The Truth by Jeffry W. Johnston

moving on to the next round of the playoffs.
    The Blue Jays walk off the field, dejected. Jake’s teammates mob him when he reaches home plate. The last one to join them is Devon.

19
    Then
    Normally, we’d stop at Dairy Queen after a victory like this, but Devon says he’s not hungry. Mom tries to talk him into it but only gets one-syllable responses, and eventually, she gives up. I sit in the front seat, fuming.
    Devon goes right upstairs as soon as we enter the house. We hear his door close.
    â€œChrist, you’d think they lost,” Mom says.
    I march toward the stairs.
    â€œWhere are you going?” Mom asks.
    â€œTo talk to him.”
    â€œDo you think that’s a good idea?”
    â€œI thought you wanted me to talk to him.”
    â€œMaybe not now. He’s obviously upset.”
    I start up.
    â€œChris, it’s just a game.”
    â€œIt’s not just the game.”
    â€œChris—”
    â€œMom, I’m doing this!” I continue up the stairs without looking back. She gives up trying to stop me.
    I find Devon on his bed, still in uniform, with his Nintendo DS in his hand, the familiar sounds of the Mario brothers coming from it.
    â€œI want to talk to you,” I say.
    His fingers keep working the buttons.
    â€œTurn that off!”
    â€œI’m in the middle of a game.”
    â€œ Now , Devon!”
    Sighing, he closes the DS and tosses it on the bed. He waits, not looking at me.
    â€œWhat’s going on with you?”
    He shrugs. “Nothing.”
    â€œWhat were you doing in that game?”
    He shrugs again.
    â€œYou weren’t even trying.”
    â€œI had a bad game.”
    â€œ Bullshit! ” I rarely curse in front of my brother, and it makes him look at me. “That last at bat, what were you doing?” I continue, growing angrier. “They were trying to walk you. I saw the way you looked at me. You weren’t just having a bad game. You did it on purpose! Why? If you’re mad at me, then have the guts to tell me to my face so we can talk about it. Don’t take it out on your teammates when they’re counting on you.”
    He looks away. Says nothing. I can see he’s fighting tears. “Maybe I don’t want to play baseball anymore,” he says in a subdued voice.
    I look at him, stunned. “What? Why…?” My voice falters. “Why would you say that?”
    He doesn’t respond.
    â€œYou love baseball.”
    â€œMaybe I don’t anymore!” he snaps back. “Maybe I want to quit!”
    I take a step toward him. “What do you think Dad would say about you quitting?”
    The look on his face makes me sorry I said that.
    I let out a deep breath. In a quieter voice, I ask, “Why would you want to quit something you love doing? That you’re so good at?”
    He doesn’t answer. I stare at him. Is this part of his being mad at me? Does he think by saying this, he’s getting back at me somehow? Maybe it’s working. My stomach is doing flip-flops.
    â€œI don’t believe you,” I say finally.
    Silence.
    â€œTalk to me.”
    â€œLeave me alone,” he says.
    â€œNot until you talk to me.”
    Face in the pillow again.
    â€œI’m not leaving this room until we talk. You’re ten years old. You’re old enough not to hide in a pillow!” I pull it out from under him and hurl it across the room. It hits the door.
    I hear movement in the hall outside. Mom coming out of her room from where she’s been listening, probably. Is she coming to intervene?
    â€œI don’t believe you, Devon!” I’m afraid to hear the answer, but I push anyway. “You tell me right now what it is that’s making you act and talk this way—”
    â€œ He might have shot you! ” Devon shouts.
    I stare at him.
    â€œYou could have been killed ! Just like Dad! ”
    The movement in the hallway stops.
    â€œJust like