Free Underdogs by Markus Zusak Page A

getting serious. An out-of-control shot at goal went flying to the top of the fence, we held our breath, then let it out when it hit the edge and came back. We even smiled at each other.
    It was brilliant mainly because Rube had been down and out with his own form of identity crisis while I was in my typical agony over the whole Rebecca Conlon affair. This was much better. Yes. It was, because all of a sudden we were back to doing the things we didbest — throwing ourselves and each other around the backyard and getting dirty and making sure to swear and carry on and, if possible, offend the neighbors. This was better all right. This was a welcome return to the good old days.
    The ball thumped into the fence, making next-door’s dog bark and the caged parrots over there go wild. I copped a whack in the shins. Rube fell on the concrete again, taking some skin off his hand when he braced himself for the landing. All the while that dog next door kept barking and those parrots were in some kind of frenzy. It was old times all right, and typically, Rube won, 7–6. I didn’t care, though, because both of us ended up laughing and not taking things so seriously.
    What greeted us on the back step was, however, something very different. It was Sarah, alone.
    First to notice her was Rube. He backhanded me lightly on the arm and motioned over to her with his head.
    I looked.
    I said very quietly, “Oh, no.”
    Sarah looked up then because she must have heard me, and I promise you, the way she looked was bad. She was sitting there, all crumpled up, with her knees up to her shoulders and her arms folded, holding them up as if to keep all air inside her. Tears cut down her face.
    Awkward.
    That’s exactly how it was when we walked over to our sister and stood on each side of her, looking at her and feeling things and not knowing
    Eventually, I sat down next to her but I had no idea what to say.
    In the end, it was Sarah who broke the silence. The dog next door had settled down, and the neighborhood seemed stunned by this event occurring in our backyard. It was like it could sense it. It could sense some form of tragedy and helplessness being played out, and to tell you the truth, it all surprised me. I was so used to things just going on, oblivious and ignorant to all feeling.
    Sarah spoke.
    She spoke. “He got someone else.”
    “Bruce?” I asked, to which Rube looked down at me with an incredulous face on him.
    “No,” he barked, “the king of bloody Sweden. Who do y’ think?”
    “Okay, all right!”
    Then Sarah leaned away and said, “I think you’d better leave me alone for a while.”
    “Okay.”
    As I stood up and left with Rube, the city around us seemed colder than ever again, and I realized that even if it really had sensed something going on, it certainly didn’t care. It moved forward again. I could feel it. I could almost hear it laugh and taste it. Close. Watching.
    Mocking. And it was cold, so cold, as it watched my sister bleeding at the back of our house.
    Inside, Rube was angry.
    He said, “Now, you see? This spoils things.”
    “It was always gonna happen.” As I said it, I saw Steve’s figure out on the front porch. Away from us.
    “Yeah, but why today?”
    “Why not?”
    From the couch, I looked at an old photo of Steve, Sarah, Rube, and me as very young children, standing in staggered formation for some photographer man. Steve smiled. Sarah smiled. We all did. It was strange to see it, because it was there every day and only now was I really noticing it. Steve’s smile. It cared — for us. Sarah’s smile. It was beautiful. Rube and I looked clean. All four of us were young and undaunted and our smiles were so strong that it made me smile even then on the couch, with a kind of loss.
    Where did that go?
I asked inside me. I couldn’t even remember the photo being taken. Was it actually real?
    At that moment, Sarah was on our back step, crying, and Rube and I were slumped on the couch, powerless