staying around long enough to be polite, he slipped away, heading for his
room at the House. Equipping himself with a book as well as a few candy
bars for later sustenance, he went over to the athletic fields, using a
back way so there wouldn't be a chance of Erik spotting him. From there, he
climbed up onto the Hill, took the path into the woods, and picked a
comfortable spot where he could settle down to read.

He'd decided to tackle Treasure Island for the third or fourth time. He
liked the book not only for its exciting story but because he identified
with the central character, Jim Hawkins. Like himself, Jim was a boy
virtually without a family. He had a mother, but she seemed ineffective and
helpless. Jim had to deal with the adult world by himself, just as PJ did;
and he did it successfully. PJ found that comforting. He also felt that he
understood Jim's ambivalent feelings about Long John Silver. Long John had,
after all, pretended to like Jim and care about him. Perhaps not all of
that was pretense, and PJ could understand Jim's need for that. But Long
John Silver was a little like Jack, PJ thought. He couldn't imagine Jack,
even on his worst day, behaving quite the way Long John did. But they were
both liars. Jack told me he liked me and he didn't.

For a minute or so, PJ had to stop reading when the hurt and anger he kept
bottled inside came welling up. "I hate you, Jack!" he whispered with
ferocity as he swiped his eyes. But even as he said it, he felt the tears
come again because he knew he didn't mean it.

When he felt better, he began to read again, this time skimming to the end
of the book, where in the last sentence, Jim relates that he still hears in
his dreams the sound of surf breaking on the island and the parrot calling,
"Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!" I bet he still thinks of Long John
Silver, PJ mused, closing the book's cover. After all, Long John must have
liked him at least a little bit. In the end, he saved Jim's life.

He sat for awhile, watching the late afternoon sun send its golden rays
through the leaves. The woods were very still. From one of the distant
fields came the faint, high-pitched voices of boys playing. A sense of
quiet melancholy filled PJ. The whole world seemed to pause, as if he were
living in a timeless moment that might go on forever. Then a squirrel
chattered noisily, a bird flew from a nearby tree in a clatter of wings,
and the spell was broken.

He got up, stiff from sitting so long on the ground, the seat of his pants
damp from the moisture trapped under the leaves. He'd eaten only one of his
candy bars. Unwrapping the other, he munched it thoughtfully as he walked
back to campus. It'd been quite a day! Tomorrow, everyone would arrive back
from vacation and be moving in. Classes would begin later in the
week. Soon, swimming practice would be starting up and he would be doing
that along with football.

PJ wasn't sure he wanted any of it. But he'd made promises to Erik, and
what else could he do? And maybe, just maybe, Jack would remember his
birthday.

"Is anything really possible?" he whispered.

* * *

CONCLUSION OF INSTALLMENT TWENTY-SEVEN

Editor Paul K. Scott's e-mail: paulkdoctor@gmail.com

I appreciate any comments you want to make!