Left Out by Tim Green Page A

when retrieving water.
    Before he could set the water down, he was swarmed by teammates like bees on sticky fruit. They grabbed at the bottles, their sweat sprinkling his forearms, and sucked greedily at their contents. Then they replaced the bottles back in the carriers. Landon set one carrier down and went to work with the second, passing out water.
    â€œThanks, Landon.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œYeah, thanks.”
    His teammates’ words showered down all around him, cooling the boil in his brain in a way he hadn’t thought possible. He remembered his mom’s words, about being part of a team without actually playing and how the manager was an important role.
    â€œMy pleasure,” he said. “Sure, Skip.”
    â€œHere you go Brett, here’s one.”
    â€œI’ll take that.”
    â€œYup, right here.”
    He remembered the peanut seller at an Indians baseball game his father had taken him to in Cleveland, the vendor’s hands working like an octopus, slinging bags and accepting money in an economy of motion—a circus juggler of sorts.
    Finally, Coach Furster blew his whistle three times and shouted, “Hogs with me and Coach West! Skill guys with Coach Bell! On the hop!”
    As everyone scattered, Coach Furster stepped up to Landon and nodded at the carrier. Landon hesitated before he understood and handed a bottle to Coach Furster. Coach held the bottle up high and squirted a sparkling silver stream into his mouth, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a cork, before he lowered it, smacked and wiped his lips, and released a sigh of pure pleasure.
    â€œGood.” He handed the bottle back to Landon. “You know, you don’t have to help out with the water, Landon.”
    Landon studied Coach Furster’s sweat-drenched face and knew with the confidence of someone who read faces every hour of every day that what Coach really meant was the exact opposite of what he said. Helping with the water was exactly what Coach Furster wanted him to do. For a brief moment Landon doubted himself. Maybe that wasn’t his coach’s intention. Maybe it was just mixed signals . . . but then he figured the coach knew exactly what he was doing.
    â€œI can help out.” The words escaped him like doves from a magician’s sleeve.
    Coach Furster put on a full display of porcelain-white teeth. “Nice, Landon. That’s real nice.”
    And just like that, Landon Dorch got the starting job at a position he’d sworn he’d never play.
    Left out.

28
    At home, Landon showered and changed into his pajamas.
    He peeked down through the stair railing at his father, a hulking form aglow in the blue light of the computer, fingers skipping across the keyboard.
    All was well, so he retreated to his room. He sighed and flipped open the hardback copy of The Three Musketeers his father had found for him at a garage sale in Cleveland. The scratch of his fingers on the pages made no sound. He’d removed his ears when he got back from practice and put them in their dryer case. But even in the total silence, he had a memory of the sound of turning pages, dull and faint, and he flipped through several random pages to feel their snap before settling back into the pillows to read.
    In his own mind, Landon was, of course, d’Artagnan, the outsider who must prove his worth as a musketeer. As he read,a part of his mind danced with the idea that d’Artagnan had to serve the musketeers before he could become one. Hadn’t d’Artagnan been left out too before becoming the most famous musketeer of all? Landon pursed his lips and set the book in his lap, nodding to himself before he continued. Halfway through the next chapter, when d’Artagnan was about to fight a duel, the overhead light in Landon’s bedroom flickered.
    He looked up, expecting his mother. She’d yet to return from her office and it was already past nine. Instead, Genevieve gave him a wave