Free Changing Michael by Jeff Schilling Page A

passed Michael once, on my way to lunch, and thankfully he wasn’t pinned up against a locker. He flushed and smiled when he saw me and held up a hand. I gave him a serious nod, just to see what he would do. The hand dropped back to his side. He looked perplexed.
    I decided to make an in-home visit after school on Wednesday. Michael and I needed a strategy session and Mom said she’d be working from home Wednesday. That was kind of weird—Mom rarely worked from home, and this was the third time in two weeks—but I’m smart enough not to ask questions when things go my way. I decided not to tell Michael about the strategy session. I didn’t want him cleaning up or chasing family out of the living room.
    On Wednesday afternoon, after hanging out a little after the last bell with Jack and a couple other kids—no sense in getting to Michael’s house before he did—I headed our for Michael’s.
    I did some sightseeing on the way. I decided that some of the neighborhood houses weren’t that bad. There only seemed to be four different styles of house, though: one-level, two-level, smaller one-level, and smaller two-level.
    Most of the bricks were a shade I’d call “exhausted pink” and may have been “pre-owned” bricks the developer got on sale. Most looked like they might fall apart if you ran a hard finger over them.
    I know I’ve mentioned a career in law enforcement as well as social work, but pursuing either would probably be a slap in the face to the architectural community. I clearly have a gift. However, both architects and social workers spend a lot of time in school, and I’m just not prepared to do that.
    Even with the pre-owned brick façade, most of the houses weren’t awful. But Michael’s block—there just wasn’t any way around it. They were bad. I wondered if they’d ever looked new. Did everyone in the neighborhood start junking-up their houses at the same time, or did it start with one guy who just didn’t care? Maybe it was a couple families that didn’t care. Then everybody else said, “Well, if they don’t care, we don’t either.”
    Or maybe the guys that built them didn’t care. Maybe they left things half-finished. Or maybe they left all their crap around when they were done. But how come not one person cared about the rusty swing set slowly falling in on itself, or the flock of empty snack bags cartwheeling across the front yard? Or how come one person didn’t say, “You know what? I’m never going to use all these old engine parts. Think I’ll take them to the dump or something.”
    Standing at the end of Michael’s driveway, I shook my head, trying to clear it. Time to focus on Gut, not the houses.
    As I worked my way up the driveway, I could hear music coming from a window. I stopped.
    Sounded like classical music.
    Oh well , I thought. I suppose it’s one way to piss Gut off. I pounded on the storm door and waited.
    Eventually, my old buddy wandered up.
    â€œYeah?” he said.
    Still no sleeveless t-shirt. Maybe I could leave a three-pack on the stoop one night?
    â€œMichael around?” I asked.
    â€œYeah.”
    He stepped away from the door and I let myself in. Another stroke of inspiration hit me as the screen door slammed back into place.
    â€œHey, did Michael tell you?” I asked.
    â€œTell me what?”
    â€œThe coach wants him to play football next year.”
    Blank look from Gut.
    â€œI said, ‘The coach wants him to play football next—’”
    â€œI heard you the first time, and it didn’t make sense then, either. Why?”
    â€œWhy what?”
    â€œWhy would they want Michael on the team?”
    â€œCoach wants him to play quarterback or something,” I said. “Saw him throw in gym.”
    â€œBullshit.”
    I had reached too high. “What do you mean?” I asked.
    â€œThere