Part 70 (1/2)

Michael s.h.i.+fted from foot to foot in his scruffy black sneakers. In the

past few weeks ”When I'm finished” had been his father's standard

answer. ”When will you be finished?”

”I don't know, but I'll be finished faster if you don't bother me.”

h.e.l.l, Michael thought, wisely keeping the oath in his mind. n.o.body had

time for anything anymore. His best friend was at his stupid

grandmother's, and his second best friend was sick with the dumb flu or

something. What good was a Sat.u.r.day if you didn't get to fool around?

He tried, really, to take his father's advice. There was the Christmas

tree to look at, and all the presents stacked beneath it. Michael

picked up one with his name on it, the one wrapped in the paper with

goofy elves dancing all over it. He shook it, carefully. The rattle

was only slight but brought tremendous satisfaction.

He wanted a remote-controlled plane. It had been first on his Christmas

list and written in capital letters then underlined three times. Just

so his mom and dad knew he was serious. He was sure, dead sure, it was

inside that box.

He set it down again. It would be days before he could unwrap it, days

before he could take it outside and make it do loops and dives.

He needed something to do now.

There were baking smells in the kitchen, which pleased him. But he knew

if he wandered in there, his mother would rope him into rolling out

cookie dough or decorating gingerbread men. Girl stuff.

How was he ever supposed to play wide receiver for the L.A. Rams if

n.o.body pa.s.sed him the stupid football, for crying out loud?

And what was so interesting about a bunch of dopey papers and pictures