Roller Hockey Radicals (4 page)

After that, they didn’t talk about hockey for a few minutes. Kirby could tell that Mr. Bledsoe
wanted to give the jury — er, his parents — time to think things over.

“Want to see my room?” Marty whispered.

“Sure,” Kirby said. “Might as well. Sitting here isn’t going to help.”

Marty’s room was incredible. There were signed baseball bats and balls hanging from the walls, and shelves lined with trophies
for every sport you could think of. Obviously Marty was an all-around athlete.

Marty seemed like a nice kid, too. Not stuck up or anything. Kirby liked him, especially since he and his parents were helping
convince Kirby’s mom and dad. He was dying to ask him about that afternoon’s practice, and what the other kids had said when
he didn’t show up, but he didn’t. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“Let’s go back down and see what they say,” Kirby said, unable to stand the suspense any longer.

“Okay,” Marty said. “Come on.”

They went back downstairs, and two slices of
chocolate cake were waiting for them at the table. All the parents were smiling. A good sign, Kirby thought.

“Kirby,” his dad said, “your mother and I have given it some thought. Mr. and Mrs. Bledsoe have been making some good points,
and we feel we ought to give this street hockey thing a chance. So we’ll go to the used gear exchange on Saturday morning
and get you what you need. And then you can go to the Saturday practice — your mother and I will hang around and watch. Okay?”

“You mean I can play?” Kirby gasped. It was almost too good to be true.

“One step at a time,” his mother said. “We’ll see. For now, let’s watch you practice once.”

“Yes!” Kirby said, pumping his fist in the air and slapping Marty with a high five. “All right! Thanks, Mom and Dad — you’re
the best!”

I
t was raining on Friday when Kirby woke up. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Kirby looked at his alarm clock and wondered
why it was ringing — he hadn’t set it. Then he realized that it was the telephone by his bed. He picked up the receiver.

It was Marty, inviting him to go with him and two of the other E Street Skates to the movies at the mall that afternoon. A
comedy about hockey was playing.

“It starts at two o’clock. Can you make it?”

Kirby said, “Can you pick me up?”

“Sure, my mom’s taking everyone in the van. See you at one-thirty?”

“Sure!” Kirby hung up, and only then realized
that he hadn’t checked with his mom first.

Luckily it was fine with her. That afternoon, when the van pulled up, she gave him a hug and some money and said, “Have a
great time, Kirby. I’m so glad you’re making so many new friends.”

Kirby was happy, too, but he didn’t want to get all mushy about it. They weren’t really his friends yet, and if his mom and
dad didn’t like what they saw tomorrow at practice, they might never be.

“Bye, Mom,” he simply said. He gave her a peck on the cheek, then ran outside and through the rain to the van.

Everyone greeted him by shaking his hand, thumbs-locking style, and telling him their names again.

Trevor McDonough was the team’s other forward. He had sand-colored hair and looked right at Kirby when he shook hands. Kirby
remembered him as number 7. He was smaller than Marty but a good skater and shooter — also an intense competitor. Kirby recalled
Trevor shouting about how his shot was a goal.

Then there was Nick, the overweight one. He had dark hair in a buzz cut and a round, red face. His hand felt cold and clammy,
but Kirby liked the way he smiled and laughed.

Jamal was almost as small and thin as Kirby. But whereas Kirby was blond and pale with glasses, Jamal had dark brown skin,
curly black hair, brown eyes, and no glasses. Kirby remembered he wasn’t much of a skater. But when he shook Kirby’s hand,
he really shook it.

“Glad to meet you!” he said with a big smile. “Now I’m not the smallest kid on the team!”

Kirby laughed and settled back for the ride to the theater. That’s when he realized that someone was missing.

“Where’s Lainie?” he asked.

“Lainie?” Marty repeated. “Probably with her friends or something. Why?”

“You mean, she’s not one of
your
friends?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“We just don’t generally hang out with her,” Trevor explained.

“Well… why not?” Kirby persisted.

There was a sudden, uncomfortable silence in the van. Kirby looked up front at Mrs. Bledsoe, who was driving. She was staying
totally out of the conversation.

“What, do you like her or something?” Trevor asked.

“No!” Kirby responded automatically. “I mean, yeah, of course I like her — don’t you like her?”

He felt himself going red as Jamal and Nick laughed. “Aw, forget it,” Marty said, clapping him on the shoulder. “We’re just
ragging you. We do that with each other all the time.”

Kirby sat back, relieved. “Well, maybe she’d like to come with us,” he said.

Marty turned to his mother. “Mom, can we drive by Lainie’s and see if she can come?”

“Sure thing,” his mom said. “And I think that’s a very nice idea, too.”

Five minutes later, Lainie hopped into the van, excited. “Thanks for inviting me!” she said.

“Thank Kirby,” Trevor said. “It was his idea.”

“Oh. Well, thanks, then,” she said, giving Kirby a big smile. “I take it the rest of you approved?”

Everyone laughed together. This was going to be a fun afternoon, Kirby decided.

The movie turned out not to be so great, but at least it had been good for a few laughs. The funniest things were the comments
the kids whispered to each other.

The next morning, as promised, Kirby’s mom and dad took him to the gear exchange. It was a bigger event than he’d thought
it would be. There were people from a lot of the nearby towns, and even one family from Minford!

Kirby knew the kid, but not really well. He was two years younger than Kirby. Still, he was so excited to see someone from
Minford that he went over and nearly hugged the kid.

“Noel! It’s me! Kirby!”

Noel gave him a weird look. “Oh, yeah… I remember you. You moved, right?”

“Yeah. I live here now.”

“Oh.” Noel moved off, uninterested, and began to look at old uniforms. Embarrassed, Kirby rejoined his parents.

“Let’s get this over with, okay?” he said. “I want to get to E Street.”

They handed in Kirby’s old goalie outfit and the other useless gear from the garage and were given vouchers for its value.
Then they went to the section that had stuff in Kirby’s size and picked out the best gear they could find: a pair of hockey
gloves, shin guards, padded hockey pants, and shoulder pads. Kirby already had elbow pads and wrist guards. His regular skates
would have to do for now.

Helmets were not part of the exchange. “Once helmets have taken a pounding, they don’t absorb shocks as well,” the man in
charge told them. “So we don’t trade them. Best to get a new one at the sporting goods store.”

So Reilly’s Sporting Goods was their next stop. Kirby got a white helmet, matching the ones Marty and the others had. His
parents also got
him a new stick and some black tape to tape it up with.

“Can I get a uniform, too?” he begged. “Those over there are the same ones the other kids have.”

“The white ones with the red numbers?” his dad asked.

“Yes. Please, Dad? Mom? I’ll help pay with my allowance money.” He pulled a few bills from his pocket and held them out.

His dad and mom looked at each other wearily and smiled. “All right, Kirby,” his mom said. “But remember, it doesn’t mean
we’re letting you join the team. We’ll have to wait and see about that.”

Kirby nodded quickly, but he didn’t really pay much attention to the warning his mom had given. After all, he thought, why
wouldn’t they let me join the team? They’ve already gotten me the equipment and the uniform!

They paid the cashier and drove from downtown to E Street. “Turn here,” Kirby told his mother, who was driving. “And park
before you get to the net.”

They pulled over, and Kirby got out. He already had his skates and gear on. All the way there, he’d been getting suited up
in the backseat. The other kids let out a whoop when they saw him.

“He’s here!” Jamal yelled. “It’s Wayne Gretzky!”

Kirby laughed, realizing that his parents had bought him number 99. “I guess I’d better be good!” he joked.

There weren’t any other parents around, Kirby noticed. His own had gotten out of the car and were watching them. It made Kirby
suddenly uncomfortable. What will the other kids think? he wondered.

None of them seemed to notice, though. They were too busy passing the puck around and shooting it at Lainie. Trevor passed
the puck to Kirby and said, “Go for it, hotshot!”

Kirby took the pass and skated toward the blue chalk line the kids had drawn across the street. He wound up for a slap shot.

“Car!” Lainie yelled just as Kirby was about to fire the puck. She grabbed the net and pulled it toward the side of the street.
The car went roaring by. The driver had barely slowed down.

“Can you believe that guy?” Nick said. “Jerk!” he called after the speeding car.

“Come on, let’s get back to work,” Marty said. He helped Lainie return the net to its chalk mark in the middle of the street,
then skated off to play defense. “Take another shot, Kirby. Kirby?”

Kirby was watching his parents. They were deep in conversation. Uh-oh, Kirby thought. He hoped they hadn’t gotten the wrong
idea, seeing that car speed by.

He took the puck off Trevor’s stick again and tried to skate by Marty with it. Marty stayed close, trying to knock it away.
Kirby kept his body between Marty and the puck.

Getting an idea, Kirby suddenly fed the puck between Marty’s legs and, with a quick spin, picked it up on the other side of
him.

Marty was taken totally by surprise. He spun
around backward, tripped over his own stick, and fell right on top of Kirby. Both of them crashed onto the pavement. Neither
boy was hurt, thanks to their protective gear. But Kirby knew his parents had been watching while a kid twice his size had
fallen right on top of him.

“Car!” Lainie called out again. E Street was a one-way street, so Lainie, always facing the traffic, was the first to spot
oncoming cars. Once again, she pulled the net away, and the others skated to the curb.

Now a procession of cars came barreling down the block. No sooner did Lainie and Marty replace the net than another group
of cars forced them to the side again.

“How come there are so many cars?” Kirby asked Marty anxiously.

“It’s bad on weekends in summer,” Marty explained. “A lot of cars cut through here on their way to Longwood Lake.”

“Oh. Couldn’t your dad have mentioned that
the other night? My parents are getting upset. Look at them.”

“They don’t look too happy,” Marty agreed. “Come on, let’s just play. Once they see you score a goal, they’ll loosen up. Lainie
— let Kirby score one, okay?”

Lainie frowned. Clearly she didn’t like the idea of making herself look bad. “Okay,” she said with a shrug. “But just this
once.”

The traffic finally let up. Once more, Kirby took the pass at center ice from Trevor. Marty purposely let him get free for
the shot, and Kirby wound up for the big blast.

His stick hit the puck with a resounding
thwack.
The puck sailed toward Lainie, who ducked in real fear. But the shot was just a bit high. It flew just over the net, and
kept going — right smack into the windshield of Kirby’s parents’ car!

“Aaaaaagh!” Kirby screamed. “No! No! I didn’t do that! It was an accident — Mom! Dad! Wait!”

His mom and dad were already at the car, looking at the shattered windshield. “It was an accident!” Kirby repeated as he skated
up to them.

“Well, we’ll have to get it fixed,” his father said, tight-lipped. “Right now. And you’ll have to come with us, Kirby.”

“But —”

“No buts,” his mom said. “We’ll discuss it in the car.”

Kirby said a sad good-bye to his friends, then got in, and they drove off.

“It’s not just the windshield, Kirby,” his mother said as Kirby fought back tears in the backseat. “It’s all the traffic,
with those crazy drivers…”

His father agreed. “It’s dangerous, playing in the street. You’ll have to do other things with your new friends. Playing hockey
in the street is out.”

Kirby felt tears tumbling down his cheeks. Great. There went his only friends. His whole life was ruined! What was he going
to do now?

F
or the rest of that day, Kirby barricaded himself in his room and didn’t come out except to use the bathroom or sneak some
snacks. He played a lot of video games and watched a lot of TV. He didn’t say a word to either of his parents — not even when
his mom knocked on the door at ten o’clock to tell him to shut off the lights and go to sleep.

The next morning, he felt awful. He hadn’t slept very well. On top of feeling crummy about not playing hockey, he felt guilty
about not talking to his parents — especially after breaking their windshield. He decided he couldn’t take it anymore.

His mom and dad were down in the kitchen, eating muffins. “Hi,” he said softly, taking his regular seat at the table. “I’m
sorry about everything. I didn’t mean to break the windshield, and I guess I should have said good night to you.”

“Oh, honey,” his mother said, getting up to give him a hug. “We’re sorry, too.”

“I shouldn’t have dragged you away from there just like that,” his dad said. “I guess I overreacted.”

“So… I can play?” Kirby dared to ask.

“Well, no. Not in the street,” his mother said. “There are just too many cars, and they drive too fast.”

“But it wasn’t like that the other time!” Kirby protested. “Marty says it’s just on the summer weekends, ’cause people go
to the lake.”

“I’m sure there’s some truth in that,” his father said, “but unless you can find some other place to play, it’s no deal. Your
safety comes first.”