Saturday, January 9, 2010

Reach out and Scare Someone


Joe cleared his throat very loudly and walked toward the school steps. “Hi, there,” he said to the angered man. “Can we help you?”
The beefy balding man obviously hadn’t even noticed the Hardys. He spun around when Joe spoke up. “Name’s Revelle,” he said when he recovered. “This is my boy.” The man jerked a thumb at an unhappy-looking Glen. “I come home from work, and the kid isn’t there. So I get to waste my time looking for him while he mopes around here.”
The man glared at Glen. “And I know why—I heard it on the radio. You blew it, son!”
“I played hard,” Glen said defensively.
“So hard you fouled somebody and let them beat you,” Mr. Revelle said sarcastically. “That’s no way to get accepted by a big-time school. Those coaches who were so interested in you—how interested are they gonna be in a team captain who loses his shot at the championship?”
Feeling embarrassed, Joe glanced at his brother, wishing they were anyplace else but here. He knew their presence was only making things worse for Glen.
A pale-faced Glen snapped back, “Gee, thanks for pointing that out, Dad. I guess it’s like father, like son. Marvin Coates beat you twenty-five years igo, as you kept reminding me from the time I took my Iirst hook shot. Well, I tried, Dad. I tried really hard. But that didn’t stop us from getting beaten. So if I don’t get recruited by some hot college, I guess I’m gonna have to live with it. And you’ll just have to deal with it, too.”
Joe almost expected Mr. Revelle to haul off and belt Glen. Instead, the man began talking as if his
hadn’t spoken at all. “You’ve got to win to impress those college coaches, kid. Especially the ones from the good schools. That’s what you iced—a good college, a degree in something in case you don’t make it to the pros
A chill ran down Joe’s back as he listened to Mr. Revelle begin what was obviously a favorite lecture. If his father had run on like that, Joe would have
quit basketball and taken up knitting. “We’ll see you, Glen,” he said, giving Frank a let’s-get-out-of- here look.
Glen’s father seemed to focus on them for the first time. “You boys teammates of Glen’s? I don’t recognize you from the games I’ve seen.”
“Oh, no, Dad,” Glen said, speaking in the same mocking tone he’d used earlier when he taunted Joe on the court. “These are winners you’re talking to. In fact, that’s Joe Hardy, the guy I fouled.”
“Winners . .“ Mr. Revelle repeated. “That’s what you’ve got to be if you want to hit the big time like Marvin Coates.”
Joe blinked in disbelief. It was as if Mr. Revelle had picked up only one word from his son’s response. The older man opened his car door. “Come on, we gotta get home. Too bad you can’t be more like this guy here.”
For a second, Glen was silent. Then he walked past his father and the open car door. Pulling his hood over his head, he said, “You go home, Dad. Tell Mom I’m okay. I’ll grab a burger or some- thing.”
Glen had already broken into a run by the time he reached the Hardys’ van in the parking lot. But he stopped for one moment before dashing off. He never said a word. He just glared at Joe with red rimmed, burning eyes. Then he was gone.
“Kids,” Mr. Revelle muttered as he got into his car. In a cloud of fumes, the old heap backed up.
Frank opened up the van and got behind the wheel. “Did you see the way. Glen was glaring at you?” he said to Joe, who climbed into the passen ger seat. “If looks could kill—”
“I wish his dad hadn’t said what he did.” Joe made a sour face. “If Glen had a beef with me before, he must really hate me now.” He glanced at his watch. “You mind if we bag the idea of going to the rec center? It’s getting kind of late, and all of a sudden, I’m not up for a lot of practice.”
“I know what you mean,” Frank said as he turned the van toward home.
The boys had barely walked through the front door why the phone began ringing. Joe snatched
up the receiver and announced, “Hardy residence. A husky voice crackled across the line, “Listen up, Hardy. Lose that Ocean City game or you’ll be hurting!”
Then the line went dead.
Joe immediately punched in the numbers for the call-back phone feature, listening intently as the phone rang several times.
Frank entered the kitchen and asked, “Who was it?”
Joe began to answer his brother, but then a voice came on the line. It sounded like an elderly woman.
“Yes. . . um. . . to whom am I speaking?” Joe asked politely.
“Who are you?” the voice returned curtly.
“My name is Joe Hardy.”
“Why are you calling a pay phone?” the woman asked, her voice softening a little.
“Well, actually, someone just called me from that phone, then hung up. And I wondered if you could tell me if you saw who it was.”
“There’s no one here now,” the woman said.
“Did you see anyone walk away?”
“I do see someone walking into the rec center. A tall boy, wearing a hood. I can’t see his face. Of course, my eyes aren’t what they used to be—”
“The Bayport rec center?” Joe broke in.
“Yes. Now, if you don’t mind—”
“Thank you, ma’am. Have a nice evening,” Joe said as he hung up the phone.
“What was that all about?” Frank asked.
“C’mon,” Joe said, dashing for the door. “I’ll tell you on the way over to the rec center.”
By the time Frank got outside, Joe already had the van running. As Frank slid into the passenger seat, Joe gunned the engine, then backed the van down the driveway.
“I thought you didn’t want to practice tonight,” Frank said.
“Some wiseguy just made a threatening phone call to us. I used the call-back feature, and a woman picked up—at a pay phone by the rec center. She said my caller was a tall type wearing a hood. I thought we’d go and check it out.” Joe gave the van more gas. Frank frowned. “Glen Revelle was wearing a hooded sweatshirt. I wonder if he’s our guy.”
Joe shrugged. “I was thinking that myself. There’s only one way to find out.”
The night air had turned cold, and by the time they arrived at the rec center, on the outskirts of town, a thick mist was rolling off the bay. The boys parked the van and hurried to the pay phone near the corner. A frigid ocean breeze numbed their faces as their eyes scanned the surrounding area. Joe saw no one around the rec center. There were only security lights on inside the modern building, uul no cars were parked nearby.
“The rec center’s closed,” Frank observed. He leaned against the side of the van. “It’s probably no big deal. Some joker made a nasty phone call—so what? It could have been any one of about a thousand Ocean City Slickers fans. We’ve been threatened before. It’s usually just a lot of hot air.”
‘You’re right, bro. This is probably just a wild- goose chase. You want to call it a night?”
Frank nodded, and the boys headed home for bed.
The next morning Joe came down to breakfast a little late. Frank was reading the newspaper as he finished a bowl of cereal.
As Joe reached for the sports page, Frank spoke in tones of complete disgust. “Well, it looks as if there’ll be no outdoor concerts in Bayport this year!”
‘What are you talking about?” Joe said.
Frank simply pointed at two front-page items. The first headline read, “Park Bandstand Col lapses.” The other was in bigger letters: “Bay front Project Delayed.”
Joe frowned, puzzled.
‘The park bandstand is where all the summer concerts happen, right?” Frank said. “It blew down last night because the town government hasn’t spent any money on upkeep. Why haven’t they? Because the plans for this bay front project called for a big new concert pier. But now investors have been pulling out of the project, so the city winds up with neither,”
“Maybe we should vote Marvin Coates in as mayor,” Joe said, pouring himself a bowl of cereal and dousing it with milk, “He’d be better than these deadbeats,”
Frank flicked the newspaper. “As a matter of fact, Coates is the chairman of the construction committee,”
“Gee, How nice that his offices are right there on the harbor,” Joe said around a mouthful of cereal, “He can make up the difference with some of those bazillions of bucks he has lying around.”
“It doesn’t look that way,” Frank said, returning the milk carton to the refrigerator, “Marvin Coates announced that he’s postponing construction of hi new offices until the harbor deal is worked out. It sounds as if he’s being cautious.
“I guess that makes sense.” Joe scooped up more cereal with his spoon. “The guy’s being pretty generous already, offering to donate the money for our new scoreboard. You don’t get to be one of the richest men in town by tossing your money around.”
“Ready to roll?” Frank asked.
“Ready when you are,” Joe said, downing the last of his cereal and grabbing his school books.
After school, the boys had basketball practice. The cheerleaders were on the gymnasium sidelines working on some new cheers for tomorrow’s big game. Joe’s girlfriend, lola Morton, was talking to her new friend, Julie Logan.
Jillie was a pretty girl with long brown hair and dark eyes. She had recently transferred from Ocean City to Bayport High.
Joe watched as Jillie did a series of double cartwheels. She sprang up into the air, shot her legs out high, wide, and perfectly straight before land ing lightly on her feet. It was a spectacular spread eagle
“Wow! That was great!” lola said, her gray eyes lighting up with excitement.
“Beautiful,” Joe agreed, clapping his hands.
Jo stopped in midclap. His gaze fell upon a sullen-looking boy sitting halfway up the bleachers. He was wearing a black leather motorcycle jacket. It was Jake Berman, captain of the Ocean City Slickers. Joe glanced over at Frank, who was help ing himself to some water from the fifty-gallon cooler. “Hey, Frank, We have company.”
Frank looked up into the bleachers, then crushed his paper cup. “He’s nuts if he thinks he’s going to hang out here and steal our plays. C’mon.”
Seconds later, they stood in the seats one row down from Jake Berman, staring at him eye to eye.
“Hello, Hardys,” Berman said coolly.
“This is a closed practice, Jake,” Frank said.
“Lighten up, guys.” Jake fingered the silver medallion that hung at his throat. “What do you think this is, a hidden camera? I’m not here to spy on your lame plays. I want a chance to talk with my girlfriend.”
“Jake?”
Joe turned to see Jillie Logan climbing the bleacher stairs. Iota was a few steps behind her. “What am you doing here?” Julie said in a tense voice. “I told you I don’t want to see you anymore.”
“I thought we could try again,” Jake said in a soft voice.
Julie shook her head. “I don’t think so.” “Let’s talk,” Jake persisted, “Let’s not.” Julie folded her arms in front of her. “She doesn’t want to see you anymore, Jake,”
lola said. She was now standing next to Jillie. “You’re history. So, please, just go.”
But Jake didn’t move.
“Take a hint, Berman,” Joe said. “Julie doesn’t want you around, and neither do we.”
Berman’s face reddened, and he balled his hands into fists.
“Don’t start any trouble, Jake,” Julie said in a flat voice.
But Jake was already on his feet.
What do you think?” Joe said, turning to Frank.
Should we get the coach, or throw him out our—”
He never got to finish his sentence.
Jake’s hands rammed into his chest—and Joe topplid backward down the bleacher seats!

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