Time-Out (18 page)

“Whatever.” It was time to change the subject. “So, where's Danny?”

Russ shrugged. “Doing
Hoopsters-type guy stuff
, I guess.”

“Very funny.”

“I'm guessing you weren't invited.”

“No,” I admitted.

“So, now you know how Jackson feels.”

I was about to argue the point, until I realized that Russ was right. Me and Jackson had both been left out.

He'd tagged along after me, just like I'd tagged along after the Hoopsters.

That was super embarrassing.

I sat on Danny's bed. “So, how am I supposed to fix this?”

“That depends. Which part do you want to fix?”

“All of it,” I told him. “Well, mostly the Jackson part.”

“Because his dad is a Laker?”

“No. Well, yes, but mostly because . . .” I thought about how it felt to be left behind by Danny and the guys, I thought about that rotten night in the pool where I played Marco Polo by myself, all that time alone in my room while everyone else was having fun. I thought about how it felt not to know
why
I was left out, or to know how to change it.

“Owen?” Russ said, snapping me out of it.

“Because they made me feel crummy.” I blinked. “I mean, because
I
made
him
feel crummy.” I cringed when I said it, knowing it was true. I'd made Jackson feel as bad as the other guys had made me feel.

And that stunk.

Russ waited a minute before saying anything. “So, talk to him.”

“And say what?”

“That you're sorry,” Russ said, like it was the easiest and most obvious thing in the world.

On the way to apologize, I realized I didn't even know the kid's room number. I'd been hanging out with him all week, and I had no idea where he lived.

I asked around, and when I tracked down his room, I knocked on the door, nervously trying to think of what to say.

“Oh,” Jackson said, frowning. “I thought you had
stuff to do
tonight.”

On top of everything else, I was a liar.

Sure, I'd
hoped
to have plans, but the pranksters had left me in the dust.

Just like I'd left Jackson.

“No. I mean, yeah . . . but I wanted to talk to you.”

“To me?” He made a mock bow. “What an honor.”

“Jackson. I'm serious.”

He glared at me. “About what?”

“Wanting to talk. Just give me a minute, okay?”

“Fine,” he said, opening the door wider so I could walk inside. “This should be good.”

The first thing I saw was a picture of Jackson and his dad, sitting right on his desk. If I'd paid him one stinkin' visit, I would have
known
.

“So,” I said, but didn't know where to go from there.

“So,” he echoed, sitting on the edge of his desk.

“I wanted to tell you I'm sorry,” I blurted, nice and fast, like ripping off a Band-Aid.

“For what?” he asked, crossing his arms.

For a lot of things. “For the way I've been acting. You know, taking off on you and stuff.”

“You're busy,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Right?”

“Yeah, but . . . well, not
that
busy.”

He didn't say anything, so I figured I should try a different angle.

“Why have you been hanging out with me, Jackson?” I asked. “I haven't been very . . . nice.”

He shrugged. “At first, that's what I liked about you.”

“What?” I choked.

He sighed. “Do you know what it's like to be related to an NBA player?”

I wished!

“Uh, no.”

“It stinks. People try to buddy up with you, just so they can meet him. You never know who your real friends are.”

“I guess that
would
kind of stink.”

“Kind of? I'm not just talking about Hoopsters, Owen. It's at school and everywhere else, too.” He glanced at me. “You were different. You didn't act super nice just because of who my dad is.”

I took a deep breath. “I didn't know.”

He looked surprised. “Didn't know what?”

“That he's your dad.”

Jackson frowned. “You didn't? But our last name is on almost everything I wear.”

I shrugged. “I thought he was your favorite player.”

He shook his head, like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. “It's seriously my whole wardrobe, Owen. I mean, I have Farina
socks
.”

“And I have Blazers T-shirts, sweatshirts, shorts, and hats,” I said. “If they sold Blazers underwear, I'd buy some.”

I was relieved when he cracked a smile.

He nodded slowly. “Okay, so you thought I was just a Farina fan. No, make that his
biggest
fan.” He was quiet for a moment. “Which means you weren't hanging out with me because I'm his kid.”

“Not at all.”

But I would have, if I'd known.

“So, why did you blow me off?”

“I don't know,” I said, shaking my head. “I had this idea about Hoopsters-type guys and how cool it would be to hang out with the elite players and stuff.”

“Why aren't you with them now?”

I sighed. “They don't want to be around me, Jackson. Like you, they figured out that I'm a . . . jerk.”

“Yeah, well, they wouldn't have to be detectives for that.”

He was right. I'd left a ton of clues.

I took a deep breath. “Look, you were the only kid here who wanted anything to do with me. I could have had fun with you and made a good friend, but I ditched you for the cooler guys.”

That didn't come out right.

“The cooler guys.” He half smiled and looked away. “Wow. You really
are
a jerk.” He paused. “A total jerk.”

“I know.”

The room was totally silent until he said, “But you're
here now, admitting you were wrong.” He glanced back at me. “You
are
admitting you were wrong, right?”

“Yes. Totally.”

“Hmm. So, maybe you're
slightly
less of a jerk than you were a couple of minutes ago.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Hey, it's an improvement.” He paused. “Do you really feel bad about blowing me off? Honestly?”

“Yeah.” It was the truth.

He was quiet for a moment. “Do you
want
to be friends with me, Owen?”

What I'd said before was totally true. He was the only kid at camp who'd wanted anything to do with me, and I'd treated him like he wasn't worth my time.

I nodded. “Yeah, I do.”

“Because my dad's Roberto Farina?”

“Roberto who?” I asked, trying to make a joke. “Oh, you mean the NBA superstar. No, I want to be friends with you because you're . . . you know.
You.
”

He lifted a fist for me to bump. “Cool.”

“That's it?” I couldn't believe he was letting me off that easily. “Wait, why are you giving me another chance?”

“My dad,” he said, with a shrug.

“What?”

“He always says that if you can forgive someone, you should.”

How lucky was that? I'd been expecting a whole lot
worse from Jackson, but telling him I was sorry (and really meaning it) was enough.

Sweet!

Jackson cleared his throat. “Owen?”

“Yeah?”

“I can only forgive you once.”

I looked him right in the eye, so he'd know I understood. “That's all I need.”

We'd spent most of Wednesday running. And when I say running, I don't mean laps.
We sprinted.

It turned out that aside from physics, the common element that would be shared by our track activities was speed.

And I didn't have any.

After a full day of working on starting, running, and finishing, I knew that day two was going to be rough.

So, when I woke up on Thursday morning, I had to drag my aching body to the gym for another round.

“Okay, guys,” Coach Bennett said. “Yesterday, we learned the fundamentals of speed. Today, we're going to use it.”

Everyone around me sounded excited and I followed the group over to the row of aluminum hurdles Coach had placed on the track.

I'd studied the diagrams in my book, so I knew what my body was supposed to do. I just wasn't sure that it
could
. In addition to speed, hurdling would require timing and coordination. And on that particular morning, I doubted I had
any
of those things.

Coach Bennett went over the basics with us and when he blew his whistle, we lined up to jump over one.

Just one.

I took a deep breath from my place at the back of the line.

“Are you okay?” Sam asked.

“Sure,” I told him, watching as the first of our teammates charged at the hurdle. I watched his feet and when he got close, I counted off Coach's recommended four steps before the jump.

He led with his right foot and soared over the obstacle like it was nothing and the whole lineup cheered.

When the next runner was up, he did the exact same thing and cleared the hurdle. The third bumped it with the tip of his shoe, but it merely wobbled for a second, then became still again.

“Nice,” Sam said.

“Hey, my brother could jump a hurdle twice that size,” James joked.

“Oh yeah? Mine could do it backward,” Sam countered, and they both laughed.

“Just do your best,” James said.

And Sam did. When it was his turn, he took off at the blast of Coach's whistle and made a perfect leap.

“Next,” Coach said.

I nodded as I stepped up to the line. I took a deep breath, then another.

You're tall.

You have long legs.

You can do this.

I inhaled deeply again and exhaled slowly.

“Ready?” Coach asked.

I nodded and when he blew his whistle, I took off as quickly as I could.

One, two, three . . . no, don't count yet!

The closer I got to the hurdle, the taller it was.

I took a few more steps.

Count now! Four more!

Wait, is it too late?

At the very last second, instead of jumping, I veered sharply to my right and ran around the hurdle. I stumbled slightly, but stayed upright.

“Okay,” Coach said. “That was a good dry run. Let's give it another try.”

Embarrassed to be the only one who had faltered, I returned to the starting line with hot and undoubtedly bright red cheeks.

“You can do it,” James said, patting me on the back.

Considering how nice the Cougars had been all week, I shouldn't have been surprised by the “you had good speed” and “just go for it” that followed from the other guys.

I nodded and took another deep breath as I stepped on the starting line.

“Let's go, Russ,” Sam encouraged from behind me.

Coach Bennett blew his whistle and I took off again, feeling every step in my aching muscles.

I heard some cheering behind me, and when the moment came, I counted off the steps.

One, two, three.

On four, I leaped, extending my right leg as far ahead of me as it could go and lifting my body off the ground.

I was flying through the air, amazed that I could do it.

And then, suddenly, I wasn't doing it at all.

My left shoe caught the hurdle, right on my laces, and I didn't have time to shake free. The next thing I knew, I was heading face-first onto the track.

Uh-oh.

I threw my hands out in front of me and landed hard, then somersaulted a couple of times before coming to a stop.

I waited to hear laughter from the starting line.

But there was none.

Instead, I heard the pounding of footsteps as my teammates and Coach ran over to make sure I was okay.

To my utter amazement, I was.

Sure, I felt embarrassed, and my palms were a bit scraped, but I was fine.