Free Bluefish by Pat Schmatz Page B

his backpack and took McQueen's scrap of paper out of his pocket. He leaned against the center pole of the merry- go- round.
    Summer, branches, young, night, hunt. He traced them onto his palm.
    "Hey, Travis."
    He shoved the paper in his pocket.
    "What are you doing?" Bradley tossed down his book bag and sat on the merry-go- round.
    "Nothing."
    "I want to ask your advice about Velveeta. She got me all wrong at lunch yesterday. How do I tell her that?"
    Again, Travis saw Velveeta standing alone in the hall.
    Even her scarf was drooping.
    "I don't know. Just tell her."
    "Because the thing is, I do like her. I like her a lot.
    You know I'm not just sitting by you because my games got yanked, right?
    Because I'm not. And I don't just like Velveeta. I like you, too. You're cool, but you're not mean."
    "I'm not cool," Travis said.
    "Yes, you are. Even Chad Cormick thinks you're cool."
    "He does?"
    "Yup. He said so. He said, 'That Roberts kid is one coolio moolio.' And Reed said maybe you're the Master Chief on a time- regression mission."
    "The master who?"
    "The Master Chief. He kicked butt way before he got Cortana and MJOLNIR
    armor. Hey, you know that picnic table by the bridge? Are there some guys there every afternoon?"
    "Sometimes," said Travis. "Why?"
    "No reason." Bradley kicked the dirt so the merry-go- round started to roll. "So you think I should just tell Velveeta she got it wrong? Or should I not sit by you anymore?"
    "I think you should do what you want." Travis grabbed his backpack as he stood. "I gotta go."
    "See you tomorrow," said Bradley.
    Travis walked slowly through town. So Velveeta got Bradley all wrong. And he got Velveeta wrong. The
    picnic- table guys hooted and whistled when he walked across the bridge.
    Travis glanced over at them. Maybe everybody got everybody wrong.

    He walked into the house with no Rosco and opened the refrigerator. Sitting on the top shelf, smack in the center, was a twelve- pack of cans, and they weren't Coke.
    "Huh." His stomach landed somewhere close to his knees. "So much for that."
    He took the fox book out on the back stoop. A moody wind thrashed through the yard. He had just finished erasing the circles around the five words on the first two pages when Grandpa slammed the front door.
    "You home?"
    "Out here," said Travis.
    "How's things?" Grandpa stepped onto the porch. He cracked open a can and tried to light up. The wind blew out the flame, and he had to set the can down and use both hands, making a wind shield. "Learn anything new today?"
    "So much for your thirty days, huh?" Travis pointed at the can.
    "O'Doul' s - nonalcoholic beer," said Grandpa. "See, it says right here."
    He put his finger under the tiny- print words.
    "Anyway, since when do you care?" He took a deep drag of his cigarette. "It's not easy, you know," he said, the smoke streaming out with his words. "This sobriety thing. I could use a little support."
    "What's so hard about it? Just don't drink the stuff."
    Grandpa slammed the can on the concrete step, and liquid fizzed up and over.
    Alcoholic or not, it sure smelled like beer.
    "That easy, huh? Is that what you think?"
    Grandpa poked him in the shoulder, and Travis moved away. Grandpa reached over and poked again.
    Like he used to do when Travis was little and didn't want to go to school.
    "Don't you crawl off in a corner and cry!" he used to yell. "If you're mad, get out here and make some fists."
    And he'd keep poking until Travis slapped his hand away. Then he'd laugh and poke again. The poking went on until Travis made real fists and swung hard.
    Then
    Grandpa would put up his palms and get Travis to slug them over and over, hard enough to make solid smacks.
    After that, he'd sling an arm around Travis's neck, and the three of them -
    Travis, Grandpa, and Rosco - would go out to the swamp. That was a long, long time ago.
    "You think you got it so bad," said Grandpa. " Boo- hoo, poor Travis."
    He poked again. Travis clenched his teeth hard. He