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rumor.”
    I closed my eyes. “Michael, this isn’t going to work if you don’t follow my instructions.”
    â€œI know. I’m sorry. But he was watching racing last night and I thought—”
    â€œYou thought . . .?”
    â€œI wanted to . . . It seemed like a good opportunity.”
    â€œFine,” I said. “Just tell me what happened.”
    Michael smiled. He really wasn’t such a strange looking kid when he smiled.
    â€œSo I told him there was this rumor—”
    I held up a hand. “Why are you starting at the end?” I said.
    His face began to fall.
    â€œAnd you can’t get upset when I give you constructive criticism, Michael. It’s just a part of the lesson plan.”
    Michael nodded.
    â€œWhere’d we leave off?” I asked.
    â€œLeave off?”
    â€œWhere were we last time I saw you?” I said.
    â€œI was . . .”
    â€œOh, yeah. At the bookstore, right? I left you at Jimmy Flap’s . . . Friday? Friday. That’s where you should start.”
    â€œOkay, well, I did some research at Jimmy’s—”
    â€œWas he happy to see you?” I said.
    â€œI guess.”
    I sighed. “It’s the details that make a good story, Michael. So you walk back into Flap’s and he’s beside himself, of course.”
    â€œHe’s what?”
    â€œProbably started fussing over you the minute you walked through the door,” I said. “‘Michael, thank God! Where have you been? Was Woodrow mean to you?’”
    It took Michael a second.
    â€œI’m not sure I . . . Why did your voice—?”
    â€œI was pretending to be Flap,” I said. “Pretty good, huh? Uncanny, even.”
    â€œUh . . .”
    â€œNever mind. Sense of humor comes later,” I said. “So you walk into Flap’s, he’s hysterical for a while. Then what?”
    â€œI did some research,” he said, still a little uncertain.
    â€œThat?” I asked, pointing to the notebook.
    He nodded.
    â€œAt Flap’s? He’s got a section on racing?”
    â€œNo. I used his computer.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œActually, it was hard to concentrate,” he said. “Jimmy kept asking me where we’d been and when I was going to call his doctor.”
    â€œDid he wonder what you were doing?” I asked.
    â€œHe couldn’t figure out why I was looking at racing stuff.”
    â€œWhat did you tell him?”
    â€œSchool project.”
    â€œNot bad,” I said. “So you did your research Friday. When did you drop the rumor on Gut?”
    â€œLast night.”
    â€œThat’s right. You said that . . . Wait.”
    â€œWhat?” he asked.
    â€œI thought you didn’t know who his favorite driver was.”
    â€œI asked my mom.”
    I didn’t say anything for a second, then nodded slowly. “Not bad,” I said, giving him a little pat on the shoulder. He winced at first, but accepted the pat with a weak smile.
    â€œSo where were you guys?” I asked.
    â€œWatching TV.”
    â€œExcellent. What was he wearing?”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œWhat was he wearing? Details, Michael!”
    â€œA t-shirt, I think . . . and pants,” he said.
    â€œDid the t-shirt have sleeves?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDamn it.”
    â€œBut he was watching racing,” Michael said. “Well, actually, it wasn’t a race. It was a weekly wrap-up thing. The next big race isn’t until—”
    I held up my hand. “Did you sit down and watch with him?” I asked.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œConfused him, didn’t you?”
    Michael smiled. “Yeah . . . He said, ‘I’m not turning it.’”
    I waited. Then, finally: “And?!”
    â€œOh . . . and I said, ‘Good. I want to see the highlights.’”
    â€œWell-played, sir!” I said, clapping him on the shoulder.
    This time he