Lawn Boy Returns Read Online Free Page A

ring. He looked like he’d been carved from stone. Tattooed stone. He moved slowly around his corner, muscles rippling on his body where I hadn’t known muscles existed. He made his first and middle fingers into a V and pointed first at his own eyes and then at Joey, as if to say, “I see you. I see you and I’m going to eat you for breakfast.” Joey didn’t notice; he was waving at Grandma.
    The introductions of the fighters (“In this corner, wearing black trunks, the Upper Midwest heavyweight champ, Bah-ruuuuuuiser Bullllllllllllllllllk! And, in the opposite corner, his opponent, wearingred trunks,
J
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ey Po-o-o-ow!”) took longer than the actual fight.
    One right roundhouse.
    One left uppercut.
    One right punch in the face that made an ugly
splat
.
    Four and a half seconds.
    Three lightning-fast blows followed by a
thunk
as Bruiser Bulk hit the canvas.
    Joey Pow worked so fast that I hadn’t even gotten back to my seat; I was still standing near his corner of the ring, between Rock, who looked worried, and Zed, who looked furious.
    The ref knelt next to Bruiser, counting to nine and checking to make sure he was breathing. When the ref got to nine, he leaped up, grabbed Joey’s arm and raised it above their heads.
    “The. Newwwwwwwwww Upperrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Mid-wesssssssssst. Heavyweight. Chammmmmmmmmpion.
J
O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-EY PO-O-O-O-
O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-OW!”
    I’d have gone with “JOEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEY PO-O-O-O-O-O-OW,” but it still sounded good.
    Allen and Kenny were jumping up and down screaming, making it snow popcorn. Grandma wasstanding on her chair, howling like a wolf, and Arnold was smiling and shaking hands with everyone in his vicinity. Savannah, Gib, Frank and Lindy were texting like someone’s life depended on it.
    Zed went flying out of the auditorium, Rock hot on his heels. Before I could even think about following them to see what was going on, Joey rumbled over to hug me and squeezed so hard I felt some of my ribs move.
    “Excuse me. Joey Pow?” A woman interrupted our celebration. She was holding a microphone. A guy carrying a television camera on his shoulder stood behind her. “I’m Sandra Santana, sports reporter from Action News 7. We’d like to interview you.”
    “Hello. I am Joey Pow. I am beating all my opponents in four and a half seconds. It is because I wear the red trunks my sponsor says are good luck. This is my sponsor.”
    “You?” Sandra Santana raised her eyebrows and turned the mike to me. A blinding light atop the camera flashed on. Between Grandma’s hair and the TV lights, I’d be seeing flashing swirly dots in front of my eyes for years.

7
The Detrimental Influence of Fame and the Loss of Privacy as a Result of Prosperity
    “I’ll have to give serious thought to bringing a PR person on board,” Arnold said to me the next morning. “Someone to handle the media and coach you about what to say in public.”
    That was probably a sound idea, since I couldn’t imagine giving another interview, the first one having been so unexpected and terrifying. My tongue was still stuck to the roof of my mouth. Which tasted like—well, never mind. It was bad.
    I’d appeared as a feature on the ten o’clock news the night before, the little human-interest storythey do between the weather and sports. Sandra Santana had asked me all kinds of questions about why I had become a prizefighter’s sponsor and how I’d made the money in the first place and who was the genius stockbroker who’d made me rich.
    The bright lights and her fast questions made me nervous and confused and I couldn’t remember what I’d said two seconds earlier. She forgot all about her interview with Joey, who didn’t seem to mind; he stood next to me, his arm around my shoulders, beaming. It was only a two-minute piece, but it felt like I stood there for an agonizingly long time, dripping sweat under lights hotter than a blowtorch.
    Grandma and I woke up the next