Carter Finally Gets It Read Online Free

toward the exit gate. This little black mark is going on my permanent record. Not any sort of document the school hangs on to, but the kind of thing my boys will break out years from now to have a good laugh at my expense. Maybe someday I’ll be able to laugh about it with them, but today isn’t that day. I unlock my bike in defeat and try to regain feeling in my face. The bright red of my back is only matched by the purpley blues radiating from my front.
    My dad always says, “When you fall off a horse, you’ve got to get right back on.” And I will get back up on that horse/high dive. Next summer.

3. Kickin’ It
    I wasn’t lying to Amber Lee; I really am on the football team. Not because I like it or anything. Every summer, like a zombie, I just sign up. I wanted to play when I was little because of the “costume” (cleats, shoulder pads, and black makeup under the eyes), but that wore off after the first week. Running around in ninety-degree heat with a giant plastic hat and twenty pounds of protective gear will do that. All of my friends seem to love it, and people are always sort of impressed when I tell them I’m on the team. I never mention that I don’t play very much and I’d really just like to be the kicker. If I were the kicker, I could come to practice one day a week and just show up for games. I’d save the day with my clutch fifty-yard field goals and get carried off the field after every game.
    As it is now, I’m not the kicker. I’m the second string right guard (like the deodorant) on the line. I’ve always been a lineman because I was a “heavy” kid. Mom preferred the term “stocky.” A guy at a clothing store called me “husky” once, and it made me cry. I’m not really heavy, husky, or stocky anymore these days, thanks to my growth spurt over the summer. With five extra inches I’m looking more like “tall guy” than “stocky boy,” so I shouldn’t have to be on the line anymore. There’s no glory on the line. I want to be the quarterback, the running back . . . the KICKER! I want people to watch me. To know that I’m on the team. Not just because I’m in the team photo and I wear my jersey on game day, but because they saw me make an unbelievable catch, pass, tackle, or kick. They heard some other kid telling another kid about how awesome my moves were. They saw it in slow motion on the six o’clock sports report, where the newsman said, “Carter was unstoppable!” or something else menacing like that. Kids will talk behind my back about how cool I am, and I’ll look at them like I’m all annoyed, but on the inside I’ll be stoked when they gossip about my greatness.
    For now, though, I only play in the games if my buddy Hormone gets tired or hurt. And then I simply go out and try to smash into the kid who lines up in front of me. That’s it. That’s the game as I see it. Coach chatters on about “strategy” and “teamwork.” He draws X s and O s on the chalkboard and blathers about “plays” and “holes,” and I have no idea what he’s talking about. I space off and think about that movie Holes , and how it would suck to dig holes all day in the desert. If I were the quarterback or like, a running back, though, I would know all of the plays and exactly when and why the X s and O s go where they do. I’d pay attention to every last detail and I’d focus on it all day long, so I could be the best. But since I only have to smash into the kid in front of me, what’s the point?
    This season is going to be different, though. Because I’ve got a plan. We start weight training tomorrow, and I’m going to work out three hours a day, seven days a week, until I’m GINORMOUS! I’ll crush anybody who comes up against me, and if that doesn’t work, I’m also going to be the kicker for sure.
    For phase one of the football plan, I ride my bike to an open field by my house with three old footballs and a makeshift holder in a laundry bag. The holder is supposed