Charles Chasner,â he said. âBut everyone calls me Chip.â
âI know,â Bobbi replied, feeling her face grow hot. âI think youâre a really good player.â
âThanks.â He beamed at her. Her compliment seemed to make him forget his shyness. âIâve watched you too.â
âTough game Friday night,â Bobbi said, watching the two boys dispiritedly walk the disabled bike away.
âYeah. Winstead is always tough,â Chip said, waving to a couple of girls who had just emerged from the building. âTheyâll probably cream us.â
Bobbi laughed. âWow, youâve sure got confidence,â she said sarcastically.
âNo. Come on,â he replied. âIâm pumped for the game. But youâve got to be realistic. They went to the state finals last year.â
âHowâd you learn to throw the ball so far?â Bobbi asked, stopping at the edge of the parking lot, shifting her backpack on her shoulders. âJust practice a lot?â
âYeah.â He nodded. âMy dad and I used to practice throwing in the backyard. We still do, when he has the time. Heâs working two jobs these days, so itâs kind of tough.â
âMy parents both work all the time,â Bobbi told him. âBut Iâm usually at cheerleading practice or studying, so I wouldnât see them much even if they were home.â
âI guess my dad got me my first football when I was five,â Chip said, leaning against the parking lot fence. The wind ruffled his thick, brown hair, his dark eyes studying Bobbi as he talked. âHe loves football, but he never had a chance to play. Always had to work. So I guess he wanted to do his playing through me.â
âThat can be a lot of pressure,â Bobbi said thoughtfully.
Chipâs expression hardened. âI can handle it,â he said softly.
âI just meantââ Bobbi started, surprised by his abrupt answer.
âAre you going out with anybody or anything?â Chip interrupted.
Caught off guard by the change of subject, Bobbi hesitated. âNo,â she finally managed to reply. âAre you?â
He shook his head. âNo. Not anymore. Want to meet me after the Winstead game?â He stared at her intently. âWe could go get a pizza. You know. Hang out with some other guys?â
âGreat,â Bobbi replied. âSounds good.â
âWell, okay. Excellent.â He glanced up at the clock over the back door of the school. âIâve got to practice,âhe said, pushing away from the fence. âAfter the game, wait for me outside the stadium locker room, okay?â
He didnât wait for her to reply. Instead, he slipped his helmet on and began jogging toward the practice field across from the baseball diamond, taking long, easy strides.
What an amazing day! Bobbi thought, watching him as he ran. So many good things happening at once!
She shook her head, somewhat dazed by it all. Her next thought was: Iâll probably be hit by a truck on the way home.
⦠⦠â¦
The next evening, a warm, almost balmy Thursday night, Bobbi finished her dinner, then hurried to Jenniferâs house to study. Since the accident, she and Jennifer had become close.
Unlike some of the other girls, who wanted to shut the accident out of their minds and forget it had ever happened, Bobbi had visited Jennifer in the hospital every day. Bobbi had been touched by her new friendâs bravery and serenity. Soon she and Jennifer were talking easily, sharing their thoughts and feelings as if they had been longtime friends.
Bobbi parked her car on the street and made her way up the smooth asphalt drive. Jennifer lived in a sprawling, modern ranch house in North Hills, the wealthiest section of Shadyside.
What a contrast to Fear Street, Bobbi thought wistfully, her eyes taking in the manicured lawns, raked clean, and the well-cared-for
June Stevens, DJ Westerfield