Biggie by Derek E. Sullivan Read Free Book Online

embarrassed by my weight and doesn’t understand why I don’t love sports.
    When he married my mom, he knew the offspring of Aaron Abbott came with it. He must have thought I was the prize at the bottom of the Cracker Jack box. I was only four then and didn’t hate sports like I do today. I’m sure it didn’t take long before he found out that sports weren’t the be-all and end-all for me like they were for most kids in this town, his hometown. He must have been pissed when I didn’t dominate T-ball. He probably still is.
    I guess it comes down to this: I put up with him and he puts up with me. I’m his tenant, and he’s my landlord.
    When I see him talking with Coach Phillips at the baseball meeting Maddux told me to attend, I cringe. With his blue eyes frosted and frozen, he watches me slowly climb to the fifth and final row of the bleachers in the gym. He says nothing. There are no waves or nods. I’m assuming he thought Maddux was kidding when he mentioned my upcoming pitching debut.
    The more he stares, the more determined I become to prove him wrong. Yes, I’m at a Finch baseball meeting, I want to yell. My little bastard of a brother says he’ll teach me to throw this magical knuckleball that will help me pitch the first perfect game in school history.
    Even though I’m determined, I still feel stupid and out of place. Stupid for believing Annabelle was serious when she told Coach Phillips she wanted to see me pitch.
    Three rows ahead of me, the rest of the natural baseball players are talking and laughing with each other. Kyle keeps adjusting his blue-and-gold baseball cap. Killer tells a joke with the arm movements of a mime. Everyone belongs here but me. As usual, I’m in the back of the room, quietly sitting by myself and praying that no one will notice me.
    Coach Phillips talks, tells bad jokes, and hands out paperwork. As Jet hands back a pile of papers, I shake my head and wonder why I would ever pick a baseball meeting over hanging out in my bedroom. I miss my room so much right now. I love my king-size bed, my twenty-six-inch flat screen mounted on the wall. I love my MacBook. I love my online friends, 215 novels, and 127 comic books.
    While I hate baseball, I do understand how it works. As I look down the bleachers, I see so many good hitters. And if—or when—I do take the mound against some other high school, they will have amazing hitters just like Finch does. What am I thinking? There’s no way I can throw a perfect game. The idea sounded so interesting, fun, and, most of all, possible when I was talking about it with my brother in the comfort of my house. Now it sounds like a delusion created from hitting my head on the asphalt in gym class. If it wasn’t for the forty guys sitting shoulder to shoulder and creating three rows of man-made barricades, I would sneak out. My love of the back row has done me in.
    After sitting for an hour, the boys jump up and huddle around Coach Phillips. They chant, “Yellow Jackets,” and walk out. A few of them look over at me on the bleachers. They probably think I’m early for a meeting of the nerds or geeks or loners. Wait. Do loners have meetings? I think I’m losing my mind or having my first panic attack.
    Coach Phillips breaks my trance. “Biggie, get down here.”
    I keep sitting there, afraid that if I stand, I’ll faint and fall to my death.
    â€œHenry, come here.”
    Suddenly death doesn’t sound so bad, although I would prefer to die in a much cooler way than falling down the bleachers in the school gym. I lift my ass off the seat and wobble down the steps, clinging to the railing for balance. By the time I reach the gym floor, my heart is beating out of my chest.
    â€œAre you here for a reason?” Phillips asks with Laser looking over his shoulder. Both terrify me.
    â€œPitching” is all I can say.
    â€œI heard,” Laser says.
    â€œYou