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I gingerly sit beside him and ruffle his hair. “How you doing this morning?”
He gives me a halfhearted smile and lifts one shoulder. “All right.”
“You party it up last night?”
“We stayed up ’til midnight.” He gives me a cheeky grin.
“Hardcore. You tired today, then?”
“I’m okay.” He looks around, making sure no one else is near. “The medication they give me makes me feel sick. I didn’t want to have the treatment yesterday, but they said I had to, and now I can’t play today. I hate this.”
“I bet. That has to suck.”
He pushes his food around his plate. “It does. I never used to get sick, and now it’s like I’m always feeling crappy.”
“You gotta take care of the body first, though, right? So it can get better?” I cut into my short stack, which is actually seven pancakes layered with margarine and fake maple syrup. “I can’t play today, either.” I shove food in my mouth and chew. Now that my balls aren’t the size of my head, I’m hungry again.
“Why not?”
“I got a spider bite.”
His cheeks flush. “I wasn’t sure if it was a rumor.”
“I wish. I’m on coaching duty; you wanna be my junior coach today?”
His eyes light up like I’ve told him I’m buying him a Ferrari. “Seriously? Like f’reals?”
“Yeah, man. I’mma need some help. You in?”
“For sure.”
“Cool.” I take off my ball cap and put it on his head. It’s way too big, and I probably have the worst case of hathead ever, but I don’t care. I’ve got that warm feeling I get when I do something that makes someone else feel good. It’s a rush. I pull out my phone and snap a couple of pictures. “Is it okay if I post these?”
“Yeah. Totally.”
I put up one of the pictures and caption it: Stratigizing with my junor caoch over bfast. Team Butterson has it in the bag.
“How do you do in school?” I ask him.
“Good. I get mostly As. Except in music.”
“So you’re good with spelling?”
He nods. “Yeah, I guess I’m decent.”
“Cool.” I do something I’ve never done before, because it feels right. “You wanna check that over for me before I post. My spelling sucks.”
“Really?’
“Yup. I’m dyslexic.”
There’s no hesitation or judgment, which is the great thing about kids. He sits up straight. “One of my friends has that! He sees all this stuff backwards. It’s like it’s all mixed up and upside down, right?”
“Pretty much.” I pass him my phone. He checks it over, and we tag him, which is great. It means I can monitor his progress, and see what kind of financial need his family has.***Four hours later, I’m standing at the edge of the parking lot with Randy, giving autographs to parents, hugging kids, and taking pictures. I haven’t had a chance to give him shit over the balls picture, but we’ll be in the car soon enough.
The people from the local paper are here, just like Amber said. They interview me and Randy, as well as a few of the kids. Amber was right about them; they’re not like the usual reporters I deal with. Everything is way more relaxed up here.
Michael’s parents pick him up in an older van. It’s not a junker, but it’s definitely on its way out. His mom’s out of the car before it’s even in park. She embarrasses the shit out of Michael by hugging him and kissing his face while crying. She checks him over the way moms are supposed to, with a critical eye full of love.
When she’s done making him wish he could sink into the ground, she drags him over to me and Randy. Michael stuffs his hands in his pockets and mumbles an introduction. His mom cries even harder and hugs me, thanking me for giving him this opportunity.
They’re a great family, and they look like they’re managing, for now. I don’t know if that will change with Michael’s treatment. He’s a kid. He could need full-time care for months, which would mean someone staying home instead of working. I need to find out if that’s going to be an issue. I get their information so I can keep in touch. I know exactly how I want to move forward now with the fundraiser. If Vi and Amber want some positive media coverage, they’re gonna get it.
Once all the kids are gone, I throw my bags in the back of the rental and check my messages. I hope Sunny’s gotten back to me; otherwise it’s going to be a challenge finding her out in the middle of butt fuck nowhere, Canada. I have five new messages from her, all of them sent within the last hour.
The first one makes no sense:Rsodfld fluck bodThe next one is super clear.Don't come 2 ChapleauIt’s a kick in the already achy balls until I read on.
