Murphy & Mousetrap (7 page)

Thursday, Jeff said, “Come on cousin, we miss you in goal.”

“Maybe later. My mom wants me to clean up the apartment.” Murphy felt bad when he told Jeff a lie. So on Friday he got on the bus late and sat in the front behind the driver to avoid Jeff's invitation. When the bus stopped
at the end of their street he hurried off and ran home without stopping.

Murphy felt relieved. Maybe now the boys would forget about him. Maybe he wouldn't have to play soccer again, ever, in his whole life.

“Time to get up,” Mom called to Murphy with a cheery voice. It was Saturday and Murphy had the whole day to himself. He lay still for a few minutes thinking that he would take some containers to the beach and collect stones. Thin rays of sun filtered through the window. It was warm—a perfect day for the beach. Maybe Mom would come too.

“Hey, you,” Mom said as she pulled back the bedroom curtain, “I'm going into town with Auntie Brenda this morning.”

“I wanted to go to the beach,” Murphy said. “And I wanted you to come too. There's real colorful stones there.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” Mom said. “I've already made plans.”

“I'll come with you then,” Murphy said.

“You won't want to shop with the women,” she said. “I won't be gone long.”

Before Mom finished talking there was a loud knock on the door. Murphy rolled over and faced the wall. He pulled his blankets over his head, but he could still hear Albert's voice: “Hey. Murphy here?”

Not again.

“Yeah,” Mom said. “He's still in bed.” Then she called out, “Murphy, the boys are here.”

Murphy didn't move.

“We're playing soccer,” Jeff said. “Murphy was goalie last weekend. Did he tell you?”

“Kind of,” Mom said.

“Yeah,” Albert said. “We'll see how good he is this weekend.”

He lay still, but Mom persisted.

“Come on, Murphy, the boys are waiting.”

Murphy felt like someone had pushed him into a corner and was leaning on him. There was nothing he could do. He couldn't say he was going shopping with Mom; she'd just said no to that. He couldn't say he didn't feel well; Mom knew better.

“Hurry up, Murphy!” Jeff called out. “We'll wait upstairs.”

“Don't keep us waiting too long,” Albert added. Then the door shut.

“I'm so glad the boys like playing with you,” Mom said. “Cousins everywhere just like I said.”

She didn't know anything. She couldn't tell from the sound of Albert's voice that Murphy would be lucky to get home alive.

He got up, changed and ate a bowl of cereal without saying much. Mousetrap sat next to him. Murphy stroked Mousetrap's head and looked at how his cat had changed in just a couple of weeks. He looked tougher, leaner, but happy enough. Mom looked happy too. Shopping trips with her cousin, more money at work, Grandma upstairs, her sisters close by—the reserve was a good place for Mom. And it was a good place for Mousetrap. But it didn't feel like a good place for Murphy.

“I'm heading out now, Murphy,” Mom said. “You have a good time.”

“Yeah, sure,” Murphy said.

“I'll be home to make supper,” Mom added.

“Yeah, sure.”

After Mom left, Murphy slipped on his old jacket and headed out the door.

“Stay inside today, Mousetrap,” he said. “You never know what could happen to you out there.”

Murphy crept up the stairs and walked into Grandma's kitchen. Albert was lounging on a kitchen chair. “It's about time,” he said. “What were you doing? Curling your hair?”

Danny had joined Jeff and Albert, and together the four boys headed for the field.

“Hey, Albert,” the boy with big front teeth and glasses called out when he joined them.

“Hey, Levi,” Albert gave him a high five. “It's gonna be a good game today.”

Two boys were waiting at the field when Murphy and the others arrived. They were tall and looked even older than Albert.

“You the guy that can play goalie?” one of them asked.

Murphy ignored his question. He didn't want to say that there had been a big mistake—he wasn't really a goalie at all.

“This the guy?” the other boy asked Albert. “We heard he's really got hands. Snags the
ball and doesn't let go.”

“Whatever,” Albert sneered. “We'll see how good he is.”

Two more boys appeared.

“Haywire, Rory,” Jeff shouted. “What's going on?”

Haywire wasn't much taller than Murphy. After a moment, Murphy decided he wasn't much older either. Rory had light brown hair and skin—almost as light as Murphy. And he was only eight or nine years old.

Murphy stepped away from the circle the boys had formed around Albert and Levi. They slapped each other on the back and made plans to form a team for a tournament.

“Yay, Buckskins!” Albert shouted. “We'll do it this year!”

“We're number one!” Levi hollered.

All the boys clapped and cheered.

Murphy thought of making a getaway for home. He wasn't part of a team. No one would notice if he was missing. The boys were too big and loud. They knew how to play soccer. They were number one. Buckskins didn't sound like Murphy's kind of team whatsoever.

12

“Where were you guys?” Levi asked when four more boys joined the group.

“Getting here,” said a tall boy with long hair. “We wanna see the new kid play goalie.”

“Yeah, we hear he's really good,” another boy added.

Jeff motioned toward Murphy with his chin. “That's him,” he said. “He's my cousin.”

“That white kid?” the long-haired boy asked. “He's your cousin?”

Blood rushed into Murphy's cheeks. His throat felt like a dry sponge. He choked down his breath. Kids on the school bus called him white kid and white boy and whitey. He had
been called other names as well, like honky, which he thought might have something to do with being white. The words were usually said in a way that made Murphy feel bad inside. No one had said anything about him being white when he lived in the city. But there were people of all colors there. Here he stuck out like a red banana.

“Yeah, he's Auntie Lisa's son,” Jeff said. “You got a problem with that?”

“Hey, man,” the boy said, raising his hands up. “No problem.”

“Just doesn't look like a goalie to me,” the other boy added.

“We'll see how white he is after he rolls around in the puddle a few times,” Albert said.

Murphy turned his back on the boys. Why did he get out bed? Why didn't he go to town with Mom and Auntie Brenda?

“You're in the goal,” Jeff said. “Keep your eye on the ball, cousin.”

Most of the boys ran to center field. Murphy trudged toward the net.

“I'm defense,” Jeff called to Murphy. “Those guys are offense.”

He motioned with his hand, but Murphy couldn't tell who was who. From the way they walked toward center field, hitting each other's backs and laughing, he knew that Albert and Levi were going to shoot at him.

Did they have the same plan as the last game—to kill him?

Murphy's stomach churned as he thought of standing in the net while the ball smashed into his body. Still, he felt proud when Jeff called out, “Way to go, Murphy! Let's see some great saves.”

“Way to go, keeper,” Rory called out.

The boy with long hair and long legs added, “Let's see you do it.” Murphy had heard the boys call him Junior.

While the boys ran from one side of center field to the other, passing and kicking the ball from foot to foot, Murphy made a plan:

GET OUT OF THE WAY OF THE BALL;

DON'T EVER GET IN FRONT OF THE BALL;

DON'T LIFT YOUR HANDS AND CATCH THE BALL.

It was a simple plan. If it worked, the boys would pull Murphy out of the net, and he could go to the beach and collect stones. The best part of the plan was that he wouldn't get hurt. Not one bit. The ball would whiz by his body and smash into the net. Murphy repeated his plan over and over again.

Murphy thought about the plan as Levi broke away from the other players with the ball. Jeff scrambled to get the ball back, but Levi tapped it to the left and neatly sidestepped around Jeff's body. That left Levi rushing in a straight line toward Murphy.

He braced himself. His plan was in place: GET OUT OF THE WAY OF THE BALL. But before he had time to move a muscle, the ball was hurtling through the air at his face. Instinct took over. Murphy's arms flew up.
Splat
! The wet ball shot mud in his eyes, nose and mouth as it lodged itself in Murphy's hands. Murphy stumbled back a few steps blinded by the force of the shot and the mud.

Instead of falling into the puddle and rolling around in pain, like he did last game,
Murphy stayed on his feet. And instead of standing paralyzed with the ball frozen in his hands, Murphy wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve and tossed the ball to Jeff.

As the boys ran back to center field, he heard Haywire yelling, “Great save, keeper.”

“The white boy can catch,” Junior shouted.

Before Murphy had time to enjoy what the boys were saying, Levi had a second breakaway. GET OUT OF THE WAY OF THE BALL, Murphy thought fiercely. This time Levi's shot was faster and harder. Once again the instinct to protect himself overtook Murphy's plan. His body froze, but his arms flew in front of the ball.

The ball hit with the force of a freight train, but Murphy's feet remained glued to the ground. He barely took the time to wipe his eyes or feel the pain before he stepped forward and tossed the ball toward Jeff. The only boys who weren't cheering for him were Levi and Albert. They lingered close by so that Murphy could hear Albert say, “Next time you won't have a chance.”

Although Levi's shots were harder than ever, all Murphy could feel was a dull numbness as if his blood had stopped flowing. He clapped his hands together and rubbed his knees. He bent up and down. Maybe he needed to limber up so that he could jump out of the way of the ball. He pulled on his ankles the way he had seen the other boys stretch their legs. Then he jumped from side to side.

When Murphy raised his eyes a crowd of players had appeared near center field. Jeff was nowhere to be seen, and Albert was zipping down the field toward the net. His eyes were fixed on Murphy's face as the ball whizzed in a straight line near his toe. Murphy locked his eyes onto Albert's. He felt fear. His body was supple. This time he would get out of the way.

Out of the corner of his eye, Murphy saw Albert shift his body and drive the ball toward Murphy's right side. At the same time Murphy's body was moving. His arms and legs and hips and shoulders sprawled toward the right. Instead of getting out of
the way, he was positioning himself right in front of the ball.

Splat
!

Just like before, the ball blasted into his chest. He stumbled backward a few steps, hands glued on the ball, until he was up to his ankles in the puddle. He steadied himself, stepped out of the water and threw the ball toward center field.

Murphy's eyes locked with Albert's again. Albert's plan to hurt Murphy hadn't worked. His plan to show the boys that Murphy was no goalie also hadn't worked. Murphy's plans hadn't worked either. At first, when Albert and Levi shot right at his body, he hadn't moved one bit. Then when Albert drove the ball past his body toward the net, he moved in front of the ball. His body and his mind were not cooperating.

The boys erupted in a chorus of praise.

“Wow!” “Wow, white boy!” “Wow!” Their voices where loud. Even the boys on offense ran toward the goal and raised a high five to Murphy.

Rory leaped into the air and wrapped his
legs around Murphy. “Way to go! I've never seen a save like that!” he said as he jumped down.

Each boy on his side filed past and gave him a two-handed hug. Everyone was excited about the save except for Albert and Levi, who turned and walked back up the field with their heads bent toward the ground. They didn't say one word to each other. At least none that Murphy could hear.

Murphy shook his body like a wet dog. He stretched each leg and then his shoulders. He pulled his fingers and arms and jumped with both feet into the air. As he jumped he moved his neck from side to side. He was making moves. Yes. They felt good. Murphy had seen soccer players on TV and at school limbering up, getting ready, and he looked just like them. He knew it. After a few moments most of the pain disappeared.

That's when Murphy changed his plan.

“Get in front of the ball,” Murphy said to no one but himself. “Don't jump out of the way. Jump into the way. Then shake it off.”

From then on Murphy practiced his new plan. He concentrated on the players' bodies as they neared his goal. He studied the way they shifted from side to side. When the shooter was close enough he looked up and stared directly into his eyes. Only out of the corner of his eye did he see the player's foot connect with the ball. But each time he saw enough to know exactly which way the player would aim. When the ball left the striker's foot, Murphy's body shot in front of it, almost without thought, and fast enough to stop it from going into the net.