Murphy & Mousetrap (5 page)

“Who would that be?” Mom said.

When she opened the door, Albert, Danny and Jeff stood in the doorway.

“Murphy here?” Albert said.

“Come in,” Mom said.

Murphy slouched in his chair. Who asked them here? Why don't they go away?

“It's good to see you, boys,” Mom said. “Murphy hasn't had anyone to play with.”

Albert's eyes scanned the room. “Nice place you've set up here.”

He rested his leg on the arm of the sofa and said, “I didn't think you'd get all your stuff in here.”

He peered at the blanket walls. “You guys' beds in there?”

“Yeah,” Mom said.

“Cool,” Albert said. “Real cool.” First he pulled the blanket back and looked at Mom's bed. Then he looked at Murphy's bed. He motioned with his chin for Danny and Jeff to join him.

“Look at that, eh,” he said. “Wow.”

Then he turned to Mom. “I'm pretty impressed, Mrs. J. You made this place look like a home.”

“Hey, Murphy.” Albert turned his attention to Murphy. “You want to come and play soccer with us?”

“Good idea,” Mom said. “He's almost finished his breakfast.”

Murphy didn't like what he heard. How did Mom know if he wanted to play soccer? He had never played soccer. Whenever his class had played soccer Murphy found some reason why he couldn't. He ignored Albert and concentrated on his spoon.

“Hurry up, Murphy,” Mom said. “Don't keep the boys waiting. Find a jacket; it's cold. And don't get your feet too wet.”

Murphy finished his cereal slowly, trying to devise a plan to get out of playing with the boys. When he couldn't think of anything he disappeared behind his blanket wall and rummaged through his shelf for a jacket. When he rejoined Mom, Albert stood by the door, soccer ball under one arm and Mousetrap under the other.

“Nice cat,” he said. “What's his name?”

“Mousetrap,” Mom answered. “Although he's never seen a mouse.”

“You should call him Rat-trap. We got rats around here as big as him.”

Murphy didn't like Albert holding Mousetrap, and he didn't like what he heard about rats. He had never seen a rat, but from what he had heard and from what he had seen on TV they were scary animals.

“Have fun, honey. Don't get too cold,” Mom said.

He followed the boys out of the basement and down the driveway, keeping a few paces back.

“Don't get too wet, honey,” Albert said with a high squeaky voice, mimicking Mom. “Don't get too cold, honey.”

Danny and Jeff laughed, and the three of them walked faster. Why did they even ask him to play?

Murphy's question was answered soon enough. “Leave him alone, Albert,” Jeff said. “Grandma said we should be nice to him.”

“Ever play soccer?” Albert said half turning around.

Murphy didn't want to say no because he knew everyone played soccer on the reserve.
He didn't want to say yes because he knew that as soon as he got on the soccer field they would find out he was lying. So he didn't answer. He dropped his head and watched his running shoes take step after step along the path toward the park.

“You deaf?” Albert hollered. “You got trouble hearing plain English, white boy?”

“Hey, man,” Jeff said. “Murphy's my cousin.”

“You know how to play soccer?” Albert said.

“Not really,” was all Murphy could say.

8

At the soccer field, two boys sat on old wooden bleachers and two others juggled balls from one foot to the other.

“You guys ready?” Albert called.

The boys gathered around him. Albert stood taller than any of the others. One boy was no taller than Murphy. Another boy was light colored with skin not much darker than Murphy's.

“This is Murphy,” Albert said. “They say he's a relative. But he ain't no soccer player.”

The boys nodded, but no one spoke until Jeff said, “He's my cousin. Murphy just moved here.”

Then the small boy called, “Hi,” over his shoulder as he ran down the field kicking the ball.

“We're gonna start,” Albert shouted.

“Seeing that you haven't played before,” Albert said to Murphy, “why don't you play goalie?”

“No way,” Jeff said. “You're the goalie, Albert. He's not gonna be able to stop a thing.”

“I don't mind,” Albert said as if he was doing Murphy a favor. “He can play my position for a while.”

A tall kid with big front teeth and glasses laughed out loud. He punched Albert in the side and said, “Let's do it, Al,” sounding like they knew something no one else knew.

“I don't think I'd be good as goalie,” Murphy said.

No one paid any attention to him. The boys hurried into the field and started passing the ball from foot to foot.

“Just stand here,” Jeff said. “And keep the ball out of the net.”

The ball flew from player to player so fast Murphy could barely keep his eyes on it. Some boys kicked the ball toward Murphy,
and others kicked it the other way. The other goal was empty, which confused Murphy. What sort of game were they playing?

All the kicking took place near the center of the field, so Murphy had time to look at the goal posts behind him. They were far apart. He looked over his head at the bar across the top of the net. It was twice as high as he was. Between the net and where he was standing was a deep puddle of muddy water. If anybody shot the ball at the net there wasn't one chance in a million that Murphy could keep it out.

He watched the boys passing the ball from foot to foot and calling out, “Behind you,” “In front,” “Over here,” “Nice one.”

The running looked exhausting, but at that moment Murphy wished he had played soccer at school. At least he would know what they were doing. Being the goalie wasn't turning out so bad as long as the boys kicking the ball away from the net stopped the boys from kicking it toward the net.

All the standing around gave Murphy time to think. What would he do if the ball came
hurtling toward him? He needed a plan. It only took him a moment to decide that he would jump out of its way and let it hit the net. After a few shots the boys would learn that Murphy wasn't a goalkeeper. Then maybe they would realize that he wasn't a soccer player either.

Just when Murphy became sure of his plan, he caught a flash of the soccer ball whizzing through the air toward him. Nose level. Straight for his face.

He had no time to think about moving and letting the ball fly into the net. Instead, he raised his hands and stopped the ball just before it smashed into his face.
Splat
! He stumbled backward wet up to his knees in the puddle. He struggled to breathe. His arms and fingers felt like they had been run over by a truck. But the ball was still lodged between them.

He wheezed heavily and stood frozen up to his knees in the mud, still gripping the ball between his hands. Albert charged him, grabbed the ball and yelled, “You're supposed to throw it back in, you idiot!”

Air finally reached Murphy's lungs, and the fuzz in his brain cleared. He heard the boys calling to each other, “Wow, did you see that little white kid make that save?” “He looks like he's been in goal before.”

Murphy's joints felt as if they had been welded together. When the play moved away to center field, he tried to loosen up, but before he had time to stretch his neck or even clap his stiff hands together, Albert sprang away from the others and sprinted back toward the net. The ball made a direct line in front of him as if it were tied with a string to the end of his shoe. Before Murphy had time to wonder how Albert kept the ball so close, the ball left Albert's foot like it had been fired from a cannon and zoomed straight toward Murphy's head. Without a thought, he raised his hands to protect his face, only to find the ball once again lodged in his hands.

“Great save, cousin!” Jeff hollered.

Albert grabbed the ball, spitting words through his teeth as he ran away, “You won't be lucky three times, peewee.”

It felt like the ball had smashed every bone and strained every muscle that was holding Murphy together. One more hit like the first two and the ball could kill me, thought Murphy. He repeated his plan to himself: When the ball comes toward you, jump out of the way. It was a simple plan, but so far it hadn't worked.

Moments later, the boy with big front teeth and glasses stole the ball, pulled away from the other boys and ran straight toward Murphy. He had plenty of time to line up and shoot the ball into the net far from where Murphy was standing. Murphy would have had no hope of stopping it. Instead, the boy stopped right in front of Murphy, swung his leg back and kicked the ball with the force of a logging truck. The ball spun through the air so fast that Murphy had no time to move.

Murphy raised his hands. He had no other choice. He was paralyzed with fear and his body felt too broken up to get out of the way. For the third time, he caught the ball, but this time it was coming his way so fast that
his legs flew up in the air, and his head hit the ground. Black spots turned into total darkness and quiet settled around him except for the sound of bees in his ears. Shiny gold and silver shapes passed in front of his eyes and turned to gray. Soon the shapes turned into boys leaning over him and staring into his face.

Murphy shook his head, and the darkness drew back. He looked at his hands. The ball was still glued between his fingers.

Once the boys saw his eyes open they began slapping each other's hands.

“Wow!”

“What a save!”

“You're great!”

Jeff bent down and pulled the ball out of Murphy's hands. Murphy rolled over and pushed himself into a sitting position. Thick muddy water soaked into his pants and shoes. He staggered, dripping wet, back to the center of the net. His head felt light, as if it was not completely attached to his neck. His hands, arms, fingers, legs and knees felt like they belonged to someone else's body.

And it wasn't over yet. Each time Albert or the boy with big teeth and glasses ran toward the net, they looked Murphy right in the eye and fired the ball directly at him. If they had aimed at the net, they would have got a goal with every shot. That's how Murphy found out they had a plan. Their plan was not to get a goal. It was to hurt him.

Albert took two, three, four, five shots, and each one spun like a meteor right into Murphy. The boy with big front teeth and glasses did the same thing. Each time, Murphy thought about jumping out of the way, but he didn't have enough time so he blocked the ball with his hands. And each time he raised his hands to block the ball, it got stuck between his fingers.

When the game finally came to an end, the boys pounded him on the back. “You're a great goalie!” they said, and, “You must have played soccer before.”

Albert grabbed the ball. “You were just lucky, peewee,” he said. And the boy with big front teeth and glasses said, “Wait till next game.”

Murphy tried to keep up with Albert, Jeff and Danny on the way home, but his legs wouldn't move quickly, and his knees couldn't remember how to bend.

Jeff hung back with him. “You really never played before?” he asked.

“Never,” Murphy replied. His voice was thin and squeaky.

“You're a great goalie,” he said.

Murphy liked how those words sounded, but he knew there was nothing great about the saves he made. He stopped the ball because he was terrified. He didn't drop the ball because his hands were frozen. And he didn't jump out of the way because he wasn't fast enough. That was the part Jeff didn't understand.

9

When Mom answered the door on Sunday morning Murphy was still in bed.

“He's not feeling so good this morning,” she said. “If he's feeling better later I'll get him to catch up with you boys.”

Not so good? Murphy was feeling like he had stubbed every part of his body. He felt worse than ever before in his entire life. Ten times worse than the night he threw up five times after eating a rotten hot dog. Twenty times worse than when he had chicken pox all over his body.