Best of the Best Page 8

  “I wish you’d get that lawn cut,” Gran said, peering out the window. “And these windows cleaned. Lots to do without a man around the house now.”

  Josh’s mom looked down and cleared her throat. “Josh has baseball, Mom.”

  “Baseball, baseball,” Gran said with an angry glint in her eyes. “That silly game has done enough damage already. With everything going on, Laura, I still think Josh should stick around here to help you rather than running around the world playing that game.”

  Josh already felt guilty, sensing that his baseball wins and the Nike deal had caused all the problems in the first place. So Gran’s remark cut him deep. But rather than arguing about her words or denying their truth, he found it easier just to stay quiet.

  “Mom,” Josh’s mom said, folding her hands. “Please don’t start. Let me say grace.”

  As Josh’s mom thanked God for everything they had, Josh couldn’t help from wondering how she could be so upbeat with his dad being gone, but he kept his mouth closed tight like his eyes. When he opened his eyes, Gran had him in her sights again. He sighed and mountain before dousing them with gravy, string beans, and slices of chicken. While Josh ate, Gran pushed food around on her plate as if trying to achieve some kind of order to it all.

  “It’s just that there are things that need to be done around here,” she said with a sniff. “Josh is going to have to be the man of the family. Games need to come second.”

  “Josh is good at baseball, Mom,” Josh’s mom said, looking at him proudly. “I want him to go.”

  “Good at baseball?” Gran said. “What does that mean?”

  “That I’ve got what it takes to go pro one day,” Josh said, his cheeks warming at the boldness of his own statement.

  “Pro,” Gran said as if it were some kind of toilet talk. “That’s nothing to aspire to if you ask me. Your father was a ‘pro.’”

  “He made a living for thirteen years,” Josh said, casually filling his mouth with food and chewing slow.

  Gran rolled her eyes around the kitchen, coming to rest on the big water stain over the refrigerator.

  “Not much of a living if you ask me,” Gran said, staring at the stain.

  “Oh, Mom!” Josh’s mom said, tossing down her napkin and leaving the table with tears in her eyes. “You’re not helping.”

  Josh heard her footsteps on the stairs and a sob that sounded like it escaped from both hands covering her face.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  LAUREL GAVE A PUZZLED look and called for her mommy to come back. Then she started to cry.

  “Oh, fiddlesticks,” Gran said, groaning as she rose and scooped Laurel out of her seat before cooing softly into her ear and walking off into the living room.

  Josh shook his head and plowed through his meal. It was the kind of drama that made him actually look forward to Long Island. If he could only figure out how to ditch Zamboni and get Benji back as his roommate, the whole thing would be awesome, but that couldn’t happen. He’d promised his father that he’d be “on board.” You didn’t promise Josh’s dad something and then not do it, no matter how mad you might be at him—you just didn’t. Besides, Coach Q had made it pretty clear that he didn’t want Josh asking for a roommate change again.

  Josh cleaned his plate, then washed it along with his silverware and glass in the sink before going to his room. Gran was rocking Laurel in the TV room, and Josh could hear his mom’s soft crying as he passed her bedroom door. He stopped and pressed his face and hands against the door’s smooth surface, aching for her to stop but finally realizing she wouldn’t.

  He brushed his teeth and washed up, then tiptoed into his bedroom, where he buried his head in the pillows, holding them tight to block out all sound. Sleep dodged him for a long time. He tossed and turned, sweating in the jungle of sheets before exhaustion finally took him down deep, beneath even the place of dreams, so that when he awoke the next morning he had to wonder if he’d slept at all.

  In the morning Josh’s mom made him French toast and tried to be cheerful, but she couldn’t hide the puffy skin around her red eyes and the flat tone of her voice. Gran’s words about Josh sticking around the house to help out haunted him as he rode alongside his mom on the way to Grant Middle, but they also made him even more eager to get back to baseball.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, patting his leg as they pulled up behind the bus, “I’ll be all right.”

  He kissed his mom, glancing only briefly into her sad eyes, said good-bye, and hurried across the parking lot.

  The charter bus sat puking up diesel fumes, and even on board the bus, enough of the fumes leaked in to turn everyone’s skin a pale shade of green. Coach Q wandered onto the bus with a super-size cup of coffee and a tangle of bed-head hair way beneath the dignity of a championship coach. Still, he had the power to circle his index finger, pretend to tug on a train whistle, and set the big bus into motion as if he’d really pulled the engine’s levers. The trip to Long Island took nearly seven hours, but thankfully Josh got to sit with Benji while Zamboni sat in the back corner of the bus bobbling his head to whatever crazy tunes he had on his iPod.

  When they got to the Holiday Inn Express, Josh crossed his fingers and picked his key up off the table: 207. He found Benji’s envelope with his eyes and saw 219. There was still hope, though. Maybe Coach Q had put him with another player—anyone but Zamboni. Before Josh could find Zamboni’s envelope, the mop-headed boy snatched it off the table so Josh couldn’t get a look. Zamboni’s iPod earphones were cranked up so loud, Josh could hear his music. Zamboni checked the number and grinned at Josh before marching off with his head bouncing to the beat.

  It was faster for Josh to climb the stairs instead of waiting to jam himself into the elevator with the rest of the guys. He unlocked his room and left it open since he could see Zamboni bopping his head as he walked down the hall from the elevators. Josh put his stuff down and collapsed on the bed. When he heard Zamboni’s music pass by, Josh’s heart picked up its pace and he shot up off the bed.

  He peeked out the doorway. Zamboni kept going down the hall, music playing. Josh turned. Callan Fries approached, fumbling with his key. Josh grinned wide at him but stopped when Callan opened the door across the hall.

  “Boo!”

  Josh jumped and spun. Zamboni had turned off his music and snuck up behind Josh to scare him. Zamboni laughed hysterically.

  “You should see your face,” Zamboni said between gasps for air. “That scar lights up like a neon sign.”

  “Great,” Josh said, his heart weighted with hatred and sinking fast. “You’re hilarious.”

  “I hear that.” Zamboni glided past him and dumped his stuff in the room. “The three H’s: hilarious, handsome, and heavenly.”

  “You’ve been listening to your mom too much,” Josh said, passing him by and digging into his bag to unpack his clothes for the week. After a minute of silence, Josh turned to find Zamboni standing right behind him with fists clenched.

  “You don’t say anything about my mom,” Zamboni said through clenched teeth, his eyes swirling with insanity. “You got that?”

  Josh swallowed. He was taller and bigger than Zamboni, but he sensed a wildness that he wasn’t certain he could match.

  “Sure,” Josh said.

  “Because I never said a word about your mom.”

  Josh studied Zamboni’s face, his own hands curling into fists. If this mope said a word about his mom, he’d tear him to pieces. The thought of his mom crying to herself because of Zamboni’s own mother lit a reckless fire deep inside him.

  “And you better not,” Josh said. “Because she’s not some tramp, like yours.”

  Before Josh could react, Zamboni’s fist crashed into the side of his face.

  Josh saw stars.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  JOSH KNEW HE WAS on the floor and he felt something thumping his ribs. Up and down the thumping went. As Josh’s head cleared from the punch, he heard shouting and re
alized that Zamboni was jumping up and down on top of him like an ape at the zoo. Callan knocked Zamboni off. Josh staggered up and fired a punch at Zamboni’s jaw. Zamboni’s head snapped back. Benji piled into the room and yanked Josh backward before pushing Zamboni into the window to separate them. Josh tripped and fell to the floor. Coach Q appeared, bellowing like a wounded lion.

  Josh found his feet and got back up. Zamboni struggled against Callan and Benji, still trying to get at Josh. Coach Q stepped in and grabbed two fistfuls of Zamboni’s shirt.

  “Stop!” the coach hollered. “Right now!”

  Even Zamboni reacted to the earsplitting roar.

  “Now,” Coach Q said, huffing, “you two cut it out. No more. LeBlanc, get your things. You’re moving. Vito?

  “Vito!”

  “I’m here, Dad,” Vito Quatropanni said, slipping into the hotel room past the crowd of Lyncourt players.

  “You get your stuff and move in with Marcus,” Coach Q said. “Josh, you get out. Benji, get his things and take them to your room. It’s disgusting. Two teammates can’t even get along. How are we gonna win this thing?”

  Every fiber in Josh’s body ached to scream at Coach Q, to tell him the whole thing was his fault. Josh hated Zamboni, and if Coach Q had a crumb of sense he’d have known to keep them apart. Josh had asked to be with Benji. He hated Coach Q and added him to the growing list. Only his father’s strict discipline kept Josh from screaming. He bit his lower lip and marched out, his face hot with shame.

  Josh started down the hallway toward Benji’s room. Benji caught up with him just as Vito came out of the room carrying his stuff and offering a nasty look to Josh as they swapped room keys. Vito headed silently for Zamboni’s room like a boy being sent off to prison.

  Benji looked sadly after Vito, removed the room key from his pocket, and said, “Man, poor Vito.”

  “Poor Vito?”

  “He’s got a very weak stomach,” Benji said, swinging open the door so Josh could push past him into the room. “I hope he can handle Zamboni’s humor.”

  “What about me?” Josh asked.

  “Dude,” Benji said, “I’m glad we’re roomies again, don’t get me wrong. I’m just saying, you gotta deal with Zamboni anyway. He’s practically your brother. Vito’s just an innocent bystander.”

  “He is not practically my brother!” Josh said, his hands curling into fists again.

  Benji looked at Josh’s hands, then into his eyes and said, “Dude, you need anger management.”

  “Thanks, Benji,” Josh said, dropping his things and throwing himself down on the bed.

  “My mom always tells my dad that the first thing you gotta do with a problem is admit you have it,” Benji said. “That’s all I’m saying.”

  “The problem isn’t me,” Josh said.

  “Look, I don’t mean to be insensitive,” Benji said, “but your parents splitting up isn’t the end of the world. Look at me. There are advantages.”

  Josh looked over and saw that Benji was serious.

  “Like what?” he asked.

  Benji scratched behind one ear and said, “Dude, you can play one off against the other and pretty much get anything you want. Like, let’s say you want to stay up on a school night because Selena Gomez is going to be on The Late Show.”

  “I don’t care about Selena Gomez on The Late Show,” Josh said.

  “That’s another issue altogether, Josh,” Benji said. “Work with me here. You want to stay up late and your mom says ‘No, it’s a school night.’ So what do you do? You say, ‘Dad lets me stay up late at his house if there’s something special on.’ Bingo, your mom caves like a sand castle at high tide. The advantages are endless: homework, birthday presents, sleepovers, you name it. A kid with divorced parents lives in a universe of untold freedom. So, relax.”

  “I don’t care about that stuff,” Josh said. “I want my family the way it was.”

  Benji tilted his head. “That’s the shock talking. Everyone goes into shock initially. Once you’re over it, you realize it’s like a swine flu shot. Stings a bit, but not a huge deal in the big picture, and the benefits are long-term.”

  Josh pulled a pillow over his head.

  Josh could hear Benji whistling and banging the drawers as he unpacked his belongings. Then things went quiet for a bit. Josh removed the pillow. Benji stood over him with his arms crossed.

  “Dude,” Benji said, “I know it hurts, but get over it. Come on. Let’s go eat dinner and then Callan’s got some horror movies and I’ve got my dad’s laptop to play them on.”

  “How the heck did you get your dad to give you his laptop for the week?” Josh asked.

  “Have you been listening to me?” Benji asked. “Listen and learn. Come on. Let’s eat and watch movies. Don’t lie here and pout. You could use a good distraction. Then, tomorrow, we got some baseball to play.”

  “My dad’s coming the day after tomorrow with that bimbo,” Josh said.

  “Come on, Josh.”

  “He’s going to kill me,” Josh said, touching the tender part of his face where Zamboni had clocked him. “I promised I’d get ‘on board.’ That’s what he called it. Pathetic.”

  “He doesn’t have to know,” Benji said.

  “Right. You think he’s not going to find out?” Josh said, squinting at Benji. “I bet Zamboni tells that mother everything. My dad will know, and I don’t even want to think about what he’ll say.”

  “Think positive. Everyone else is going to be talking about how great we played to advance to the next round. Your dad won’t know if Zamboni doesn’t tell him.”

  “How could that ever happen?” Josh asked.

  Benji smiled and said, “Leave it to me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  BENJI WENT TO THE dresser and removed his father’s laptop from the duffel bag, opening it up on the desk.

  “I’ll Skype him,” Benji said, booting up the computer.

  “Benji, you’re not making any sense,” Josh said, sitting up to watch. “What do you mean you’ll Skype him?”

  “You know what Skype is?”

  “Sure,” Josh said. “The computer thing where you can see them talking to you on your screen and they can see you on theirs? What’s that got to do with this?”

  “Blackmail,” Benji said, typing furiously, then pausing to take out his cell phone and send a quick text.

  “What? Who?” Josh asked.

  “Zamboni, that’s who,” Benji said, spinning the desk chair so that he looked at Josh as he held up his phone. “I just texted Vito. He’s got Skype, and he brought his laptop with him, too.”

  “Vito has a laptop?”

  “Josh, Coach Q is a Mercedes salesman.”

  “Oh.”

  Benji’s phone vibrated. He checked the incoming message and said, “So, Vito’s in the game. I asked him to boot up and throw the Skype on and to just leave the camera on a wide angle but black out his own screen while we go eat dinner. I told him not to tell Zamboni.”

  “Benji, you’re still not making sense.”

  “Don’t you get it?” Benji said. “You’re the one who kept complaining last week that Zamboni was smoking in the room when you weren’t around. Well, we Skype him. I set my computer up to record it all. We get Vito, go to dinner, Zamboni lights up, we come back, and we got him! Skyped!”

  Josh went over the plan in his mind, searching for pitfalls but finding none.

  “Wow,” he said. “Benji, it just might work.”

  “Of course it will work,” Benji said, typing in a couple more things and revealing a screen that showed Zamboni sitting on his bed cutting his toenails as he watched Vito with a sullen look.

  “Benji,” Josh said, his mouth falling open, “I gotta hand it to you. This could really work.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “WHEN HAVE I HAD a plan that didn’t work?” Benji asked, rising from the desk and tugging on his newest Red Sox cap. “Come on. Let’s go eat dinner.”

&
nbsp; “Shouldn’t we watch?” Josh asked.

  “Who wants to watch some guy cut his disgusting toenails?” Benji said, glancing back at the screen. “I got it all on tape, and I’m hungry.”

  They left the room and started down the hallway. Josh couldn’t resist sniffing at the doorway to his old room, eager for the disgusting smell of cigarette smoke. He had a hard time enjoying his dinner, even though Coach Q had a dozen boxes of pizzas lined up for them buffet-style. The team sat around a big conference table in a room meant for meetings, eating pizza and drinking sodas. Josh had just finished his third piece when Zamboni slipped inside the meeting room, unnoticed by everyone else. Josh nudged Benji and angled his head toward Zamboni, who picked the last two slices of pepperoni out of a box.

  “You know we got him,” Benji said through a mouthful of pie.

  “Let’s go see,” Josh said, dusting the flour off his hands and rising from the table.

  “Easy,” Benji said. “A man’s gotta eat.”

  “You had four slices.”

  “Don’t count my food, Josh,” Benji said, stuffing almost half a sausage, pepper, and onion slice into his mouth. “It’s rude.”

  Josh mangled his empty soda bottle so that the plastic crunched beneath his hands. Benji seemed unfazed because he went after another slice before wiping his mouth, draining his own soda, and giving Josh a wink to signal that he was ready to go. Josh couldn’t help stealing a look at Zamboni, sitting off by himself and dangling a slice of pepperoni over his mouth before slurping it down.

  Josh practically ran up the stairs and he snorted at Benji, who climbed at a relaxed pace, complaining that they should have taken the elevator.

  “It’s one floor. Come on, Benji.”

  Josh dashed down the hall and opened the door. He rushed to the computer and stared at the screen. It showed Zamboni’s empty room. Josh went back to the door and urged Benji to hurry up.

  “Dude, you’ve got to take it easy,” Benji said, slipping into the room and sitting down at the desk.