Time-Out (10 page)

When I walked into the cafeteria, I was ready to dodge Jackson if I saw him. He was nice and everything, but he wasn't like those other guys. And between the Lakers gear and his lack of skills on the court, he definitely wasn't someone I wanted to be stuck with all week.

I picked up a ham sandwich, an apple, and a bottle of chocolate milk, then headed into the seating area. I hadn't thought about the fact that every camp would be breaking around the same time. There were a ton of guys in the noisy room, and it looked like practically every table was full.

I felt like a total dork, standing there, holding my tray and hoping someone would invite me to sit down.

No one did.

Luckily, I spotted my brother's curly head bobbing down one of the aisles.

Sitting with a nerd who was mad at me was better than sitting by myself.

“Russ!” I shouted.

He stopped and turned around. He had a bottle of orange juice in one hand and a paper bag in the other.

“What's in the bag?” I asked when I caught up with him.

“A sandwich and a couple of cookies.”

I looked around. “Where were the cookies?”

“Next to the cooler. Peanut butter or chocolate chip.”

“Cool,” I said, starting to go back for some. “Save me a seat. I'll be right behind you.”

“I'm not staying.”

What?

I spun around, and he held up the paper bag. “I'm heading back to my room.”

I hurried over to him. “You're going to eat lunch in your room? Why?”

He shrugged. “I want to get a little reading in.”

“Seriously? Russ, this is the chance of a lifetime, and you're going to waste it, sitting by yourself with your nose buried in a book?”

He gave me a long look. “Yes.” He started to walk away.

“Russ! Just come eat with me.”

Instead of turning around, he held one hand up in the air in a backward good-bye.

“Who was that?” Jackson asked.

I hadn't even heard him sneak up on me!

I sighed. “My twin brother.”

Jackson looked confused. “Your twin—”

“Fraternal,” I said, before he could finish the question everyone asked when they saw us together.

We carried our trays down one aisle then another and I scanned the room for a spot to sit. Most of the guys we passed already looked like best friends.

Like they'd known each other forever.

Suddenly, I found myself missing all of my buddies from the Pioneers. We were a team on the court
and
off. We sat by each other in classes and hung out in the cafeteria at lunch. We were a tight unit. Without those guys, I felt . . . lonely.

And Russ was no help.

At all.

How long could that guy carry a grudge, anyway? It had to get heavy at some point, just like my Samsonite.

Didn't it?

“There's a table,” Jackson said, tilting his head toward the back corner.

“Cool,” I said, even though it wasn't.

In fact, nothing at Hoopsters was as cool as I thought it would be.

I thought about that for a moment and realized it wasn't totally true. The courts were cool, the coaches were cool, and I had to admit the other kids were cool, too.

I guess
I
was the only thing at camp that wasn't as cool as I thought it would be.

I swallowed hard.

Things had to turn around fast if I was going to get everything out of Hoopsters that I wanted to.

It seemed like I'd barely sat down to read before it was time for the next soccer session. I slipped my shoes back on before rolling off the bed and heading for the door.

I'd ended the first session on a surprisingly high note and hoped the trend would continue.

As I reached for the doorknob, I heard someone turning it from outside. When the door swung open, I was facing Danny.

“Oh, hey, Russ,” he said, grinning as he passed me on his way into the room. “I'm just grabbing my old shoes. These ones aren't worn in and they're giving me blisters.”

“Blisters are the worst,” I agreed.

“Hey, I didn't see you in the cafeteria.”

“I uh . . . ate in here.”

Danny frowned. “Why?”

I wanted to be as tactful as possible about the fact that I was dreading an entire week of shared accommodations and that I was someone who needed ample time alone.

I pointed to the novel I'd been reluctant to leave behind. “So I could read and—”

“That must be a pretty awesome book,” he said.

“It is,” I told him, feeling a smile fill my face. “It's the latest in a series about an alien culture living on—”

Danny held up a hand to stop me. “I'm not really into sci-fi.”

“Oh, well it would actually be better categorized as fantasy,” I started to explain, but could tell by the expression on his face that it wasn't helping.

Danny slipped off his shoes and left them in the middle of the floor, in a move reminiscent of Owen. Then he pulled another pair out of his gym bag and sat down on the edge of the bed.
My bed.

Terrific.

On top of being a social butterfly, he was a space invader.

After he'd tied the first bow, he looked up at me and said, “So, T. J. noticed you . . . noticing him.”

“What?”

“You know, the nose thing.” He raised his eyebrows in a question.

“The nose thing,” I repeated, thinking of that constant sniffing.

“He has a tic, Russ.”

I winced.
I should have realized that's what it was.
“Oh. I didn't mean to stare.”

“It's okay. I'm just telling you so you know. It only happens when he's nervous or uncomfortable.”

“He sniffs,” I said, nodding.

“Yeah. Some people sniff, some people blink or clear their throats . . . and some people reach for a book.”

What?

I looked at the novel in my hands and felt my cheeks get hot. “I wasn't—”

“Geez, I'm
kidding
, Russ,” he said, chuckling. “Anyway, once he gets used to you, it'll stop. Just try not to stare in the meantime, okay?”

“Absolutely,” I said, embarrassed that I'd already done it.

“So, if you're interested, me and some of the guys are putting together some pranks for tonight—”

“Pranks?”

“Yeah, short-sheeting beds and stuff like that.”

“Uh . . .”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “You don't know what that is?”

“No,” I admitted.

“It's when you sneak into someone's room and you take the flat sheet on their bed and tuck it in at the head instead of at the feet,” he explained, excitedly. “Then you
fold it in half, so when the guy gets into bed, his legs get jammed up.”

I stared at him. “But . . .
why?
”

He laughed. “Because he won't know what's wrong, and the look of surprise on his face—”

“You stay in the room?” I asked.

“What? No, but—”

“And isn't it dark, anyway? How can you see the look of surprise?”

Danny looked somewhat deflated. “It's more about the morning after, when everyone's talking about it.”

I seriously doubted I'd tell anyone if I got “jammed up” in my bed due to sabotaged sheets.

“Anyway,” Danny continued, not to be deterred. “We thought we'd get the guy next door. You know, the one with the suitcase and the attitude.”

“Owen,” I said quietly. I felt like my entire body was wincing.

“Yeah. The one you met on the stairs. Big Mike told me about how he was holding everybody up.”

It wasn't the first time in my life I'd been tempted to pretend that I didn't know my own brother. But, like every other occasion, I couldn't bring myself to do it.

“Uh, we didn't actually
meet
there,” I told him, adjusting my glasses. I took a deep breath and confessed, “He's my twin brother.”

Danny howled with laughter. “Now
that
is hilarious.”

“What?” I asked, stunned. It was a reaction I'd never come across before.

“Russ, you've got to say that to Big Mike when he comes over later.”

“I'm serious,” I told him.

He laughed even harder. “That you're
twins
.”

“We are. Fraternal twins.” I paused for a second. “Look, I know you guys want to have fun, but could you please leave Owen out of it?”

He stopped laughing and tilted his head at me. “Hold on. You really
are
serious, aren't you?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head. “But if you're brothers, why aren't you sharing a room?”

I explained the whole situation as concisely as I could, trying not to make Owen sound like a total jerk.

“Huh,” Danny said when I was finished. “So, he snagged the better room
and
the better camp.”

Apparently I'd failed on the jerk front.

“Yes.”

Danny was quiet for a moment, then said, “I know the guys will want to mess with him a bit, just because of, you know . . . the way he is.”

“I know.” I sighed.

“But I'll try to keep him out of it.”

Surprised, I choked, “Really? Thank you!”

Danny shrugged. “No problem,” he said, tying the other shoe and standing. “I'll catch you later, Russ.”

“Yeah,” I said, smiling. “Definitely.”

I was feeling better than I had in weeks when I headed to my second soccer session. And when I arrived, I was immediately welcomed by Coach Hernandez.

“Good break?” he asked, moving to stand next to me.

“Absolutely,” I told him.

“I've got some plans for you, Russ.”

“Plans?”

“I'm going to try you out in goal.” He paused. “You're focused, you've got a good reach . . . and, other than throw-ins, goaltending is the only time you get to use your hands in this sport.”

I cringed a little, remembering my catch during that first scrimmage.

“How does that sound?” he asked.

“Good,” I told him, glad that he saw some potential in me.

“Great,” he said, slapping me on the back. “We'll get you into position for this next drill.”

Smiling to myself, I made my way over to the goal.

He was right.

I
was
focused.

I
did
have a good reach.

It was quite possible that goal could be the perfect spot for me. And the added bonus? It didn't require running.

Assistant Coach Baylor gave me a long-sleeved yellow jersey to wear over my T-shirt, along with a pair of gloves with bumpy grips.

I stepped past one of the white posts and into the goal. The first thing I noticed was that the distance to the other post was a lot greater than I'd expected.

Hmm.

I walked from one end to the other, surprised by how many steps it took.

The area I was expected to cover was . . . huge.

“Have you played goalie before?” Baylor asked.

I shook my head. “Never.”

“How about I give you a couple of pointers?”

“That would be excellent,” I said, relieved.

“When they're coming toward you, you'll want to get in a crouch, like this,” he said, bending his knees while keeping his legs apart.

“Like a guarding position in basketball.”

“Very close,” Coach Baylor said, nodding. “You want to be able to spring in either direction quickly.”

“That makes sense.”

“Different goalies have different styles, but I like bent elbows, hands up and ready.”

I nodded, mimicking his stance. I wondered whether I looked like a mime in a box and sort of chuckled.

“There we go,” Coach Baylor said. “That's the first smile I've seen you crack all day.” He paused. “Camp is supposed to be fun, you know.”

“I know,” I told him.

A lot of things were supposed to be . . . a lot of things.