Free The Quick Fix by Jack D. Ferraiolo Page A

not to tell anyone she had it because it might bevaluable. It was valuable, all right. It was time to find out if Will knew why.
    I grabbed the school newspaper as I walked into the building and saw that Will had won the game almost single-handedly, scoring forty-two of Franklin’s sixty-one points, including the game winner at the buzzer. He even used his post-game remarks to make a statement about some “activities in this school that need to stop. We’re on the same team; we should act like it.” My feelings for Will were definitely conflicted.
    I checked in with a contact in the principal’s office. The Thompsons were listed as absent. That should’ve made me feel a little less anxious, but there were a lot of rocks to hide under at the Frank, and I was pretty sure that the Thompsons had at some time or other crawled under most of them.
    When I wasn’t looking over my shoulder, I watched Will. He went through his usual morning routine of soaking up the adoration of our classmates. No one seemed to offer any condolences for what had happened to his girlfriend, although a couple of girls did “accidentally” trip and stumble right into him.
    Apart from all the attention, he did the same things I had seen him do the previous day: He hummed his song, tapped his locker, smiled and chatted with his stream of fans … but there was definitely something different about him. He was twitchy in a way that seemed different from his game-day jitters.
    Then, right after third period, he spotted me. He had locked his locker, tapped on the door four times, and started to walk to class when our eyes met. He pretended like he didn’t see me. When he reached the doors to the gym, he went inside. Not wanting to be obvious, or to get jumped, I continued down the hall. I kept walking until I came to another set of doors, the ones leading to the other side of the gym. I opened those doors as quietly as possible and slipped inside.
    Will was at the free throw line at the far end. He dribbled in place a couple of times, took a deep breath, bent his knees slowly, then came back up smoothly, with perfect form, his arm going from bent to straight, his wrist going from bent back to bent forward: the perfect “gooseneck” necessary to give the ball backspin. The ball swished through the net, then bounced and rolled back to him, like a well-trained dog returning to its master. He picked it up and held it.
    â€œCan I help you with something?” he asked, without even turning toward me.
    I looked around the gym, to see if there was anyone else he could be talking to. There wasn’t.
    â€œCome on, man,” he said. “I spend the majority of my time in this gym. I’m in here more than I’m in my own home. I know every click of every door, every creak of every floorboard. No matter how quiet you think you are, I can hear you.” He repeated the same perfect free throw motion as before, with the same exact result. He picked up the ball again and turned to face me.
    â€œMatt Stevens,” I said, and started walking toward him.
    â€œI’ve heard of you,” he said. “Kids hire you to do stuff for them, right?”
    â€œThat’s one way to put it.”
    â€œSo, did someone hire you to watch me? Is that why you’re here?” he asked.
    I stopped walking. We were six or seven feet apart. He lifted the ball slowly, as if he was getting ready to throw a chest pass. He seemed friendly, but I got the feeling that if I made a sudden movement, that’s exactly what he’d do.
    â€œMelissa hired me to watch you,” I said. He grimaced at the mention of her name. “She was worried about you.”
    He sighed. “Poor Melissa. I wish someone had been more worried about her.”
    â€œI was. It didn’t help. Maybe if you hadn’t given her that box to hold.”
    Just mentioning the box had the effect of a ten-thousand-volt current going