True (. . . Sort Of) Read Online Free Page B

outside, and every shot was a swish. In his head, Brud was playing like nothing nobody’d ever seen, only better.
    And today, Brud didn’t just see it in his head; he was hearing it, too. There was the thump, thump, thump of a ball bouncing, the clang of it against the rim. For the first time ever, Brud’s vision had a sound track.
    By the time he got to the bridge, though, the thumps and clangs had almost disappeared. “H-h-hey,” he said, like somebody’d messed with his movie. He stopped his bike.
    But the thumps and clangs kept coming. From behind him.
    So Brud rode back out the River Road. The sounds got louder as he came to the old Hennepin place. He set his bike and ball in the ditch.
    And between trees he saw it.
    At the end of the drive was a boy, a pale, skinny one. He had short hair like Brud’s. He wore a Lakers shirt, like the one Brud had at home. And he was running, dribbling a ball between his legs and behind his back like it was nothing. Then he jumped and sent the ball to the hoop. Swish , it made the sound of perfection.
    It was Brud’s vision. Without Brud.
    Now some people, seeing somebody steal their vision, might get mad. Not Brud Kinney. Maybe if I watch this boy, he thought, I could learn to play like that, too. That got him so excited his mouth whistled, whewwwweee .
    The whistle stopped the boy.
    Brud slapped his hands over his mouth. “Sh-sh-shoot,” he mumbled, and ducked behind the brush.
    The boy held the ball tight to him. His scared eyes searched along the bushes.
    Now some people, after almost getting caught, might hightail it out of there. Or they might say, “Hey, I was watching you. Want to play?”
    Not Brud. He loved basketball too much to leave. And he didn’t want to ruin it with trying to talk. “Don’t s-s-s-stop,” he whispered.
    Finally, the boy got back to playing.
    â€œYes,” he breathed.
    But that wasn’t enough for Brud. I need to get closer, he decided.
    So he snuck, behind trees and bushes, till he was across from the boy. He peeked between branches. Don’t mess me up again, his head told his mouth, and he watched.
    Up close, the boy was even better. He could dribble backward, forward, and zigzagging. He could shoot from inside, outside, and everywhere in between.
    Brud was taking it in. In his head, he talked to himself like a teacher: Look how he holds the ball. Look how low he goes before he jumps. His head was so busy teaching, it didn’t notice what the rest of him was up to.
    Because Brud’s body was already trying it out. When the boy dribbled down the drive, Brud’s hands pushed an invisible ball. When the boy crouched with the ball over his head, Brud’s knees bent. And when the boy sprang into the air, Brud did, too.
    He came crashing through the bushes with his arms over his head. He landed in front of the boy.
    They stared at each other for a second. The boy’s eyes were filled with fear. He turned, ready to run.
    Brud knew what to do. He had to tell the boy, fast, Hey, I’m Brud. I was just watching you play. You’re good.
    As the boy sprinted to the stoop, Brud took a deep breath. “H-Hey,” he hollered, “I’m B-B-B-”
    Now the boy was at the door.
    Please work, just this once, Brud begged his mouth.
    His jaw jerked. His lips opened wide. Then he yelled, “Hey, I’m B-B-B-B-!”
    The door slammed. The boy was gone.
    Now, some people, after scaring somebody like that, might go to the door and explain things. But at the door, Brud’d still be saying, “B-B-B-”
    And some people, Brud’s head said, after seeing a stranger jump out of the bushes, might CALL THE POLICE.
    â€œSh-shoot,” he stammered, and sped down the drive.
    As Brud rode into River Bluffs, his head cussed his mouth: You’re always messing me up. You wrecked it, and there’s nothing to show for it.
    But he was wrong about that.
    Because