Free Changing Michael by Jeff Schilling Page B

ain’t no way they want Michael to throw the ball. He’d get killed.”
    â€œI didn’t say ‘throw.’ I said ‘kick.’”
    â€œYou said quarterback.”
    â€œI meant kicker.”
    â€œOh, kicker,” he said.
    â€œNot bad, huh?”
    Gut shrugged. “Kicker’s just a soccer player with a helmet.”
    So much for that.
    â€œSo can I see him or what?”
    â€œYep. Back that way,” Gut said, pointing down the hall.
    The house smelled like a musty, old, chain-smoking dog. The carpets were thin, and like the bricks outside, everything inside had a washed-out look, as if all of it had been left in the sun way too long.
    The living room floor was covered in a shade that might have passed for chocolate brown at one point, but now deserved a more accurate title, like putrid brown.
    The carpet that graced the hallway was green—the pea variety of green. It made me wonder if the colors had been selected as a joke. Or perhaps while drunk, or maybe as an act of revenge.
    Gut worked his way back to the couch and plopped down in front of the TV. Sports highlights.
    â€œRacing news?” I asked.
    â€œAfter this,” he said, glancing up at me.
    I stared at the TV like I was trying to remember something.
    â€œWhat?” he said.
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “Thought I heard something about racing the other day.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    I shook my head. “I can’t remember. It was something weird, though.”
    â€œAin’t nothing weird going on,” he said.
    â€œNo, it was something strange. I’m pretty sure.”
    â€œMust’ve been something else,” he mumbled.
    I risked a quick glance. He was scowling at the TV.
    Perfect.
    I headed down the hall. It was narrow and dim but peppered with photographs—family pictures, I guessed—scattered across the wall, as if every once in a while, someone stopped to look, got depressed, and decided to add another picture.
    Most of the pictures appeared to be school photos, and very few looked like Michael. The clothes in the photos had been atrocious even when they were in fashion. Hair was plastered to heads. Smiles were missing teeth. But I suppose missing teeth is somewhat natural. All kids lose teeth at some point, right?
    Some of the pictures featured old people, and several were done in the school picture/mug shot-style the family seemed to favor. Maybe Grandma and Grandpa had visited the school photographer on his day off. One of the old ladies looked nice, in a grandmotherly way, but most of the grandpas looked like mean old bastards who wouldn’t need much provocation to come down off the wall and give you a “whuppin.”
    Mom hires a photographer to come to our house when it’s time for another picture. Usually, we end up outside in the backyard next to the water fountain or flowering bush. Dad and I receive instructions from Mom about dress, and the photographer usually orders us into ridiculous positions before agreeing to release us.
    In Michael’s house, there were a few outdoor shots in addition to the portraits, but most involved “casual” attire, flimsy folding chairs, and at least one beer per participant.
    Michael’s door was closed. I raised my hand to knock but decided to barge in instead. I was disappointed when I did. Michael wasn’t doing anything weird. He was in a chair, leaning back and reading a book. I stood there for a minute, waiting for him to notice me.
    Michael’s room was small, tidy, and little-old-man like. His books were either in bookcases or stacked in neat piles on the floor. It wasn’t hard to imagine Flap stopping by to reorganize the shelves or play a quick game of Magic .
    The computer in the center of his desk seemed out of place. It looked new, and so far, it was the nicest object in the house. I was surprised it wasn’t on display in the living room.
    His bed