Stand-Off by Andrew Smith Page A

well . . .”
    Then I realized I didn’t actually know how to finish what I was trying to say. In fact, I didn’t have any clue as to what I should say to him at all.
    But Mr. Cosentino, obviously the father of the son, saved me—as Joey had so many times. He shook my hand and smiled.
    â€œOh! Ryan Dean! Joey used to talk about you all the time! It’s so nice to finally meet you,” Mr. Cosentino said.
    And as I shook Mr. Cosentino’s hand, standing there in the slight drizzle that fell over Pine Mountain’s parking lot, bleeding from my stinging right knee, I thought, Hmm . . . I wonder what Joey said about me, because it couldn’t possibly be good, since Joey was constantly saving my butt from terrible fates only a half-wit loser could get himself into, like fooling around with another girl when I was madly in love with Annie Altman, or gambling and being talked into drinking alcohol with Joey and some of the other guys on the team, or having my face busted open a couple of times by getting into stupid fights—well, not stupid fights , because God knows I’d always win in a stupid fight, just look right here at my torn school pants and bloody right knee and there’s all the proof you’d need, but . . . I really just wanted to know what Joey told them about me!
    But I couldn’t say anything at all because I was so choked up over the fact that I was actually shaking hands with my best friend Joey Cosentino’s father.
    Then Mr. Cosentino leaned toward the car and said, “Sheri, Nico, this is the boy Joey told us about—Ryan Dean. Remember?”
    I still needed to know what, exactly, Joey had said.
    Doors opened on the other side of the van, and I realized that I was now actually afraid of talking to the Cosentino family, but I had kind of painted myself into a corner. And I also managed to get a bloody knee and torn pants in the process.
    I got choked up like a thirteen-year-old girl at a boy-band concert when Nico got out of the van and stood between me and Mrs. Cosentino.
    He eyed me up and down. He was as unsmiling as he’d been inside the headmaster’s office.
    â€œYou ate shit over there, bro.”
    Okay, so my knee was pretty bloody and Nico just broed me for the second time in less than fifteen minutes.
    â€œI . . . Uh . . . Mrs. Cosentino, it’s very nice to meet you. And, Nico, Joey used to keep a picture of you in his room. That’s why I recognized you. And I just . . . I . . .”
    Mrs. Cosentino nodded and smiled at me. “I understand, Ryan Dean. Really. We know how much you all meant to Joey. Really we do, honey.”
    Joey’s mom melted my heart.
    Nico began sidling his way back into the van. He said, “Well, nice meeting you. We got to go, though.”
    And my voice cracked when I said, “I know you probably have to leave, but if you ever come back—maybe to watch us play rugby or something—it would be . . . I mean, I’d really like to maybe hang out and talk to you, Nico. Or, you know, we can’t have phones and stuff, but if you wrote a letter to me here at PM, I’d write you back. Or draw something. I draw.”
    And then Joey’s brother, Nico, turned back from the edge of the van’ssliding door and said, “Thanks, bro, but I don’t really need to talk about things.”
    Then he climbed inside and pulled shut the door.
    Mr. Cosentino gave me an embarrassed glance, and Joey’s mom looked a little hurt and saddened.
    And before they left, she said to me, “I’m really sorry about that, Ryan Dean.”
    Yeah. Me too.

CHAPTER NINETEEN
    â€œWHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR PANTS?”
    Sam Abernathy—our team manager and the guy I had just nearly filed divorce papers on—caught me on my way into the locker room as he carried out two heavy baskets of water bottles for Coach M. The kid