Free Pop by Gordon Korman Page B

through the windshield with the intense concentration of a chess master pondering a critical move.
    Marcus waved his arms. “Hey!”
    The big Cadillac roared straight on past.
    He didn’t see me!
    Marcus’s brow knit. No, that wasn’t quite it. More like Charlie had seen him—and had looked right through him.
    He twisted the throttle, and the scooter took off in hot pursuit. Putt-putting around town, there weren’t a lot of opportunities for the Vespa to show what it could do. Props to Comrade Stalin—it was a great gift, even with the many strings attached. He flashed past the SUV and then ditched the bike in the grass just in time to flag Charlie down from the side of the road.
    The passenger window receded into the door frame.
    â€œWhat happened?” Marcus demanded. “You were supposed to come pick me up!”
    Charlie’s face was blank. “What?”
    â€œThat’s not funny, man!” Marcus exploded. “You left me screaming my head off with a dislocated shoulder!”
    â€œWhat you have to do is find a good, solid tree—”
    â€œIt isn’t dislocated now ! I had to fix it myself when you didn’t show up to take me to the emergency room!”
    Charlie frowned. “Is this some kind of joke?”
    â€œYou can’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about! It just happened!”
    â€œMac—”
    â€œYou know my real name!” stormed Marcus. “I’ve told it to you twenty times! I may not have played pro football, but I’m a person too. Where do you get off trying to stiff me for your half of that broken window? You owe me a hundred and fifty-five bucks!”
    The former linebacker’s eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to rip me off?”
    â€œForget it.” If Charlie wanted to screw a high school kid out of what amounted to pocket change for a guy behind the wheel of a seventy-thousand-dollar SUV, Marcus wasn’t going to fight with him. It just reinforced the image of the egotistical pro athlete, so self-centered that he couldn’t even devote a few minutes of his day to giving a teenager obviously in agony a lift to the hospital.
    He got back on his bike, giving the SUV a wide berth as he made a left turn into traffic. He was burning again, but this time it was with shame. How duped he’d been by this old weirdo! How quick to mistake a few tackling pointers and a glitzy stat sheet for friendship! He felt like an idiot.
    The sound of car horns behind him drew his eyes to the mirror. The Cadillac was making a U-turn. Was Charlie chasing him now? Well, if he was, he’d picked the wrong kind of scooter to go up against. A twist of the throttle and soon the Vespa was up to seventy, whizzing by Three Alarm Park, the SUV just a dot in the rearview.
    He had already wasted more than enough time on Charlie Popovich.
    The collage had once held a place of honor on Troy’s bedroom wall. Now it lay at the bottom of his junk drawer, buried under old CD cases and a long-defunct Scooby-Doo puzzle with two pieces missing.
    â€œTroy!” came his mother’s voice from downstairs.
    He ignored her, scrutinizing his third-grade handwriting on the construction paper: Number 55 in Action .
    His father’s eyes stared back at him from every conceivable angle. The artwork was a patchwork of dozens of football cards from the King of Pop’s playing days. Troy made no move to touch it; he never did. But rarely did a day go by when he didn’t open the drawer to look at it.
    â€œTroy, get down here!”
    â€œI’m busy,” he mumbled, using his pinky finger to slide an arcade token off Charlie’s San Diego rookie card.
    â€œNow!”
    Mrs. Popovich was at the base of the stairs, practically shaking with anger. He caught an expression of mock sympathy from his sister. Chelsea the spectator—she was enjoying this.
    His mother grabbed his wrist and towed him into