Soccer Halfback by Matt Christopher Read Free Book Online Page A

guy who had tossed it near the bush, Jabber would say.
    Oh, yeah? Well, who is the guy? Pete might say. How do I know that it wasn’t you who found it in the first place? How do I
     know it wasn’t you who stole the money from it? You think I forgot about the time a few years ago when you stole a couple
     of dollars from me? Sure you said you needed it and intended to pay me back. But how would I know that if I had not found
     out you had stolen it?
    You bought a pair of soccer shoes, now didn’t you? Shoes that set you back a good sum of money. How do I know that you’re
     not the culprit? If you stole from me before you just might steal from me again.
    Oh, man! What a pickle! thought Jabber. What should I do? If I tell Pete the truth, how can I be sure he’ll believe me?
    Jabber stuck the wallet into his pocket and walked to the house, taking the narrow sidewalk around the side to the back. He
     wished now that Karen had waited for him and walked home with him. It would’ve been so simple then. Either one could have
     found the wallet, and the other would have been a witness to it.
    The way it had happened, he had no witness. There could have been money in it, or there could not have been. Pete could only
     take Jabber’s word for it.
    I should have tossed it back into the bush, he told himself.
    “Speak about the devil,” Karen said as he entered the kitchen. “What took you so long?”
    “I showered,” he said. “Don’t I always shower?”
    “Yes. But it just seemed you took longer than usual.” Karen shook her head. “What a game to lose. I was telling Mom and Pete
     about it. Too bad that kick of yours missed. That would have won the game.”
    “I keep telling her it would still have been a tie,” said Pete. He was at the table where his mother was beginning to place
     the dishes. “If the Sabers had scored a goal, that would have made it three and three, wouldn’t it? It doesn’t take a genius
     to figure that out.”
    Jabber shrugged. He had difficulty meeting Pete’s eyes. How good is Pete at reading faces? Can he tell that something is seriously
     bothering me?
    “You look as if you left your heart at the field,” said his mother. “I remember that same look on your father’s face when
     he’d come home after a loss.”
    “Soccer isn’t any different, Mom,” said Jabber.
    He went to the sink and poured himself a glass of water.
    “Karen said you played like a star,” his mother went on. “When your father played football like that the whole town would
     hear about it. The whole town? Hah! The whole country!”
    “That was when he was playing in college and in the pros, Mom,” said Jabber. “The whole country doesn’t hear about a kid playing
     on a junior high school team.”
    He swallowed the drink, placed the glass on the counter, and sat down at the table.
    “But the town would hear about your playing if that was a football game,” said Pete. “Look at me. I’m no star — not that I’m
     not working at it — but even so, everybody who reads the sports pages in Birch Valley knows who Pete Morris is. They even
     recognize me on the street. ‘Hi, Pete,’ they say. ‘Good game you played.’ It’s a good feeling, I tell you.”
    “Of course it’s a good feeling,” said Mrs. Morris. “But don’t say you’re no star, Peter. You’re the best Birch Central’s got.
     You’re like your father when he was your age.”
    Pete laughed. “You’re just prejudiced, Mom. But don’t stop saying that. I like to hear it.”
    “Sure you like to hear it,” Karen intervened caustically. “Anything that feeds your ego.”
    “Of course I’m proud when I play well, if that’s what you’re saying,” said Pete, his voice rising as he glared at his sister.
     “You don’t belong in this conversation, anyway. You don’t play any sports. What do you know about it?”
    “According to your definition, football must bethe only sport,” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing. “I