One for the Murphys by Lynda Mullaly Hunt Page A

resting his elbows on his knees. The Yankees have the bases loaded with no outs. The guy at bat has a “2” on his jersey; how intimidating can he be with a number like that?
    Number two hits the ball and ends up with a double. Mr. Murphy slaps his leg. “You’re kidding me!” he yells. I’d like to ask what the attraction is of watching it if it makes him miserable.
    The doorbell rings. Mrs. Murphy answers it, and Toni comes around the corner. I meet her in the kitchen.
    “Hey, Connors! What’s up?” Toni asks, smiling.
    “Ceiling,” I say.
    Mrs. Murphy laughs.
    “You think you’re pretty funny, don’t ya, Connors? Don’t get a swelled head ’cause your mother laughs. She probably thought what you left in your diapers was a masterpiece.”
    With the word
mother
, Mr. and Mrs. Murphy look questioningly at me. It’s bothering me that I haven’t told Toni the truth. The more I like her, the more my silence feels like a lie.
    Toni’s attention turns toward the TV. She walks in that direction, stepping just inside the family room. “Yup,” Toni says. “There is nothing better than baseball on a Sunday afternoon. My dad and I watch it whenever he’s home.”
    Mr. Murphy looks like he’s ready to adopt her. Maybe she’ll win me some brownie points if she’s sitting around talking about the wonders of the blessed Red Sox.
    “And there’s nothing better,” she continues, “than watching the Red Sox get pummeled into dust by the Yanks. Don’t you love a team that goes eighty-six years without winning a Series and, when they finally do, they act like they own baseball?”
    Okay. In my mind, I see this whole thing as a car teetering on a cliff. Rocking back and forth.
    “Losers,” she says. “Sox fans are nothing but losers.”
    And the car goes over. Falling and falling.
    Mr. Murphy’s head turns… slowly… and he glares up at her as if she has just pulled out a gun. She finally gets around tolooking at him. Noticing his Red Sox hat and the Dropkick Murphys shirt. “Oh,” she says. “Sorry.”
    I have never imagined Toni retreating from anyone, but she is out of there in a shot. Back in the kitchen with me and Mrs. Murphy.
    “I have a few things to say about Yankees fans,” he yells at us.
    “Now, Jack.” Mrs. Murphy is amused. “Remember you’re the adult here.”
    “You really have a way with people,” I say to Toni.
    “Well, I won you over, didn’t I, Connors? And you were pretty rough stuff that first day we met. Downright terrifying, I’d say.” She laughs. “Actually, you looked more like you were going to pee your pants.”
    She’s right, and I hate thinking of myself as a coward. It bothers me how even though I act brave, things still scare me on the inside. “Listen, Byars,” I say. “I could take you any day of the week. And if I think back to the way things really happened, I did. Terrifying is right. You better believe it.”
    “God, Connors. You’re beginning to sound like me.”
    “I hear there are psychiatrists for that kind of thing.”
    “Nice, Connors. Real nice.” Toni smirks.
    Mrs. Murphy is at the sink now; sometimes I think she’s chained to it. Daniel comes in, dribbling his basketball, and his mother asks him to stop.
    While Daniel goes to the fridge for a Gatorade, Michael Eric and Adam drag a bag of cars into the kitchen.
    “Boys, can’t you find another place? I’m working here,” Mrs. Murphy says, cutting up green peppers.
    “But Mom,” Michael Eric says, “you’re always working, and we need the lines for roads.”
    At first I don’t know what he means and then I see Adam setting up Matchbox cars on the grout lines of the tile.
    She sighs but lets it go.
    “So, Connors,” Toni says. “Will your mom let you go for a walk or something before dinner?”
    Mom? I panic. I have to cut this off before…
    Michael Eric looks up. “Is Carley’s mommy here?”
    Toni looks like she feels sorry for Michael Eric. Like he has oatmeal for