Booked Page 7

  your co-captain,

  jogs up.

  Coby daps you,

  then goes to shake

  Pernell’s hand,

  but Pernell leaves

  Coby hangin’.

  (Told you it was a rivalry.)

  Call it, the ref says,

  then tosses the quarter.

  Coby calls tails.

  He loses.

  You choose the ball.

  Before Coby turns

  to leave,

  Pernell chides,

  Sorry about that, chopstick,

  then laughs,

  but Coby laughs back,

  then winks at him,

  and Pernell is flummoxed

  or pissed

  or both.

  Both teams take their positions.

  You know Coby’s smile

  is misleading.

  He’s ready to pounce.

  Score

  You pass to the forward, whose

  shot stings like wasabi, then

  disappears into net. BOO-YAH!

  Right before halftime

  with the score 2–1,

  Coby dribbles the ball

  past two of our defenders,

  speeds down the sidelines

  like a cheetah,

  then slants

  toward the middle.

  Pernell is the only

  player from our team

  left between him

  and our goalie.

  It’s the matchup

  you know

  Coby has been itching for

  since the start whistle.

  As soon as Pernell charges

  Coby cuts back

  and you know

  what’s coming next.

  Pernell dives in

  for the take . . .

  Oh, WOW!

  Coby nutmegs* him.

  He demoralizes Pernell.

  Drops him

  to his butt.

  Treats him

  like a dog.

  Sit. Stay.

  The crowd goes wild.

  Both sides.

  And when he ties

  the game,

  even you grin

  at your best friend’s

  genius.

  Payback is a beast, isn’t it!

  Guess Who’s Back?

  The Mac

  in electric blue Chuck Taylors

  runs over to your bench

  during the break.

  Hey, Nick, you didn’t tell me Coby was a bus driver.

  Huh?

  He took that fool to school!

  You want to agree loudly, but that fool is your teammate, so you just kinda nod.

  You don’t look so swell, partner.

  Uh, it’s just hot out here (which is the worst thing you could have said, ’cause then The Mac starts rapping “IT’S GETTING HOT IN HERE” in front of the entire team).

  Halftime

  Right after

  you glance

  at April waving

  from the bleachers,

  your stomach detonates:

  KABOOM!

  and you lose it

  right there

  behind the bench

  in Pernell’s gym bag.

  Coach asks

  Nick, you okay? Yep, better.

  I need to sub you? No I’m good, Coach. Good! Then get in there.

  Second Half

  The game’s tied

  when Dad finally shows up.

  You throw in

  to Pernell, who screens it.

  Your belly’s in a boxing match.

  And losing. Bad.

  Here comes Coby.

  Pernell taunts him,

  feints a pass.

  Coby doesn’t fall for it.

  Instead he leaps like a lion,

  they collide.

  Pernell eats dirt,

  curses.

  Man against boy, Coby says.

  Standing over Pernell.

  The ref holds a yellow card

  to a grinning Coby.

  Thirty-two minutes left.

  ARGGH!

  Nine Minutes Left. Can’t This Be Over Already?

  The jabs to your belly

  are almost unbearable.

  Dad was right, food poisoning.

  You’ll never eat fish again. EVER!

  Pernell’s direct free kick

  is wide left.

  The pain is right

  beneath your rib.

  You dribble fast, somehow

  you get in front

  of Coby, and he holds you.

  From behind. You slip.

  The referee blows the whistle.

  Play stops.

  Coby gives you a hand up.

  If he gets another yellow,

  he’s done. Game over for him.

  Just a warning. Whew!

  Pernell comes over, gets in Coby’s face:

  You think you’re Messi, player, but

  you’re just dirty! If you wanna play

  dirty, we can do that, and after

  I take you down, I’m gonna make you

  wash my clothes, cut

  my grass, lace my cleats.

  You’re about to get shook, crook.

  The pain only allows you to laugh

  a little. Pernell is crazy, but he better

  watch out, ’cause Coby, who bumps

  Pernell’s shoulder as he walks away,

  looks pretty

  freakin’ pissed.

  Booked

  You get the ball

  again and

  take off

  for the corner.

  You almost forget

  the pain. Almost.

  It’s sharp, like an uppercut.

  There’s the goal.

  And there’s Coby again.

  Running

  toward you

  like a gazelle.

  Your stomach can’t take any more

  punches.

  No one in front of you

  but the goalkeeper

  and Coby.

  You pass it to Pernell.

  He shoots it

  back to you.

  You get ready to drive

  the ball home.

  Everything slo-mos

  like you’re in The Matrix . . .

  And Coby is Neo.

  And Neo is a bull.

  And the bull’s-eye is on you.

  Two crazed eyes glued to the ball.

  You wind for the kick. WHACK!

  POW!—Coby’s cleat, aiming for

  the ball, finds your—THWACK!—

  ankle instead. The two of you fall—WHISTLE!—

  sideways, to the ground. EEE-YOW!

  Your stomach EXPLODES!

  KNOCK. OUT.

  Hospital

  Hello, says a woman with big ears, holding an

  Otoscope in her hand. How are you feeling?

  She asks, while looking in your eyes. Uh, I’M IN

  PAIN! you scream. Dad shoots you a look.

  It’s okay, Mr. Hall. We’re going

  To find out what’s going on in there.

  ARRRGGGHH! IT REALLY HURTS!

  Let’s get the OR ready, stat, she says.

  Ankle sprains

  are very common

  in soccer,

  she says, talking fast

  like she’s in a hurry

  to show you

  the x-rays

  on her iPad.

  It’ll heal pretty quickly,

  a few days.

  Cool! you think, still

  in a boatload

  of pain.

  But I’m afraid

  that’s the good news.

  The bad news is,

  you don’t have

  food poisoning.

  That sounds like good news to you.

  You have a perforated appendix

  and we need to get you

  into sur
gery.

  What does that mean? you ask.

  It means that your appendix, which

  is about the size of your tongue, and

  located right here, she says, pointing

  to the bottom of her stomach

  on the right side, has ruptured.

  There’s a tear in it, and

  we need to surgically

  remove it

  before infection sets in.

  Surgery?

  When?

  NOW!

  Surgery

  I don’t want to die, you say.

  Everything’s gonna be fine, Nick, Dad says, on the way

  to the operating room.

  Mom’s on a flight, he adds,

  so she’ll be here

  when you get out of surgery.

  It’s a quick operation, and

  I’ve done a million of these, adds the doctor

  as the orderlies roll you into the room.

  You clench your fist, as if

  that’s gonna stop the ocean

  of fear that’s galloping toward you.

  Count backwards from ten, another doctor says,

  And before you completely drown,

  everything goes black.

  Fact

  There are seventy-eight organs

  in the human body

  But after the appendectomy,

  you have seventy-seven, which

  is just about the number of

  text messages

  from friends

  and family

  awaiting you

  when you wake up

  in your room

  a few hours

  later.

  How are you feeling, Nicky?

  Like I just ran

  a marathon,

  swam a few laps,

  and played back-to-back

  soccer matches,

  is how you answer

  Mom’s question.

  And your stomach? Dad adds.

  Like butter.

  Huh?

  Smooth and easy.

  Smooth.

  And easy, you say, giggling,

  then dozing

  back off

  to sleep.

  Bad

  Your white blood cell count is elevated, the doctor says.

  What does that even mean? you ask, grimacing.

  Your count should be no higher than five thousand.

  What is it? Dad asks, holding Mom.

  It’s twenty thousand. So he’ll need antibiotics to fight off any infections.

  How long do I have to be here?

  We will just need to keep you for a few extra days, but by then the wound should be all healed and we’ll send you on your way. Sound good?

  As long as it’s only a few days, you say. I’m playing in a big soccer tournament next week.

  The doctor, Mom, Dad, even the nurse who’s changing your bandage, get all silent and stare at each other. Then at you.

  Crickets.

  Worse

  He’ll be out of school

  for a week,

  or two,

  depending on how he feels, the doctor says to Mom,

  who rests her hand

  on your heart,

  which breaks into

  a thousand little pieces

  when the doctor adds,

  You’ll be back

  playing soccer

  in no time, Nicholas.

  The Dallas Cup

  is next week, you tell her. How long

  is no time?

  Only three weeks.

  Only

  ONLY. Three. Weeks.

  but Dallas is in one.

  ONLY your stomach is shattered

  and your dream’s undone.

  ONLY not playing soccer

  makes the pain seem severe.

  ONLY your eyes can’t conceal

  tear after tear.

  ONLY your ship is sinking

  and you’ll miss all the fun.

  ONLY. Three. Weeks.

  but Dallas is in one.

  The End

  when a horse breaks

  its leg,

  the bone shatters

  the nerves, the living tissue

  can’t heal

  ’cause there’s not

  enough blood supply.

  There is no recovery

  from that type of

  damage.

  It’s over.

  they may as well

  put you down.

  TV Therapy

  Mercy General has six

  ESPN channels, but

  this does not impress your dad.

  This Sucks

  Tottenham is playing Arsenal but you switch to

  Hawaii Five-O, ’cause watching fútbol will only

  Irritate you, remind you of what you’re missing. Room

  Service brings you cold soup, and just before

  Steve’s mother’s murderer is revealed, Dad turns it off.

  Uncool, Dad, you say. You’re not going to binge on

  Cop shows or ESPN all day, he says. Dad, the boredom is

  Killing me. Maybe you should read, he adds, and

  Slides his dictionary closer to you.

  New Rules

  You get five TV minutes

  for each page read. Does it have

  to be your book? It does not.

  Mom kisses you goodbye

  Sleep tight, Nicky, she says, and

  they both walk out.

  He stops

  at the door, turns around,

  like he forgot something,

  and just stares

  at you.

  Books are fun, Nicholas, he says,

  they’re like

  amusement parks

  for readers.

  Yeah, well, maybe

  they would be fun

  if I got to pick

  the rides

  sometimes, you answer, your eyes

  glued to

  the Ws.

  The Next Morning

  The nurse asks if she can get

  you anything. Bacon, eggs,

  and french fries, please, you reply.

  Breakfast

  Thirty minutes later, she

  returns with buttered wheat toast,

  cherry yogurt, and Coby.

  Conversation with Coby

  Hey, Nick. What’s up?

  The sky.

  I saw your mom and dad in the lobby.

  Yeah, they never leave. It’s annoying.

  I think they were arguing.

  Why you say that?

  ’Cause your mom wasn’t talking, and your dad didn’t look happy.

  He never looks happy.

  True. I was gonna come earlier, but my mom said you needed your rest.

  What I need is some real food.

  True.

  Pernell’s an idiot. I shoulda done something.

  . . .

  . . .

  Sorry about that tackle. I was going for the ball.

  Yeah, I know. I woulda scored. We woulda won.

  I don’t think so.

  You got booked?

  Yeah, ref threw me out.

  Sorry about that.

  How’s the stomach?

  It’s feeling better. The food’s disgusting.

  That sucks.

  Yeah . . . How’d you get here?

  My dad.

  Really?

  Yeah, he’s coming to the Dallas Cup.

  . . .

  Sorry you can’t come, Nick.

  Good luck.

  I’ll bring you something back.

  Bring me a jersey or a ball.

  I’ll get my dad to buy us some swag. Definitely.

  Coby, you miss him a lot?

  Not really. We talk all the time, and I see him every summer.

  Oh.

  I know it’s kinda hard right now, but you’ll get used to it.

  . . .
>
  Hey, Man U is playing Arsenal. Let’s watch.

  Can’t.

  Huh?

  Can’t watch TV, uh, right now.

  Dear Skip

  Mac

  You can find me here—

  I’m

  imprisoned,

  trapped

  by a verbomaniac

  and locked

  far

  from fun,

  from freedom.

  Will you

  PLEASE bust me out?

  Save me from

  this madhouse of

  Boredom and

  Weird Words.

  Bring a decent book