Say It Ain't So by Josh Berk Page A

that he did
not
steal Kyle Webb’s dad’s phone. He said someone else did it.”
    â€œThat doesn’t make sense,” I said. “They found the phone in
Davis’s
shin guard. Who else could it have been who took it? Who else would steal a phone by putting it in Davis’s shin guard?”
    â€œThat’s just the point, isn’t it?” Other Mike said. “They weren’t trying to steal it. They were trying to frame Davis.”
    I tapped the microphone with the tip of my finger a few times. “He said all that in the, like, two seconds you were talking?” I said.
    â€œWell,” Other Mike said. “That was the basic idea. I’m filling in a lot of the blanks. Davis mostly talks in grunts and snorts. It’s like talking to a caveman, kind of. He just said it wasn’t him who took the phone, ugh, grunt, snort. Just showed up there. Ugh, sniff, burp. I filled in the blanks. You’re notthe only one who has detective skills.” He smiled and tapped his head.
    â€œOh, I know it,” I said. “Remember when we were little and used to pretend to be spies, gathering information on everyone in the neighborhood?”
    â€œYou were pretending?” he said.
    I laughed. “Yeah,” I said. “So who would want to frame Davis?”
    â€œBeats me,” Other Mike said. “I get the feeling that everyone kind of hates him.”
    â€œImagine that,” I said. I tried to remember if I’d seen Davis torment anyone in particular at school besides us. He was pretty much an equal opportunity tormentor, but there were a few guys he really bothered I could name. I was going to run this theory by Other Mike, but although he does have some detective skills, he is also sort of ADD.
    â€œHey, what does this do?” he said, reaching over and flicking the microphone’s On switch. It was pretty obvious what it did, seeing as how it said ON in big red letters.
    â€œStop it!” I yelled, and smacked his hand, but it was too late. He’d already turned it on. The microphone made a loud squealing sound and everyone could hear me yell. Coach Zo turnedquickly and stared over at us. Great, I was going to get fired before the first pitch was even thrown!
    â€œSorry!” Other Mike said, flicking the switch back off.
    â€œYeah, a lot of people don’t like Davis,” I started to say. “But he made the team so much better that I figure they’d just put up with it to win a championship. The only person I can think of who could really stand to gain from Davis getting kicked off the team was—”
    But before I could finish that thought, Coach Zo came running over. He stuck his head into the shed. “We’re just about to get started. I forgot to show you this.” He handed me a portable CD player. “It’s got a disc loaded up already with the national anthem on it. All you have to do is press Play and hold it up to the mike. Start it when I give you the signal.”
    â€œGot it, Coach,” I said. I had so much power. The power to start the game! The very anthem of this very nation rested in my very hands!
    Of course I also had the power to solve mysteries.
    But did I want to?

Coach Zo gave me the signal, and after a brief second of fumbling I found the Play button. The On switch I already knew how to find. I gently flipped it on. A loud brass-band version of the national anthem began to blare out of the booth. I guess Mike’s dad had installed speakers around the field. He must have buried speaker wire and gotten some rainproof speakers, not to mention all the time and effort and expense of putting together the actual booth. Shed. Whatever. It was really nice. Mike was a nice friend. A good person. Not a bad person. Not a bad person at all, right? Right.
    These thoughts were running through my head as the recorded brass band hit the final home-of-the-brave high notes at the end of the anthem.