Stick Read Online Free Page B

thrown out of the game that night.
    We waited in the car for the game to end.
    I found myself feeling sorry for Ricky.
    I was sure that at that moment, he was lying in a hospital emergency room, smelling like piss, while some doctor leaned over him and stitched up the cut my brother laid across his face.
    I turned, so that I was looking out the window. The rain had stopped and I could see a few stars in the breaks between clouds.
    I didn’t want to look at Bosten, anyway.
    â€œDo you want your hat back?” I said.
    â€œNo.       Are you okay? I hope                you’re not mad at me.”
    That’s when I felt like crying.
    So I wouldn’t look at Bosten.
    He knew.
    â€œI’m sorry, Stick.”
    And words like those, from my brother, were the kind of words that could get inside my head and whirr around like mad hornets trying to find  a way out.
    Sure he was sorry.
    I knew what he meant.
    He wasn’t sorry he busted
    that fucker’s face open.
    He wasn’t sorry we got thrown out of a
    goddamned basketball game.
    Those were things to be proud of.
    Those were things you’d laugh about
    and tell stories about over and over.
    Things like that make normal boys normal
    boys.
    But goddamnit, goddamnit, GODDAMNIT
    I knew what Bosten was sorry about.
    He was sorry about me , like he felt
    some kind of responsibility for me being me.
    Like he knew what she was thinking every time
    Mom looked at me, so he was sorry for that.
    Like he had to admit
    that since nobody else was sorry for me,
    he might as well do the job.
    Just like cleaning out the goddamned dryer.
    But it wasn’t Bosten’s job to feel sorry for me,
    and GODDAMNIT
    I AM SORRY
    I DID THIS TO YOU, BOSTEN.
    I AM SORRY.

PAUL
    Cars started. People filed out of the gymnasium.
    Bosten opened his door and got out.
    â€œMrs. Buckley,” he said.
    Then I couldn’t hear anything.
    He closed the door.
    I watched him talking to Paul’s parents until they got into their car and drove off. And Bosten just leaned against the hood of the Toyota, facing the gym, waiting for the players to come out.
    â€œI’m not mad at you, Bosten,” I said. “Why would I be?”
    But he couldn’t hear me, either.
    I got out and stood next to Bosten when I saw Paul coming. I knew they’d expect me to ride in the backseat, anyway.
    I shoved my brother’s shoulder.
    â€œWhat did you say to the Buckleys?”
    â€œI told them we got thrown out. And that I punched a kid in the bathroom who was                 messing with you.”
    â€œOh.”
    It would be trouble.
    â€œDon’t worry about it. It was me, not you,” he said. “So I asked           them if we could                                                take Paul to Crazy Eric’s before we went home. They said it was okay.”
    â€œAre we really going to Crazy Eric’s?”
    Bosten laughed. “Hell no.”
    He grabbed the bill on my cap and pulled it down in front of my nose.
    Across the lot, Paul shouted good-byes to the other players.
    Paul Buckley was just a bit taller than me, and solid—definitely not a stick. He carried a canvas bag slung over his shoulders. His hair was wet. I could tell by the way he walked they’d won their game.
    He came up to us, smiling, red-faced, and slapped a hand into Bosten’s.
    â€œNice game,” Bosten said.
    â€œHey, Stick.” Paul nodded to me and I nodded back.
    â€œBuck.”
    â€œWell, to be completely honest,” Bosten said, “we didn’t actually see the whole game. We got thrown out before the end because I beat the shit out of Ricky Dostal in the