Fouling Out Read Online Free Page A

shoulders and knock him down. In mid-tackle the gun goes off. The distinct sound of broken glass follows.
    We both swear at the same time, out of pure shock. Where was the glass? What broke? Did someone scream? Is anyone hurt?
    Tom spits a couple times as he shoves me off and gets to his feet. “What the hell’d you do that for? Are you stupid?” Okay, tackling Tom as he was about to fire a gun was stupid, but I’m not about to admit that to Tom. He started the stupidity—by bringing along a gun and wanting to shoot it; I just expanded it. Tom scans the dirt in search of the gun, which he must’ve dropped during the scuffle.
    â€œWhat’d you hit? Did you hear glass breaking?” I ask.
    â€œWhat did I hit? Obviously not a freakin’ squirrel. You messed it up.” He spots the gun a few feet away and hurriedly puts it in his backpack as he looks around to see if anyone has shown up to investigate the noise. His crazed hunting smile has vanished, and I can tell he’s as close to total panic as I am. We both crouch down and hide behind a couple of trees and peek at the closest house, which is just beyond the nearby fence.
    The bullet has cracked an upper window. I swear under my breath as I slide against the tree and sit down hard on the ground. Tom keeps staring at the point of impact. I keep swearing as cold sweat floods my forehead and underarms.
    â€œHey!” Tom whispers. Is that excitement in his voice? Is he a psychopath? A psychopath with a gun? “Isn’t that Robert Montgomery’s house? Yeah, I’m sure it is!”
    I get up and take another peek, still keeping my body hidden by the tree. Tom’s right. I’d been to Robert’s a couple of times. The dormers and the orange trim are pretty distinctive.
    â€œDon’t you get it? We’re cool! The house is empty. Robert moved months ago,” Tom says.
    â€œThere was a moving van there a week ago. They were moving a bunch of stuff in,” I reply. My voice shakes as I start to comprehend what has happened. “Oh, God! What if you killed someone?!”
    â€œMe? You did it. You knocked me down. I only wanted a squirrel. It’s all your fault.”
    â€œI told you all along to forget about the gun, but you—”
    â€œNever mind. Let’s get out of here and get the gun back in my dad’s closet.” He shoves his face about three inches from mine. “No one’s gonna find out about this,” he hisses. “Right?”

Six
    A s I’m waiting in Tom’s backyard for him to ditch the gun, every scene from every cop show I’ve ever watched flashes before my eyes: slamming the criminal against the side of the squad car and handcuffing him, shining bright lights in the guy’s face down at the police station, screaming at him until he confesses, tossing him into solitary, escorting him down the corridor in Death Row to the electric chair…Clearly, we’re toast.
    Where’s Tom? How long can it take? What if he’s taken off out the front door and left me to face the swarm of cop cars all alone?
    Finally, he comes back out and sits on the back steps. I walk over to join him. For once, he looks scared. Archie sits beside Tom and licks his face. Tom seems to be hugging the dog more than petting him.
    I wait for Tom to speak. “You don’t think we killed someone, do you?”
    â€œI don’t know.” What else can I say? We’d run from the scene—a crushing piece of evidence when the jury decides between life imprisonment and The Chair.
    â€œEven if the bullet hit somebody, it probably wouldn’t kill them. A shot to the arm isn’t too serious.”
    â€œNo,” I agree, not wanting to argue the point.
    â€œUnless we hit a baby.”
    He isn’t trying to freak me out. He’s serious. He is pale and it looks like he might cry. He hugs Archie tightly, and the dog licks his hand. What happened is