Read Online All American Boys by Jason Reynolds - Free Book Online Page A

organized anything. I tried him a few more times, but he didn’t text back, so I gave up. I’d see him at the BBQ anyway, because of course I’d go. I always went, and wound up wolfing down Paul’s famous burgers—but now I saw that face, Paul’s, burning, a bloodred mask of rage. He’d been so focused on kicking the shit out of that guy. I’d seen him. Had he seen me? What if he had? I’d never felt nervous around Paul, and suddenly, just thinking about him made me sweat.
    As I was going through all this, I tried to watch the game, but it was slow as all hell and Will’s team was terrible. Still, Will was playing left back and he was actually runningaround and chasing the ball. Near the end of the first half, one of the players on the other team got around a couple guys just over midfield and seemed like he had a clean break for a shot, but Will came out of nowhere and nailed a sweet slide tackle. The parents on the other side of the field started screaming like crazy, but Will’s tackle had been legal, at least as I could see it, and that’s what the referees thought too, and so when the first half ended, Will was the momentary hero, keeping the game more respectable because his team was only down one to zero. I found him and slapped him five over the heads of a few teammates in the huddle with his coach, and then I backed off. People always felt bad for me at games because of Dad, and Ma was always working, but I liked being on my own. I liked figuring out what I had to do and doing it. No one seemed to get that, and I didn’t want to crowd Will, either, so I let him be. His coach was thrilled and put him back in for the second half.
    Guzzo still didn’t text back, and I went back and forth with Dwyer a few times, but eventually, I put the phone away because it really was more fun to check out the game—and check out Will especially. This might sound dumb to some people, but it’s actually pretty cool having a little brother. I mean, he was a pain in the ass, and that I was here and not practicing over at Gooch pissed me off, but watching him smash into the guys on the other team, watching the way heshook off his own pain, made me realize that I did the same thing—twirl my fist like I was revving myself up. He had the same crooked smile. And once, when there was a pause in the action, and he was close to me on the sidelines, and he was hunched over, with his hands on his knees, he looked over at me and nodded. And I knew he was saying thank you. Not because I’d shown up to watch him, but because I had shown up to watch him he was playing harder—and he was loving it.
    And after the game, I didn’t mind taking Tough Will over to Mother’s Pizza. On the bus back to the West Side, he kept asking me about the game and what his team could have done better. “Scored a goal,” I said. “That would have helped.”
    He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I know, but how?”
    â€œYour striker. He couldn’t run. That was his problem. And when he had a shot, he hesitated. Can’t hesitate. Like you, man. You were awesome today.” I shook his shoulder and felt bad it was the only game I’d made it to all season. I wanted to be the guy who showed up, not the one who didn’t.
    When we got to Mother’s it was slammed like always. Mother’s sits on a corner and the front door faces Spring Street and the to-go window faces Twentieth Street, and while I usually just hit the to-go window, especially when I swung by at night, the line was jammed inside and outside. So I stuck Willy on the end of one of the two picnic tables and went inside to see if it moved any faster. It still tookawhile, and while I waited, I had to try to look everywhere else around the room except the one spot where I felt those eyes always watching me. That’s why I preferred the to-go window; I couldn’t see those eyes blazing into me.