Roller Hockey Radicals (2 page)

The boys, all four of them, were also wearing white uniforms with numbers on them. He couldn’t tell what they looked like,
really, not with their helmets on. Theirs had clear Plexiglas face guards, while Lainie’s goalie mask was much bulkier and
had red metal bars across the face for protection.

The two boys on offense seemed like real athletes, too. They were well built and fast on their skates. The defenders, though,
were not as good. One was overweight. That was obvious to Kirby, even through the kid’s loose-fitting jersey. The other would
trip over his own skates every once in a while, and his stick would go flailing out as
he tried to keep from falling. Kirby felt sorry for him. It must be awful to be klutzy, he thought ruefully. Almost as bad
as being short.

Kirby noticed, however, that nobody seemed to make fun of the clumsy boy. These kids all seemed to like each other.

“Oh, nice feed, Trevor!” one forward told the other after his pass flew way wide and into the bushes. “Wanna go get that?”

Kirby giggled softly. That was how he and his friends all used to talk to each other back in Minford.

“Comin’ at you!”

Trevor grabbed a second puck, then reared his stick back and sent a slap shot screaming toward the goal mouth. Lainie flinched
as the puck hit the goalpost and ricocheted away. On its side, the puck rolled and rolled, as the other forward gave chase.
It rolled until it came to a stop at the curb, right between Kirby’s skates.

Kirby looked down at it. Then he looked up at the forward, who wore number 14 on his jersey,
with the letter C by his left shoulder. Kirby guessed that this boy was the team captain.

The kid was standing over Kirby, reaching out his hand. For a second, Kirby stared at it — was he offering his hand to shake?

“Puck, please?” the boy prodded. Kirby turned red in the face, then grabbed the puck and handed it to the kid, who skated
away with it.

Kirby shook his head, feeling stupid. That kid must have thought he was a total geek! Good thing Kirby hadn’t actually tried
to shake his hand — that would have been a total disaster.

“Forget it,” he heard Lainie say. “I’m taking a break. Shoot at an empty net for a while.”

The others groaned and complained, but seeing that Lainie meant what she’d said, they dropped the puck and started trying
to steal it from each other.

Lainie skated toward Kirby. Then she veered toward the curb, where she’d left her gray equipment bag. She fished a bottle
of blue sports drink out of it, then sat down on the curb to drink
it, placing her mask, blocking pad, gloves, and goalie stick on the grass next to her.

Kirby watched her. Well, he thought, if I’m going to make friends, now is as good a time as any. He got up and skated over
to her. “Hi,” he said.

Lainie looked him over and gave him a quick smile. “Hi,” she replied. “Who’re you?”

“Kirby Childs,” he said.

“I’m Lainie Gifford,” she told him. “So you’re on skates, huh?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, not sure what to say next.

“So sit down,” she told him. He did, moving some of Lainie’s equipment aside.

“I just moved here day before yesterday,” Kirby said, trying to explain what he was doing there.

“Where do you live?”

“Over on Oliver Street.”

“Way the other end of town?” That got her attention. “Why’d you skate all the way over here?”

“There aren’t any kids where I live. They’re all at camp and stuff — or else they’re inside, watching TV or playing video
games or something
— I don’t know.” Kirby sighed.

“I know what you mean. My parents wanted me to go to camp, too, but they didn’t get the paperwork done in time and there wasn’t
any space left. So here I am.”

“What’s so great about camp, anyway?” Kirby volunteered. “I like to be home.”

“Yeah? Where’d you live before this?” Lainie asked.

“Minford.”

“How do you like Valemont so far?”

“It’s okay, I guess. Minford was better, though.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Well, there were lots of kids around during the summer, and they had an ice hockey rink.”

“Sounds cool. I’ve never been to Minford.” Lainie took a swig of her sports drink and wiped the sweat from her forehead.

“What grade are you going into? Ninth?” Kirby asked.

Lainie smiled. “No, eighth. I’m thirteen.”

“Really? Me, too!”

“You’re thirteen?” Lainie said. She sounded surprised.

“I know, I look eleven, right?” Kirby sighed again and looked down at the ants crawling in the street.

“No, I guess you could be thirteen,” Lainie said generously. “It’s just that —”

“I know. I’m short, right?”

“Well, no offense, but you are.”

“I know. It bites.”

“Hey, you think being taller than all the boys in your class is fun? I’ll trade you.” She smiled.

Kirby smiled back. “I wish,” he said.

“Hey, Kirby, you play hockey?” she asked.

“I’ve played ice hockey,” he replied. “Goalie, actually.”

“Good!” Lainie clapped him on the back. “Hey, you guys!” she shouted. “I found us another goalie!”

“Oh, no, wait a minute,” Kirby quickly objected. “I’ve never played hockey on in-line skates… and I’m not —”

“All right!” number 14 said, skating up to Kirby and Lainie. “Who’s my next victim?”

“Ha, ha, Marty. This is Kirby. He’s new in town. Take it easy on him, okay?”

“Hey, Kirby,” he said. “I’m Marty. You really wanna get in there and try to stop my famous slap shot?”

“Actually —”

“Yes, he does!” Lainie interrupted him before Kirby could say no. “Here, we’ll tighten up the mask and gear for you. Man,
I’ve been waiting forever for a chance to play forward!”

“Hey, Nick! Trev! Jamal! Check out the new goalie!”

“All right! Excellent!” came the shouts of approval, mixed with laughter as Kirby stood there, decked out in goalie gear that
was way too big for him.

“Let’s get ready to rum-bull!” Marty yelled, and they all got up to shoot the puck at Kirby.

Kirby stood there in front of the goal, feeling terrified. This was it — this was his big chance.
If he flopped, would they ever want to be friends with him?

Zing!
A shot winged at him before he even knew it was coming. Kirby raised his arm to protect himself — and miraculously, the puck
caromed off his catch glove!

“Nice save, Kelly!” Marty said.

“Kirby. It’s Kirby,” Kirby said.

“Get it right,” Lainie demanded, and took a pretty good shot at Kirby herself.

“Kirby, whatever,” Marty said good-naturedly, getting the rebound. “Hey, Kirby — curb this one!” And he fired a bullet at
the goal, low and to the left.

Kirby dropped to the ground, his legs splayed out in a split. It hurt like crazy — he hadn’t warmed up at all — but his left
leg pad smothered the puck.

“Not bad, for a little dude,” the other forward said to Marty. “Of course, with your wimpy shot…”

“Be quiet, Trevor,” Marty said. “Let’s see if you can get one past him.”

“All right,” Trevor said, accepting the challenge and taking the puck from Marty’s stick. “Here you go, goalie!” He skated
three steps closer to the goal, wound up in full flight, and fired.

The puck was past Kirby when he instinctively flashed his catch glove out and grabbed it.

“Score! Score!” Trevor shouted. “It was past the goal mouth!”

“Never mind. That was some save,” Marty said, skating over to Kirby. “What did you say your name was?” he asked, interested
this time.

“Kirby. Kirby Childs.”

“You’re how old?”

“Thirteen.”

“Get out.”

“Seriously.”

“Okay, whatever you say. Listen, Kirby, can you skate and shoot, too?”

“Uh-huh. I think so. When I used to play ice hockey, I was mostly a goalie, but I scored two goals the one time they let me
play forward. Then they put me back in goal. They thought I was too small to play forward. Like I might get hurt or something.”
He rolled his eyes to show what he thought of
that.

“Yeah. Except we’ve already got a goalie.” Lainie was standing there, with her hands on her hips. “Me. Remember?” Staring
at Marty in annoyance, she yanked the stick out of Kirby’s hands. Kirby took off the mask and handed it back to her, too.

“I thought you were too hot and sweaty under the mask and all that gear,” Marty said, rubbing it in.

“You know I could have stopped those wimpy shots just as well as Kirby,” she said hotly.

“She could have, too,” Kirby agreed. He didn’t want to get Lainie mad at him. She was the first friend he’d made here in Valemont.

“Thanks,” Lainie said in a calmer tone. “Why
don’t you give him a shot at forward, Bledsoe? I’ll get back in goal.”

“Next time,” Marty said. “I’ve gotta get home for dinner.”

“Oh, no — me, too!” Kirby said. “What time is it?”

“Five forty-five,” the overweight defenseman said, checking his watch. “I’d better head out, too. Same time tomorrow?”

“Four o’clock, Nick,” Marty agreed. Then he turned to Kirby. “Wanna join us?”

“I’ll be here!” Kirby said excitedly.

“Cool,” Marty said. “See you then, little guy.”

The boys all skated away in the other direction, but Lainie was going a couple of blocks in Kirby’s direction.

“So, you guys just get together to practice?” Kirby asked.

“No way! We’re a team — the E Street Skates!” Lainie said proudly. “See the uniforms?”

“Pretty cool. Who do you play against?” Kirby asked.

“There’s only one other team in town,” she told him. “The Bates Avenue Bad Boys. We hate them, and they hate us. Once every
week or two, we get together for a game.”

“Who wins?”

“Mostly them. But we’re getting better. Hey, we just got ourselves a new player, didn’t we?”

Kirby beamed as she waved and skated off down G Street, toting her big gray gear bag over her shoulder. “See you tomorrow!”
she called.

“Bye!”

Kirby skated for home, filled with energy and excitement. Living in Valemont isn’t going to be so bad after all, he thought
hopefully.

Just then, he skated by the row of stores he’d passed on the way there. Those two mean kids had gone. Kirby looked up at the
street sign on the corner.

“Bates Avenue,” he said under his breath. “Uh-oh.”

K
irby got home, tired and sweaty, just moments after the church bells in town all rang six o’clock. “Mom!” he called out as
he plumped down on the front steps and began unlacing his skates. “I’m home!”

“Hi, Kirby!” It was his father’s voice instead, coming through the open screen door. He sat down next to Kirby and put an
arm around his shoulders. “How was your day, son?”

“Great!” Kirby said, pulling off his helmet and starting on his elbow pads. “I met these kids, and —”

“That’s terrific,” his dad interrupted, giving him a squeeze. “I knew you’d get into the swing of things.”

Kirby’s dad had straight blond hair, like his own, except that his dad’s hung straight down, while Kirby’s tended to stick
up. His mom’s hair was like that, too. His dad also wore wire-rim glasses, was skinny, had blue eyes, and was a worrier. That
was the only bad part about him.

Kirby washed up quickly, then came down when his mom rang the bell for dinner. The Childs family had always done that — Kirby’s
great-great-grandparents had probably rung a dinner bell, too.

Earlier that day, Kirby had been wishing he had a brother or a sister, like so many of his friends back in Minford. Being
an only child was okay, because you didn’t have to share any of your stuff. On the other hand, it could be lonely when none
of your friends was available. Of course, now that he’d met the E Street Skates, that didn’t matter anymore. He was going
to be all set for the summer.

Dinner was ravioli — Kirby’s favorite, with broccoli, one of the few green vegetables he was
usually willing to eat, and mint chip ice cream for dessert. Clearly his mom had gone to the trouble of making foods he liked
for their first dinner in their new home.

As they were eating, Mr. Childs told them all about his first day at his new job. “It’s quiet up there in that office,” he
said. “Not like down on the plant floor, where I used to be, back in Minford. I think I could get used to this.” He seemed
really happy about things at work.

Good, Kirby thought. Because he had a really big favor to ask both his parents.

“So, Kirby, what did you discover on your skates this afternoon?” his mom finally asked as they were finishing dessert. “Did
you meet any kids?”

“He sure did!” his dad said. “First words I got out of him when he came home.”

“Dad,” Kirby said, rolling his eyes. His dad was always doing that — answering for him. “She asked me, not you.”

“Oh. Sorry,” his dad said, wiping his mouth
with a napkin. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Go on with what you were about to say.” Kirby could tell his dad was smiling under
the napkin. It irritated him. His parents still thought he was a little kid.

“Anyway, these kids were playing in-line hockey, and they let me play with them. I did really well, too — I was in goal, and
I stopped all of their shots… well, except one. They call themselves the E Street Skates, and the best thing is, they said
I can practice with them again tomorrow.”

“E Street?” his father echoed. “You went all the way over to E Street?”

“Kirby, you told me you were just going around the block,” his mother chided. “If I had known you were planning to skate all
the way over there, I don’t think I would have let you go.”

“But Mom —”

“No buts, Kirby. E Street is just too far away,” his father admonished. “What if something had happened to you? If you’d gotten
hurt? I’m guessing roller hockey is a very physical sport,
with lots of bodychecking and cheap shots. Or what if you’d gotten lost? You could have been skating around for hours, after
dark, trying to figure out where you were.”

“We don’t know anything about those kids or their parents, either. I’m sure you’ll find some other friends to play with tomorrow,
closer to home,” his mother added in her patient, therapist voice.