Trophy Kid by Steve Atinsky Read Free Book Online

watch it bounce and land on one of the band’s electric guitars, which was resting in its stand next to an amp. The guitar and amp must have still been turned on, for no sooner had the firecracker gone off than the guitar burst into flames. There was a loud crack from the power amp, which suddenly had smoke pouring out of it.
    A few screams erupted from the crowd. Guava was frozen, and everyone else, me included, was either in the same petrified state or looking around for someone else to do something. Finally, Robert jumped onto the stage and grabbed Guava, while Tom pulled a fire extinguisher from the wall at the bottom of the writing-room stairway and quickly sprayed the amp and guitar.
    Once Robert had gotten her out of harm’s way, Guava, in tears, ran into the house, followed by Greta. Robert told everyone to go back to enjoying themselves and thanked Tom for his quick thinking. Everyone applauded Tom, who looked slightly embarrassed. I was relieved that Guava hadn’t been hurt, but I wished I had been able to do something to help her instead of just sitting there. I wished I could be more like Tom.
    After a brief interlude allowing everyone to settle back into having a good time, the
planned
fireworks display went on without any accidents or surprises.
    I sat with Tom and Jessica during the show.
    “How come you knew what to do?” I asked as fireworks of all colors and shapes were lit on the tennis court, which was a safe distance from people and houses.
    “Comes from playing gigs in a lot of clubs,” Tom said, checking out the array of colored lights exploding in the sky. “You never knew what might go wrong. I got in the habit of knowing where the fire extinguisher was in every joint we played in. I kind of do it automatically now.”
    “Remember that night Rusty set his pants on fire?” Jessica laughed.
    “What happened?” I asked eagerly.
    A huge firecracker went off with a loud bang. The white light from it was reflected in Tom’s glasses. He had a smile on his face that might have come either from the latest explosion or from the memory he was about to share with us.
    “Okay,” Tom started, “we were onstage and Rusty lit a cigarette between songs and without thinking tossed the match on the ground. Except the match was still lit, and instead of landing on the ground, it landed in the cuff of his pants. We were about a third of the way into the next song when I heard some strange notes coming out of Rusty’s bass. I look over and Rusty’s beating at his pant leg with his bass, trying to put out the fire. I found the extinguisher and sprayed his leg. It wasn’t a big deal. The worst damage was from Rusty smashing his ankle with his bass guitar. He walked with a limp for about a month.”
    I was beginning to see one of the reasons Tom kept Rusty as a friend: a lot of great stories.
    “This could have been a lot more serious,” Tom said, referring to Guava’s pyrotechnic display a short while before.
    Robert came over and squatted in front of us.
    “How’s she doing?” Tom asked.
    “She’s still pretty upset. Greta’s with her. Thanks again for putting out the fire. I owe you one.”
    “No problem,” Tom said, as if putting out fires was just part of the job he’d been hired for.
    Guava rejoined the party a little while later, no longer dressed as Uncle Sam but wearing a
Kids in the House
(her favorite TV show) T-shirt and jeans. I was surprised when she came over and sat by me. After a minute or two, she leaned her head on my shoulder. It stayed there until the last of the firecrackers did its business and dropped to the ground.

seven
    The Fourth of July (and all its fireworks) fell on a Monday that year. On Tuesday Tom and I were back working in the writing room above the garage. Well, we weren’t exactly working; we were playing Space Safari on Tom’s laptop.
    “Jessica and I are having a barbecue on Sunday,” Tom said as he broke down the defense shield around my ship, which