Free Pop by Gordon Korman Page A

the bone back into the joint. It’s going to hurt like hell.”
    â€œIt hurts like hell already!”
    Charlie looked mildly annoyed. “And it’ll keep on hurting until you fix it.”
    It was too much to ask. Never before had Marcus suffered such torment. The prospect of touching a cobweb was unthinkable, much less a block of granite.
    â€œI’ve got to get to a doctor!”
    â€œHe’s just going to tell you the same thing,” the King of Pop warned.
    â€œHe’s not going to tell me to run into a statue!”
    â€œNo, he’ll push it back in for you,” Charlie reasoned. “Here, you want me to try?”
    Marcus shrank away. “Don’t touch me—please! I’ve got to go to the emergency room. There’s no way I can get there on my bike! Have you got a car, Charlie?”
    â€œI’ll get it!” Charlie promised. “Just sit tight. I’ll be back in ten minutes!” And he sprinted off with long athletic strides.
    Marcus was too miserable to notice the fifty-four-year-old’s impressive speed. He sat with his back against the Paper Airplane, willing himself to remain absolutely still, because movement was out of the question. The simple act of breathing in and out was all he could manage.
    Come on, Charlie. Hurry up .
    The pain was so intense that he actually zoned out for a while, although he couldn’t be certain if he’d slept or fainted.
    â€œCharlie?” he said groggily.
    But he was alone. Not only that—the sun had changed position, and was considerably lower in the sky. He looked down at his watch. Forty minutes had passed! Where was Charlie?
    No—no time to think about that. He needed relief from this torment, and he needed it now.
    He couldn’t walk to the hospital, and he couldn’t ride the Vespa in this condition. He probably couldn’t even crawl out of the park to fall at the feet of some random pedestrian. There was only one option left.
    He staggered to his feet, biting the side of his mouth to keep from losing consciousness again. He took a few steps back. He’d become much tougher since training with Charlie, but this required reserves of courage even he wasn’t sure he possessed.
    Holding his breath, he ran forward at full tilt and slammed his shoulder into the solid granite.
    He heard himself scream, and that was all he was aware of for several minutes. When he awoke, his lunch was all down the front of his shirt, and the pain was gone. In wonder, he flexed his shoulder, moving his arm up and down. He was fine. A little sore, but only a little. Fine.
    Unbelievable! Charlie was right.
    Charlie…
    How could a grown man leave a teenager in such a condition? How could he just walk away like that, promising help and never coming back? Could anybody be so selfish? Did he consider himself so big a sports star that other people simply didn’t matter?
    I don’t care how much he’s helped me with football! I’m done with that guy .
    He started for the parking lot and his Vespa, still amazed that the terrible agony was so suddenly gone. To be utterly incapacitated and, an instant later, totally back to normal seemed almost like magic. Clearly, it had been no big deal to Charlie. He pictured an NFL locker room, with howling players bodychecking the cinder-block walls to autocorrect their various dislocations.
    The bike’s motor roared to life, and he tooled out of the main entrance of the park, more shaken by Charlie’s behavior than the memory of the blinding pain. This man was supposed to be his friend . He had taken Marcus under his wing and generously shared his football experience. He had even greeted Marcus before going up to his own son at the Raiders-Steelers game.
    What a jerk!
    No sooner had Marcus reached Poplar Street than a shiny black Cadillac SUV crested the rise. A familiar set of broad shoulders was hunched over the wheel. It was Charlie, peering