dark look. âOffensive foul,â he said.
âOnly the defender can call it,â Taj said, looking at me. âYou want to call it?â
He was looking at me with these pitying, mocking eyes that did not make my chin feel better.
âNo,â I muttered.
Max scowled and looked at me, eyeing the dripping blood. âYou better go to the office,â he said. âThat looks pretty nasty.â
I nodded and started inside, holding my shirt to my mouth. I was almost there when Raya caught my arm. She looked concerned.
âAre you all right?â she asked. âThat was dirty.â
âFine,â I said through my shirt. âBad luck.â
âSports are bad luck for you,â she said, frowning at the blood pooling on my shirt. âCome on. Iâll take you to the office in case you pass out from blood loss or something.â
She grabbed my free arm and pulled me inside. I grinned under my shirt.
Maybe being a hero was about more than winning the game.
  â¢Â  â¢Â  â¢Â Â
Ms. Redler, the secretary, let Raya sit in the office while she put a Band-Aid over my chin. It was just a cut, and she didnât think I needed stitches. Ms. Redler was plump with a shock of red hair and the most soothing voice I had ever heard. I wasnât sure how she worked with Principal Frost every day, but she certainly had the patience.
âAll better?â she asked, checking to make sure the Band-Aid was secure.
âMuch,â I replied. âThanks, Ms. Redler.â
She clucked. âBe careful out there! You boys and your sports. Gives me gray hairs.â
She sent me on my way, and Raya smiled and stood up as I walked out.
âLook at you,â she said. âNow youâre battle-hardened.â
I nodded. âYou should see the other guy.â
We headed out into the hallway. I tried not to stare. She was wearing lip gloss today, and I could actually smell that it was cappuccino flavored. It made her dark lips glisten in the ugly phosphorous hall lights, and I suddenly really wanted a cappuccino. She glanced at me, and I quickly turned straight ahead again.
âYou should probably take up a new hobby,â she said.
âBut Iâm so good at sports. It would be a shame.â
She snorted. âTrue. What else do you like to do? Writing, I know. Maybe you can write more.â
âIâm not very good.â
âI doubt that. What do you usually write about?â
I shrugged, hoping to change the conversation. âAnything. Iâm writing a book. Itâs nothing.â
âA book? Whatâs it about?â
âItâs . . . about a kid who accidentally wipes out the human race. Heâs left alone on the planet, and he has to try to find a way to bring everyone back.â
She looked at me. âSo itâs about loneliness.â
âYeah,â I murmured. âI guess.â
âI write sometimes.â
I looked at her in surprise. âYou do?â
âYeah. Poetry. Stupid stuff. I could show it to you sometime, if you promise not to laugh.â
âDeal.â I tried to think back to what Steve had said. Compliments. âI like your outfit, by the way.â
She looked down at herselfâripped jeans and an overlarge white sweater that hung down over her right shoulder. âThanks,â she said. âI didnât take you for a fashion guy.â
âBecause Iâm wearing clothes from Walmart?â
She laughed. âBecause youâre a guy. I happen to think you dress nice.â
âMy mom does my shopping.â Did I just say that?
She laughed even harder. âYouâre honest, Iâll give you that. Well, tell her I say âwell done.âââ
I was pretty sure my feet werenât even touching the floor anymore. I was stepping on cracks like it was my job. All I could focus on were brown eyes and cappuccinos and that smile
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