Fouling Out Read Online Free

sideways into the leather armchair.
    â€œHow long’s your stupid mission gonna take? It gets dark at, like, four nowadays.”
    â€œCould take all afternoon. It’s a pretty sophisticated program.” As I try to focus on the screen, Tom lets out heavy sighs at a steady rate of three per minute. At one point he burps and then spends a couple of minutes laughing.
    â€œYou could play too,” I say, figuring his fascination with his own belches will wane and he’ll want to talk about hunting season again.
    â€œIt’s Saturday. I don’t do computers on weekends. Quit being a nerd.”
    â€œIt’s really pretty cool. Just give it a try.”
    â€œDo you get to kill anything?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhat’s the scariest monster in it?”
    â€œIt doesn’t have monsters. It teaches you about—”
    Shows, explains, demonstrates. There had to be fifty words I could have used other than teaches . He pounces all over it and won’t let up. “Teaches?! Nobody’s teaching me nothing on my time off.” Half an hour later, we’re heading to the park on a hunting expedition.
    â€œLet’s just play some basketball. Nobody’ll be at the court at school.”
    â€œGotta be honest with you, Craig. I’m kinda bored shooting hoops with you. Even your layup is lame. You got no skills. For a while, it was amusing, but now it’s not even worth making fun of.”
    Sure, he could be more tactful, but I couldn’t argue. Basketball is okay, but it’s not my thing. Back when it was Bump and 21 , I could play along all right. My dribbling was fine, my passing competent, but I just never managed to put everything together. I only brought up the sport to distract him from the hunt, but Tom wasn’t taking the bait. Pretty amazing since his brain is at least ninety-five percent basketball. In his own mind, he’s been in training to go pro since midway through grade two. On top of that, the guy can name every player in the NBA , spout off up-to-date stats for the season and give a solid analysis to explain any team’s loss or win. Over the years, I’ve grown skilled at avoiding any buzz words—swish, Magic, foul—that might trigger a longwinded b-ball lecture. If Tom could dribble the ball in class, he might absorb a bit of school stuff too. The rest of us wouldn’t learn, but that’s the thing. There’s Tom and then there’s everybody else.
    â€œLook, I can tell you’re freaked out over this gun thing. We’ll kill one squirrel and that’ll be it. We don’t have much time before my dad’s shift is done anyway.” Tom tosses the backpack on the ground just as we get to the woods. Not much of a woods really. Just a clump of trees between a bunch of houses and the high school field.
    â€œYou know,” I say, “we could look on the Internet and find a demo of a pig dissection or something.” Tom is examining the gun close up, turning it from side to side, waving the firing end every which way. I don’t know where to stand.
    â€œNice try,” Tom mutters after a few seconds. “You’re not getting me back in front of a computer. We already did your thing. It’s my turn now.” Tom gets up and walks farther into the trees. “Let’s go. Keep quiet and let me know when you see one. This place is loaded with ’em.”
    Loaded.
    â€œWhat are you doing back there?” Tom asks as he looks at me over his shoulder. “Are you doing some Run away, little squirrel dance?”
    â€œThat’s an idea—”
    â€œQuiet. There’s one up in that tree on the left. Don’t move.” Tom holds the gun in the air and points it at the squirrel, which is now motionless on a branch, willing us away. Poor thing has a patch of fur missing near its rear. For some reason, that gets to me.
    Before Tom pulls the trigger, I jump on his