Free The Screwed-Up Life of Charlie the Second by Drew Ferguson

as Dana’s next door. We went upstairs and I dumped my bag in his room—unmade queen-sized bed, a desk, bureau with a TV and DVD player on top, posters of soccer players, a bookcase filled with CDs and a couple of trophies. The floor was covered with sheet music, tennis shoes, soccer cleats, and dirty clothes. Rob scurried around, picking stuff up and shoving it into a walk-in closet. I started helping, grabbing a stray sock that was damp and sticky. I didn’t say anything, just kicked it under his bed. As he led the way downstairs, I put my palm to my nose and wondered whom Rob’d been thinking about when he’d taken care of things.
    â€œWe’re out back, guys,” Mr. Hunt called as we stepped into the kitchen.
    They were on the deck. Rob opened the screen door and Mr. Hunt stood, setting a hairbrush on the patio table. Rob’s mom was facing away from us, an oxygen tank strapped to the back of her wheelchair. Mr. Hunt had been combing her black hair. I freaked a little. More of a silent gasp than anything. Rob didn’t hear me and Mrs. Hunt didn’t see it, so it wasn’t too bad. Still, would it have killed Rob to say, “Oh, and gee, before I forget, Mom’s wearing an oxygen mask”?
    We said our hellos. Mr. Hunt looked tired, dark bags under his eyes. Rob seemed worried.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?”
    â€œShe’s okay now. We had some trouble at lunch. I called the nursing service. Julie came over to help,” Mr. Hunt said, massaging a kink from his neck. “She’ll be here tomorrow afternoon. I’ve got to run into the city to look at a new campaign.”
    â€œIt’s Sunday. Who works on Sunday?” Rob asked.
    â€œIt’s a big project, Rob. Charlie, you haven’t met Rob’s mom yet.”
    Mr. Hunt turned the wheelchair. Even with an oxygen mask, she looked like Rob. They had the same white skin and cheekbones, even the same blue eyes.
    â€œCharlie, this is Kathy. Kathy, Charlie.”
    â€œHi, Mrs. Hunt,” I said, offering a clumsy wave. Her eyes widened and—this sounds stupid—it seemed like she smiled.
    â€œCharlie’s the guy I’ve been telling you about,” Rob said.
    â€œDon’t listen to him,” I said, socking Rob on the arm. “I’m way better at soccer. Yeah, he scored four goals last night, but I was the one who kept Woodstock to nothing.”
    Talking to Rob’s mom was easy, which kind of surprised me. Rob smiled and his retainer glinted in the sunlight.
    â€œOf course, Rob didn’t tell you that, ’cuz that’d mean admitting I’m better.”
    â€œIn your dreams, Stewart,” Rob said. He faked a jab to my gut. I flinched, tucking my arms to my chest. “We both know I’m better. I’ll prove it.”
    He bounded to the corner of the deck, hefted a soccer ball into the air with his insole, trapped it with his stomach, juggled it, and then grabbed it mid-flight with his hands.
    â€œOkay, punk. Someone needs to teach you some respect.”
    Mrs. Hunt looked at me like we were sharing a joke. I smiled and raced Rob to the backyard.
    Rob grabbed two Frisbees and marked off a makeshift goal. I grabbed one of the Frisbees and tossed it in about four feet.
    â€œWhat?” Rob asked, like he hadn’t deliberately made the goal too wide.
    â€œPutz. Like I don’t know what twenty-four feet looks like?”
    â€œI had to try.” He launched a kick at me and I batted it away.
    We played for hours, pretty much holding each other to even. At one point, I’d punted the ball a good thirty yards out. Rob dribbled it in a full-on charge. I dropped into my stance—knees bent slightly, arched on the balls of my feet, arms loose and ready. Instead of shooting, Rob stepped over the ball and dove forward, tackling me.
    â€œPenalty, penalty! Flag on the play,” I said. We rolled around, laughing, hands fumbling everywhere,