Airball Read Online Free Page B

him and held Brett McGrew’s picture up next to me. “If you were this guy”—I pointed to McNet —“would you want anything to do with this guy?” I flung my hand up beside my own scrawny self. “Would you even admit you were related?”
    Bragger shrugged. “You’re related to me and I admit it.”
    â€œNot the same thing.”
    â€œI don’t know what you’re getting all worked up about, Kirby. So you don’t look like your father. So what?”
    â€œIt’s not just the way I look. It’s the way I am. Brett McGrew has been the MVP of every team he’s ever played for. Me, I shoot a layup and practically end up in the nurse’s office. I’m not what he wants in a son.”
    Bragger considered this. “You’re right,” he said. “Brett McGrew probably has very specific taste in offspring. I imagine he’d want somebody more like your mother was. You know—tall and muscular, talented in every sport, leading her team to victory with her unequaled skill and athleticism.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?” I looked at him. “My mother was short and skinny and, as far as I know, never went out for a sport in her life. I found her report cards. She flunked P.E.”
    Bragger shook his head. “Weird.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou just described yourself.”
    â€œI know. That’s the problem. Have you not been listening?”
    Bragger took the yearbook from me and flipped through it till he found the Sweetheart Dance page. He set the book in my lap.
    â€œYour mother was just like you, Kirby. And guess what? McNet liked her anyway.”
    I stared at the picture. The same picture I’d been staring at my whole life. But I’d never truly looked at it before. Not really. My mother had been just like me. Same freckles. Same bony shoulders sticking out of her glittery Sweetheart Dance dress. She was short, too. Even in high heels, she barely came up to Brett McGrew’s armpit.
    I looked closer. “I think she’s stepping on his foot.”
    Bragger leaned over my shoulder. “Hey, she is. Her spiky heel’s totally skewering Brett McGrew’s big toe.” He shrugged. “McNet doesn’t seem to mind.”
    No, he didn’t. Brett McGrew was smiling down at her, and she had her neck bent back, laughing up at him. My short, skinny, clumsy mother. Brett McGrew liked her.
    Brett McGrew liked her.
    â€œWhat we need is a plan,” said Bragger.
    Brett McGrew liked her.
    â€œAre you with me, Kirb? A plan. To get you through all the reporters and TV cameras. And past Coach. A plan to get you into a private conversation with Brett McGrew.”
    I looked up. “How are we supposed to do that?”
    â€œWe’ll think of something. We’ve got a lot going for us here. You’re the smartest kid in Stuckey, and I”—he stopped, obviously considering his talents—“I am the most willing to make a complete fool of myself. That’s a powerful combination, Kirby. Together, nobody can stop us.”
    I stared at him. He was right. If I was going to do this, I had to plan out every detail. And I could do that. Better than anybody. This could work. It could.

Six
    Grandma called us for supper. Bragger always ate with us on days his parents worked late. I slid my mother’s yearbook under my pillow, and Bragger and I sock-footed it downstairs in time to see Grandma slide a big pan from the oven.
    It was her turkey roaster. But the steaming mound of meat inside it was like no turkey I’d ever seen. It was huge and round and coated with something gleaming and blackened in spots, like ketchup, only orange, with darker stripes running across it in a vaguely familiar pattern.
    It was a meatloaf, I realized. An enormous meatloaf.
    In the shape of a basketball.
    â€œWhoa,” said Bragger.
    â€œWhat do you think?” said