I’ve only taken a small bite out of my poultry surprise—my third—so I hand it over. He squeezes in a couple of packets of relish and some mayo and finishes it in three bites. “Man,” he says, “this is, like, epic.”
“Remember,” I tell him, “what you ‘chronicle in your history’ can also be used as evidence.”
When we’re almost finished, Leah and Tim show. I leap up and run to hug them, while Sheila turns her back. When Sheila was still in the hospital, under guard even, Leah got in to see her, only to hear Sheila chastise her for pulling her out of the car. Sheila seems happier to be alive now, so the turning away is likely embarrassment.
Right now, Leah says, “So this is real.”
I say, “If you can call it that. You guys want something to eat?”
Tim looks around with great skepticism, pats his stomach, and says, “Love to, but I’m in training.”
Leah laughs. “We’re here for dessert.”
“Two ice cream sandwiches coming up.” Walter has snuck in behind us.
I stand in the middle of Quik Mart between two of the fastest—and culturally unlikeliest—swimmers in the state of Washington, grateful that Momma Jane has tethered me to her, so I feel safe surveying those to whom I am connected by biology and the flow of time. They’ve ravaged one another and me, and I’ve ravaged them back. We’ve turned our backs on one another a thousand times, only to turn again into reluctant embrace. They’re so unhinged they can kill, but so far they haven’t—thanks to a lead-footed Korean breaststroker who swims distance freestyle and his kickass girlfriend . . . and a lot of luck. Bill Bryson tells us in A Short History of Nearly Everything that advances in evolution are very often accomplished not so much through the overpowering superiority of one species over another, but through certain unique mutations of the ordinary, slipping through a rapidly closing window and building on those mutations. It may be arrogant, but I think of myself as the Boots kid who slipped through that window. I’m the first of my clan to graduate high school and get into community college, and though it’s not WSU or the U-Dub, don’t count me out; I’d look good in a Cougars or Huskies jersey.
It would be easy to lay my relative good fortune at the feet of Momma and Marvin and even Pop; they certainly provided stability and lots of second chances. But—and this might seem like a hard case to make—I also stand on the shoulders of the Bootses. There probably won’t be a time in the foreseeable future when I can give a money-back guarantee that my next encounter with Nancy or Sheila or even Rance will be skirmish free. None of us would have struggled like this if there hadn’t been some glue—some love, or connection, or whatever—and I have to admit that the part of me that hangs on like a pit bull has saved me as many times as it’s shamed me. So here I sit, watching Marvin polish off another turkey dog to the tune of Nancy’s irreverent verbal bombs, my sister in orange and my bio dad in a coma, and I have to give us kudos. I mean, hell, we’re still standing.
About the Author
CHRIS CRUTCHER is the critically acclaimed author of twelve novels, an autobiography, and two collections of short stories. He has won three lifetime achievement awards for the body of his work: the Margaret A. Edwards Award for Outstanding Literature for Young Adults, the ALAN Award for a Significant Contribution to Adolescent Literature, and the NCTE National Intellectual Freedom Award. Drawing on his experience as an athlete, teacher, family therapist, and child-protection specialist, he unflinchingly writes about real and often-ignored issues that face teenagers today. He lives in Spokane, Washington.
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used to advance the fictional narrative. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
LOSERS BRACKET. Copyright © 2018 by Chris Crutcher. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Cover art © 2018 by Linus Curci
Cover design by Sylvie Le Floc’h and Bradley Mead
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017957398
Digital Edition APRIL 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-222009-7
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-222006-6 (hardback)
18 19202122PC/LSCH10987654321
FIRST EDITION
Greenwillow Books
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