Hat Trick Page 6

  Why anyone would waste their ice time spinning around in a sparkly jumpsuit, flapping their arms and smiling, was a mystery to me.

  “I’m open!” Justin shouted from right in front of the net.

  He was always open, because he stunk.

  Patrick passed me the puck and I took off down the floor.

  “I’m open,” Justin shouted again.

  If he kept announcing it, he wouldn’t be open for long.

  “Nugget, down here!” he called to me.

  Yeesh.

  I flicked the puck past Tamara, who barely even moved to intercept it, and it landed right at Justin’s feet. He took a huge swing at it, like he was playing golf, and missed the puck completely. I lifted my stick and ran down the gym floor, watching in shock as Justin missed it again. The other kids were swarming like bees, and I only had a couple of seconds before someone was sure to steal the puck. I whipped in behind Justin, kind of like Eddie Bosko had done to me at that first practice, and took possession.

  “Way to go, Nugget!” Kenny shouted.

  J.T. was looking like more of a lost cause by the minute. I tapped the puck to the left, deked James Kwan out, then zipped past Sean. There it was. The goal was tended by Erica Brioche, whose eyes were closed so tight she probably could have seen out of the back of her head. I could have made a big, dramatic goal, but I felt sorry for her. After all, she couldn’t help the fact that she was a girl.

  Instead of whaling on it, I just nudged the puck past her for an easy point and my whole team cheered. It felt awesome!

  After twenty minutes and fourteen more goals (five scored by me), Mrs. Ramsey blew the whistle to end the game.

  I wished I could have played all day.

  Me and the guys got changed in the locker room, high-fiving and cheering over our victory, then split up to go to our next classes.

  I was already counting the hours until Big Danny Donlin’s radio show. I’d packed Shoot! Third Edition in my bag, and I peeked at it during Social Studies and French. Practise makes perfect, and what could be more perfect than a shot from centre ice? Nothing.

  At lunch, I sat with Kenny and Colin and, as usual, I swapped my homemade oatmeal raisin cookies for Kenny’s Twinkie. Mum would have screamed if she’d seen me take the first big, bad bite.

  “So, we’re two practices into the season. What do you guys think of Bosko now?” Colin asked.

  Kenny glanced at me before answering, “He’s still a jerk.”

  “A big jerk,” I added.

  “But he can play,” Colin said, through a mouthful of his turkey sandwich. His Mum always made it with cranberry sauce, which was gross.

  “Sure, he’s good,” I told him. “But he’s still a jerk.”

  “Even at school,” Kenny said, shaking his head. “I said hi to him yesterday and he just kept walking.”

  “I tried to be nice, too,” I told the guys. “But he just stares back.”

  “Maybe something’s wrong with him,” Colin suggested. “Maybe he’s really dumb.”

  I thought about whether I should spill the beans and decided it was better for them to hear it from me than someone else. “He’s actually a genius,” I sighed. “Well, in Math, anyway. He’s kind of going to be my tutor.”

  “No way!” Kenny gasped.

  “Yes way,” I told him. “Starting tomorrow.”

  “But you don’t need a tutor.”

  “Not as much as you do, Kenny.”

  “Thanks a lot,” he said, elbowing me.

  “Mum knows I’m having trouble with Math, so —”

  “That’s brutal,” Colin said, his sandwich halfway to his mouth. “Your Mum must be pure evil.”

  “Dude, she makes him eat multigrain bread,” Kenny told him. “She’s vicious.” He quickly glanced at me. “Sorry, Nugget. You know what I mean, though, right? She can be —”

  “Actually, I like multi —” I started, but Colin cut me off.

  “Tutored by the guy who wants to steal your position,” he said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe it.”

  The truth was, I could hardly believe it myself.

  Chapter Seven

  After school, I walked home with Kenny but didn’t waste any time yakking on the corner, since I had work to do. The Red Wings game would be on at seven, so I only had a couple of hours before dinner to study for the trivia contest at eight and get my homework done. It was going to be tight.

  After what he said at the water fountain, I’d decided that if Eddie Bosko wanted to be a jerk about my Math skills (okay, lack of Math skills), there was no reason I should give him extra ammo. And that meant trying to figure out as much Math as I could before the first tutoring session, which was scheduled for the very next day.

  I poured myself a glass of milk and grabbed a couple of carob brownies from the Tupperware snack tub before heading upstairs to my room.

  Trivia, then Math?

  I sighed.

  Nope. Math, then trivia.

  Of course, I wanted to be ready for Big Danny Donlin’s question of the night, but even I knew Math was more important right then, so I focused. And focusing meant I worked so hard and for so long on number crunching that I thought brain sweat was going to start leaking out of my ears.

  It took me an hour to get through the first page of the Math assignment and my gut feeling was that I only had about half of the answers right again.

  Nuts.

  I took a break to go downstairs and refill my milk glass, figuring my brain could probably use the protein.

  Back in my room, I turned to the second page and got to work. I wasn’t sure when Math had started to get so hard for me, but I wished I’d been paying attention when it did. Most of the other kids understood it, but I’d always been too busy thinking about other stuff in class. Like hockey.

  I started to reach for Shoot! Third Edition, but stopped myself. I had to stick with Math.

  Me and what was left of my melting brain were super relieved when Mum called us for dinner.

  “Awfully quiet up there,” Dad said, handing me a bunch of cutlery so I could set the table.

  “Homework,” I said, with a shrug.

  “They’re really piling it on this year, eh?” he asked, grabbing some napkins and following me into the dining room.

  “Kind of.” I scooted around the table, putting knives and forks in place while Mum and Wendy brought dinner out from the kitchen.

  Mum had made meatloaf, and even though that’s the kind of thing most kids hate, hers was awesome.

  “Mum,” I told her, in between mouthfuls, “this is so good they could serve it in the school cafeteria.”

  “Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Wendy asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Jonathan,” Mum said, raising her eyebrow.

  Great, the language police were on duty. When did my dinner table turn into Mr. Holloway’s class?

  “Sorry, I meant yes.”

  Mum smiled and reached over to mess up my hair. “I’m glad you like it, honey.”

  “I was hoping for chicken or something,” Wendy sighed. She hated meatloaf, but I was pretty sure it had more to do with the name than the taste.

  Meat. Loaf.

  She was picky like that. She hated Guy LaCroix from the Leafs, just because she couldn’t pronounce his name right. And he was an amazing hockey player! She wouldn’t touch the milk if she saw me drink from the carton. She wouldn’t let me have the front seat in Mum’s van. Ever. She wouldn’t say hi to me in public.

  After the day I’d had, I was in no mood to deal with my big, moody sister. I squirted more ketchup onto my plate and dipped a juicy hunk of meatloaf into it.

  “Ugh. How gross is that?” Wendy asked.

  I thought about the time I’d walked into the living room and caught her by surprise.

  “Less gross than swapping spit with Scott Cody,” I told her.

  Wendy dropped her fork with a clang. “What?”

  “Or maybe
it’s Scott Cootie?” That was a good one! And I’d thought of it on the spot. I couldn’t wait to tell Kenny.

  “Jonathan,” Dad warned.

  “What?” I shrugged. “Meatloaf is way less gross.”

  “You are such a twerp,” Wendy sneered.

  “Just because I play ice hockey and you play tongue hockey?” Yes! Another zinger!

  She gasped, then just sat there with her mouth hanging open.

  If Eddie Bosko had seen her, he would have thought looking like flounders ran in my family.

  “Are you going to let him get away with this?” Wendy asked, looking first at Mum, then Dad. Her braces were clogged with bits of green beans. Now that was gross, but I knew better than to point it out.

  “Everyone just settle down and enjoy the meal,” Dad said.

  “Did you even hear what he said?” Wendy asked. Her eyes were all bugged out and her face was bright red.

  “Jonathan, I think you owe your sister an apology,” Mum said.

  “For what?” I asked.

  “Uh, being born?” Wendy snapped.

  “Wendy,” Mum warned.

  “What, he can say whatever he wants and I can’t?”

  “These potatoes are fantastic,” Dad said, passing Wendy the bowl. “Didn’t Mum do a great job with dinner?”

  Wendy ignored the bowl. “I can’t eat another bite until he apologizes.”

  Mum and Dad both looked at me.

  “Sorry,” I finally said. “Can you pass the beans?”

  “That’s it?” Wendy asked.

  I thought about it for a second. “And the pepper, please.”

  “I meant your apology,” my sister growled.

  “You can do better, Nugget,” Mum told me.

  “J.T.,” I reminded her, then turned toward Wendy and put on my most sincere expression, “Wendy, I’m sorry you sucked face with Scott Cody.”

  “That’s it!” she shouted, shoving her seat back and standing up. “I’m not putting up with this.”

  “Wendy, have a seat,” Mum said.

  “Forget it,” she said, stomping upstairs like a typical teenage drama queen. When she slammed her bedroom door, the table was totally silent.

  I started to take another bite of meatloaf, but stopped when I saw Mum staring at me.

  Uh-oh.

  “What on earth did you do that for?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “You know perfectly well what,” Dad said.

  “I don’t know,” I sighed. The truth was, part of me wanted to take my rotten day out on someone else, and Wendy was the closest target. Of course, I knew Mum and Dad wouldn’t understand that kind of explanation, since they thought being eleven was easy.

  Ha!

  “Well, as soon as you’re finished with dinner, you’re going straight to your room.”

  I checked the clock and saw that it was 6:37.

  “Until the game starts?” I asked.

  Mum actually snorted with laughter. “You aren’t watching the game tonight.”

  “What?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing!

  “After what you just pulled with your sister, there’s no way you’re watching hockey.”

  All of the air left my body. She had to be kidding.

  “But … but it’s the Red Wings.”

  “And then it’s the Oilers, the Rangers, the Bruins,” Mum said, counting them off on her fingers. “That’s not the point.”

  She had the schedule all messed up, but that wasn’t the point either. I looked toward my only hope, but Dad was shaking his head. “I’m with Mum on this one.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I gasped. It was the Red Wings!

  “Finish your dinner before it gets cold,” Mum said.

  All of a sudden, I wasn’t hungry. Not even for meatloaf. I pushed my food around on my plate for a few minutes, trying to make it look like I was eating something, but I wasn’t fooling anyone.

  Mum and Dad chatted about their busy days at work, as if they hadn’t just destroyed my life. Well, my evening, anyway.

  “May I be excused?” I asked, when I couldn’t stand it anymore.

  “Yes,” Mum said. “And please clear your sister’s place, as well as yours.”

  I carried the dishes into the kitchen, then rinsed them and loaded the dishwasher. When I passed the table again on the way to my prison cell, Dad said, “Be sure to offer your sister a real apology on your way up.”

  “I will,” I mumbled.

  I climbed the stairs and stopped at the top for a second or two before knocking on Wendy’s door. I could hear music, so I knocked louder.

  “What?”

  I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry,” I said, through the door.

  “Go away,” she growled.

  So I did. I went to my room and flopped on the bed with my textbooks piled around me. I didn’t feel like doing anything, especially homework. I flipped through my Math assignment again, then opened Over the Moon and started reading.

  Before I knew it, almost an hour and a half had flown by, and that seemed crazier than the rest of my day put together. I couldn’t believe it. I’d never been “lost” in a book before, but I actually liked reading it. Mrs. Foster would probably collapse when she found out I’d read ahead.

  I glanced at the clock.

  Almost eight!

  Big Danny Donlin was coming on!

  I jumped off the bed and ran downstairs, where I could hear the game on in the living room. It was like a gigantic magnet was on the other side of the wall, trying to pull me in, but I couldn’t watch. When Mum and Dad said no, they really meant it. I froze for a second, trying to hear the score at least, but Dad had it turned down too low.

  Nuts!

  I hurried into the kitchen and climbed on the stool to reach the radio. I hit the power button, then had to scramble to turn the volume down. I rolled the dial through mini blasts of news and music until I was on PUCK Radio.

  My whole body was tense.

  The radio station was broadcasting the game!

  Of course, Mum and Dad hadn’t said anything about not being allowed to listen to it, but I was pretty sure that was a no-no. Even tuning in for the contest was pushing my luck.

  “And now that we’ve got a commercial break in the game,” Big Danny Donlin said, practically into my ear, “let’s get to tonight’s question.”

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “For a signed copy of Kenny McElroy’s NHL History, we are looking for caller number seven to tell us which team drafted Brett Hull.”

  First Bobby Hull, now Brett?

  This time, I knew the answer, right away. I’d read it in Shoot! Third Edition during Social Studies!

  The Calgary Flames.

  It was only a second or two before a call came in. Man, if people were dialing that fast, I was going to have to start practising punching in the station’s number so I’d be ready on the big day.

  “Who’s on the line?” Big Danny Donlin asked.

  “Chris from Comox.”

  “Hello Chris from Comox. Do you have an answer for me?”

  “The Calgary Flames,” I whispered.

  “Yeah, I do. It was the Blues.”

  “Ouch,” Big Danny Donlin groaned. “No it wasn’t. Next caller?”

  A woman’s voice said, “This is Fran from Parksville.”

  “And the answer is?”

  “The Calgary Flames?” she asked.

  “You’ve got it!” said Big Danny Donlin.

  I clicked the radio off with a smile, happy I had it right.

  With Dad’s help the night before, I was two-for-two. A hundred percent, if I felt like putting a Math spin on it. I could practically hear myself winning the contest. I could hear the crowd cheering as I moved to centre ice. I could hear my heart pounding as I lined up my shot.

  I could hear Mum asking Dad if he wanted anything from the kitchen!

  I jumped to the floor, as quiet as a cat, and pushed the stool back
into place.

  I tiptoed past the den and ran upstairs as quickly and quietly as I could. And when I was safely behind my closed door, I moved Shoot! Third Edition to my bedside table and made myself open my Math textbook.

  Chapter Eight

  I woke up the next morning at five o’clock and was halfway out of the bed, my toes curling from the cold, when I realized it was Thursday.

  That meant no practice, which stunk.

  I slipped my nearly frozen foot back under the covers. Sleeping in, on the other hand? That didn’t stink a bit. I pulled the blankets tight around me and rolled toward the wall to fall back asleep. Maybe I could finish my dream about skating circles around Eddie Bosko. I’d woken up just as it was getting really good. I closed my eyes and imagined coming to a quick stop and spraying ice in his face. Perfect.

  What seemed like three seconds after I fell asleep, Mom was knocking on my door.

  “Time for school,” she said.

  Already? Sure enough, when I rubbed my eyes and looked at the glowing red lights of my alarm clock, I saw that it was already seven.

  Nuts!

  I’d slept for two whole hours and it felt like I’d barely blinked. I rolled out of bed with a groan and tripped over a pile of dirty laundry that must have sprouted up overnight.

  Sprouted.

  I rubbed my eyes, thinking of sprouts as I stared at the pile by my feet. If dirty clothes sat for long enough, could something actually grow on them? I frowned.

  Kenny swore the running shoes he’d left soaking wet on his back steps last spring had mushrooms on the laces. How gross was that? Gross enough to make me pick up the pile and dump it into the laundry hamper, figuring I was better safe than sorry.

  I left my pyjamas on the bathroom counter and climbed into the shower. Just as I was getting the shampoo out of my hair, I heard the toilet flush again. I wasn’t fast enough to get out of the spray and I got scorched, right on my ribs.

  “Yowch!” I gasped, squishing myself into the tiled corner to escape from the steaming water.

  I was going to have to talk to Mum about this. I waited a few seconds and dipped my fingers under the spray. Whew. Back to the right temperature. I moved back into position and the toilet flushed again.