Out of the Pocket by Bill Konigsberg

might send him a message.
    It did not.
    50
    “Great game the other night, Bobby Framingham,” he said.
    He always called people by their full names. I didn’t actually hate Finch. He was just annoying sometimes.
    “Thanks, Finch Gozman,” I replied, and Dennis smirked into his pasta. I prayed he wouldn’t laugh. Finch, for one, was pleased to have his full name used.
    “So, um, guys, what say I do my interview with Bobby now?” he said to the whole table.
    I lifted my wrist and studied my watch, as if hoping the minute and hour hands would offer some sort of excuse as to why we couldn’t do this right now. I didn’t need the attention at the moment.
    I came up with nothing.
    “Oh, you’re doing a story about the guy who tried to have me killed by the Oilers secondary?” said Austin.
    Finch laughed in big spastic breaths. “That’s funny! Let me write that down!” He took out a pad, pen, and a small digital recorder. He pushed the button on it. “Interview with Bobby Framingham,” he said into the recorder. He looked up at me and smiled. “So,” he went on. “Who is Bobby Framingham, and what’s going on with him?”
    Austin looked at Dennis and laughed. Dennis laughed back, like they were sharing a secret moment. I felt a twinge of panic in my gut.
    “I don’t know,” I said. “Same old stuff.”
    “Why are they laughing?” Finch asked me.
    “Don’t pay attention to them, they’re both in need of serious help,” I said, shrugging them off. “I’m good. The team is playing well and I’m feeling confi dent.”
    “Is it true you want to go to Stanford?”
    I smiled at the thought. “Yeah, but it’s a long shot. They’re probably going to recruit one or two quarterbacks in the whole country this year. Hard to imagine one will be me.”
    “But you could be one, you’re one of the best in the state,” Finch 51
    said. “I’d love to get into Stanford.” I looked at Finch’s big, sincere brown eyes, like those of a dog who just wanted to be petted. It was kind of nice, since my friends, as evidenced in Austin and Dennis, who were now fl inging food at each other, rarely complimented me.
    “Thanks, Finch. I don’t know. I just do the best I can.”
    “Aw, perfect answer, kid,” said Austin, screwing his pointer fingers into each of his cheeks and fake-smiling. “Moron.”
    “You have a piece of rigatoni in your hair,” I said, and he violently thrashed a hand through his hair and found the offending pasta. He threw it and it hit Dennis in the eye. Dennis shut both eyes tight and swatted at the pasta as if it were a fl y.
    “So tell me about how it feels to be the quarterback!” Finch said, full of enthusiasm. Austin laughed, and Dennis would have, but he was still busy with the eye pasta, stuffing it in his mouth. “How does it feel to be behind center?”
    “Arousing,” Dennis said, jumping in to the conversation with his mouth full. My heart nearly stopped.
    “Huh?” said Finch, laughing uncomfortably.
    “It gets him hard,” mumbled Dennis, looking at his food.
    “Shut up, asshole,” I said, glaring not at him but at Austin, terror in my eyes. He wouldn’t look at me.
    “That’s what you say to the center’s butt,” Dennis continued, now laughing hysterically.
    I felt the veins in my forehead pulse.
    “Just ignore them,” I told Finch, whose eyes were now wide open. Or at least they were when I looked at him at first. I looked back at my so-called friends, and when I looked again at Finch, he was totally composed and had this calm look, as if this was a normal answer and he knew exactly what to say next.
    I looked down at the recorder, as if I wished I could turn it off with a simple, cold stare.
    52
    Dennis was now in fine form, and the problem was, he didn’t stop when he got like this. Why would Austin tell him?
    Dennis was playing with his food, his face red and his eyes full of peril. “Our star QB is a ho . . . mo”—and he looked at me, daring me with