Lacrosse Firestorm (3 page)

“Listen, I thought you should know that your teammate didn’t trip,” he said in a low voice. “He shoved you on purpose.”

Garry kicked at the grass. He knew Michael had deliberately pushed him, but he’d hoped no one else did. He hated the fact
that someone else — a member of the competition, no less! — had witnessed it. He felt his face turn red and yanked his sweatshirt
on over his head to cover his embarrassment.

“Um, you know you’re bleeding, right?” The kid pointed to Garry’s knee.

Garry peered down and groaned. Sure enough, a gash there was oozing blood. “Figures,” he mumbled.

“Here.” The boy dug around in his own equipment bag, pulled out a small first aid kit, and handed it to Garry. “Don’t ask,”
he said at Garry’s look. “My mom makes me keep it in there.” He put out his hand. “I’m Scottie. Who are you?”

Garry shook Scottie’s hand and told him his name. “I’m an attackman for the Rockets,” he added.

Scottie grinned. “Guess I’ll have to be on the lookout for you. I play goalkeeper for the Thunder.” He looked over his shoulder.
“My practice is starting. See you around, Garry.”

“What should I do with this?” Garry held up the first aid kit.

Scottie made a face. “Leave it on the bench. If I’m lucky, someone will take it!”

Garry laughed as Scottie jogged onto the field. Then he peeled open the bandage, stuck it on his knee, and tucked the wrapper
into his sweatshirt pocket.

He seems like a nice kid. Wonder if he’s any good in goal?

Curious, he watched the Thunder practice for a few minutes, long enough to see that Scottie wasn’t good — he was awesome.

It’s going to be tough getting the ball past him!
Garry thought.

H
ey, Garry!”

Garry turned to see Jeff waving to him. “Todd, Conor, and I are going to shower up and then play cards until dinner. Want
to come?”

Garry was about to say no. Then he remembered how lousy he’d felt the night before, when he’d sat alone in the cabin instead
of doing fun stuff with the others. So he nodded, picked up his duffel bag, and followed Jeff. After quick showers, they played
several games of rummy 500, crazy eights, and penny poker. Then the dinner bell rang.

“At last!” Garry said. “I’m starving!”

The hall was already crowded with boys in line to pick up their meals. There were eight teams participating in the tournament
and while each team slept in a separate section of the camp — the Rockets’ section was called Boulders, so named for the huge
rocks that studded the deep woods behind their cabins — all the players ate together.

“Hot dogs, french fries, and applesauce,” Todd announced as he craned his neck to see what was being served. “And they’ve
got the soup, sandwich, and salad bar too. That’s where I’m headed.”

The sandwich bar had all kinds of breads, meats, and cheeses. It also had tuna, chopped hard-boiled eggs, and different sorts
of vegetables for salad. For soup there was New England clam chowder or chicken noodle.

Garry tied his sweatshirt around his waist,
grabbed a tray, plastic plate, and silverware, and followed his brother. He filled a submarine roll with sliced turkey, pickles,
lettuce, and mayonnaise and then added a huge handful of potato chips and a dish of applesauce to his tray. At the drink counter,
he selected a very full glass of lemonade.

Eyes on his glass, he stepped back from the counter. As he did, his foot struck something. He stumbled. His tray flew out
of his hands and landed on the floor with a loud crash. As he fell, lemonade, applesauce, turkey, and chips splattered all
around him.

He sat in the middle of the mess, stunned. Then he heard laughter. Everyone in the cafeteria had seen what had happened and
was cracking up!

“You sure are having trouble staying upright today, Wallis!” a voice drawled.

It was Michael. He grinned wickedly and
then, with a very deliberate motion, lifted his foot and wiggled it. “Hmm, I wonder what you tripped over?”

Fury raged through Garry. He balled his hands into fists and jumped up — only to slip in his applesauce and fall again.

Michael doubled over with laughter. Evan, at Michael’s side as always, slapped his knees and roared gleefully. Other nearby
boys were laughing, too.

Garry wanted to die. Then he saw a hand reach down for him. He looked up, expecting to see his brother. But the hand belonged
to Scottie.

“Come on, Garry,” the goalkeeper urged. “Let’s get out of here.”

Jeff and Todd appeared then and started to clean up the mess. “Go on, Garry,” his brother said. “We’ve got this!”

So Garry stood up and, with Scottie clearing
a path in front of him, hurried through the crowd and outside. Then Scottie looked back over his shoulder.

“My coach is signaling to me,” he said. “Hang on, I’ll be right back.”

Garry knew he should be grateful for Scottie’s help. But all he wanted was to be far away from everyone. So the minute Scottie
went back inside, he took off. Boys he passed looked at him strangely, but he kept running, past his cabin and onto a trail
that led into the woods behind it.

The wide path quickly shrank to a scraggly dirt line barely visible in the thick brush. Garry slowed to a walk, breathing
hard from the run and from anger.

I hate Michael!
he fumed as he moved deeper into the forest. It was cool beneath the trees. He pulled his sweatshirt from around his waist,
tugged it over his head,
and kept walking. He spied a giant boulder and started toward it, kicking at roots and rocks as he went.

Then suddenly,
twang!
His foot hit something metal. It was an overturned rusty bucket half buried in the dirt. He kicked it again and then again,
venting his fury with each blow.

One particularly vicious kick wrenched the bucket free of the ground. It bounced away with a clang. Garry was about to follow
it when he saw something in the dirt where the bucket had been. He bent down to examine the object more closely.

It was a small cardboard matchbox. The outside of the box was decorated with fish outlines and red-and-blue curlicues.
SEAFOOD EMPORIUM!
was emblazoned across the top. Along one side was a rough strike plate for lighting the matches.

Garry picked it up and slid open the tiny
drawer. Inside were six wooden matches. He dumped them into his hand, expecting them to feel damp. But, having been protected
by the bucket, they and the box were bone-dry.

He stared at them for a long minute — and found himself suddenly itching to light one and watch it burn.

If only there was someplace safe to do it
, he thought.

Then he had an idea. He put the matches back in the box, shoved the box into his sweatshirt pocket, and climbed the boulder.
When he got to the top, he looked and listened to make sure he was alone. The woods were empty and the only sounds were the
wind in the trees and the rushing water of a nearby river.

He took the box out of his pocket, removed a match, and scraped the head against the strike plate.

Fssss!
The match caught fire instantly. Garry was so surprised that he dropped it.

Fortunately, there was nothing on the boulder that could burn, which was why Garry had chosen to light the match atop it in
the first place. He watched in fascination as the flame licked down the length of the matchstick. That tiny bit of fire echoed
the blaze of fury in his gut — and when the match burned out, his own angry fire began to fizzle out too.

He took out a second match and did it again. A sudden breeze blew that one out before he could put it on the boulder. So he
tried to light a third. But the strike plate had worn off by then and the match didn’t catch.

I need something rough to strike the match head against
, Garry thought.

The surface beneath him was too bumpy and he was certain the match would snap in half if he tried to light it there. But near
the
edge where he’d climbed up there was a flat place that he thought would do. He put the box in his sweatshirt pocket and carried
the match over to the spot.

He scraped it against the boulder’s surface. The match caught right away. Garry held it up and watched it burn toward his
fingers.

“Garry, wait!”

The shout cut through the stillness of the forest. Startled, Garry dropped the match and jumped up.

“Who’s there?”

The only reply was the sharp
crack
of a branch snapping in two.

Then —

“Help! Help! Garry, help me!”

G
arry gasped. The cry had come from the direction of the river! He leaped from the boulder and ran toward the sound. Branches
lashed against his face. A thick root grabbed his sneakers and — “Ooof!” — he stumbled and sprawled face-first in the dirt.
A long blaze of dirt streaked his sweatshirt but he barely noticed. He was up and crashing through a thicket and onto the
riverbank.

“Is there someone out there?” he yelled.

“Over here!”

Garry turned in the direction of the voice — and sucked in his breath. Clinging
to a jagged rock in the middle of the churning rapids was Scottie!

“Oh, my gosh! Hold on! I’m coming!” Garry started to step onto a rock in the river.

“No! Stay back! That’s how I fell — !” A foaming wave engulfed the boy’s head, cutting off his cry.

“Okay, okay!” Garry looked around desperately. Rocks, leaves, bushes — they were no help! Then he spotted a long tree branch
stuck in the mud farther up the bank.

“I’ve got it!” he cried. He raced up the river edge, yanked until the branch pulled free, and dragged it back. Then he sat
down on the muddy bank, braced his feet against two big rocks so he wouldn’t slip forward, and yelled, “Here it comes!”

He swooped the tree limb over the rushing water, praying that it would reach Scottie. It did.

“Got it?” he yelled. Scottie didn’t answer,
and for one heart-stopping moment Garry thought he’d struck him on the head or swept him from the rock with the leafy limb.

Then the branch vibrated in his hands and he guessed that Scottie had grabbed it.

“Okay, I’m going to pull you in now, so hold on tight!”

He took a deep breath and then, hand over hand, slowly pulled the branch and the boy toward him. His backside sank deep into
the cold mud, his palms were scraped by the rough bark, and his arms and legs ached from fighting the current and pulling
the branch. But at last, he dragged Scottie to safety.

“Th-thanks!” Scottie sputtered. “I thought I was a g-g-goner!” A cool breeze had set the wet boy’s teeth chattering. Garry
took off his sweatshirt and gave it to him.

Scottie put it on, pulled his knees to his chest, and wrapped his arms around them.
After a moment, he stopped shivering. Then he gave Garry a puzzled look. “How did you get to me so quickly?”

Garry blinked at the question. “I ran when I heard you yell. Scottie, what are you doing out here?”

Scottie hugged his knees closer. “I was looking for you!”

“Why?”

Scottie didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “I wanted to make sure you were okay. See, I’ve been in your position before.
I was bullied by a big jerk last year, kind of like Donofrio’s bullying you.”

“Michael’s not bullying me!” Garry protested. “I mean, sure, he calls me names, makes fun of me when I mess up on the field,
slams me to the ground on purpose, trips me …” His voice trailed away.

Scottie gave a small shrug. “That sure sounds like bullying to me.”

Garry picked up a rock and threw it into the river. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. But don’t worry about me, I can handle Michael.
I have before, anyway.”

“You have?” Scottie looked at him with interest. “How?”

Garry told him what had happened between Michael and Todd and how he had dealt with it.

Scottie whistled in admiration. “You kept him from being top scorer? Cool.”

“Yeah, well, he’s paying me back now. So what’s your story? Why were you being bullied?”

Scottie held up his arms. The sleeves of Garry’s sweatshirt covered his hands. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not a big
guy.”

“So?”

“So even though I’m small, I’ve got great reflexes and can read the action on the field better than anyone else on my team.”

Garry raised his eyebrows.

Scottie laughed. “I know it sounds like I’m bragging, but really, it’s the truth.”

Garry smiled. “Yeah, I know. I watched you during practice earlier.”

“Anyway,” Scottie continued, “last year, another kid, someone bigger and older than me, wanted to be starting goalkeeper.
But I got the position instead of him. He, um, didn’t like that too much. To say the least.”

“What’d he do to you?”

Scottie didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took off his wet sneakers and dug his toes into the slick mud. “Oh, the usual
stuff,” he said finally. “Teasing, throwing my hat around on the school bus, getting other kids to call me Snottie. I shouldn’t
have let it get to me, but it did, you know?”

Garry nodded. He knew.

“Anyway, life is much better now,” Scottie said.

“Because you stood up to him?”

Scottie flashed a mischievous grin. “Because he moved up a division this year so we’re not on the same team anymore!”

Garry grinned too. Then he stood up and twisted around to look at his muddy backside. “I gotta change. Want to get going?”

Scottie ran his fingers through his wet hair. “Good idea. My head’s freezing.” He put his shoes back on and stood too. Then
he reached behind his neck for something. “Hey,” he said when he came up empty-handed, “how come your sweatshirt doesn’t have
a hood?”

“My brother and I kept getting our sweatshirts mixed up, so I cut the hood off mine. I never liked the way it felt, anyway.”

They walked along the trail out of the woods in silence for a few minutes. Then Scottie remarked, “You know they give out
the top scorer award after this tournament, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I’m sure good of Michael will be trying for it.”