Snowboard Champ by Matt Christopher, Paul Mantell Page A

TopDog90.
    “No lie?” Perkomeister replied.
    Matt stared at the screen in disbelief. He wanted to write a reply of his own, but he knew it would be no use. They’d know it was him, and they’d never believe him anyway.
    “Yeah, she’s in for twenty years!” TopDog90 wrote. “That’s why he’s living with his uncle. I also heard he got kicked out of school in Chicago for gang stuff.”
    “Gang stuff?” Ugogirl wrote. “What did he do?”
    “I didn’t do
anything!
” Matt said out loud. “I was never in a gang! I never even
knew
anybody in a gang! And my mom’s working for the government, you dweebs!”
    But he didn’t type anything. He continued to eavesdrop on the conservation.
    Chikadee23: “I think he was selling something to Spengler. There was money all over the place.”
    TopDog90: “He’s definitely trouble.”
    Perkomeister: “
In
trouble, you mean.”
    Ugogirl: “And he dresses like a gangsta.” TopDog90: “He
is
a gangsta.”
    Perkomeister: “Somebody better warn Spengler.”
    Chikadee23: “Somebody better warn
Melissa.
”
    Matt slammed his fist down on the desk so hard it hurt. Then he put his fingers on the keys and, throwing caution to the wind, typed, “Where’d you guys hear all this about Harper?”
    “Who’s here?” TopDog90 wrote. “Who’s Clay-builder?”
    Matt didn’t write back.
    “Where
did
you hear it?” Perkomeister wrote.
    “Not at liberty to say,” TopDog90 wrote back. “Strictly confidential, but definitely a reliable source.”
    “Yeah,” Matt said under his breath. “Your own imagination, Riley.”
    He was still frowning at the screen when the phone rang.
    Uncle Clayton appeared in his room, holding the receiver. “It’s for you.”
    Now what?
    “Who is it?” Matt asked.
    “I don’t know, but she sounds pretty,” Clay said with a twinkle in his eye.
    Matt took the phone. “Hello?”
    “Hi, it’s me. Melissa.”
    “Oh, hi. How’re you feeling?”
    “Better, thanks. Sorry I didn’t stay around to meet you.”
    “I wish you had,” Matt said. “I think I got myself in trouble.”
    “What happened?”
    “Nothing happened,” he insisted. “But I might be in trouble anyway. People are saying I was smoking at school.”
    “But you didn’t?”
    “No. I swear. I don’t even smoke!” He sighed. “I just hope they don’t call me into the principal’s office.”
    “If they do, just tell the truth,” she advised him. “You’ve never been in any trouble before, right? I’m sure they’ll believe you.”
    “Yeah. I guess so.”
    But he
had
been in trouble before. And his school records would show it. They would tell how, in sixth grade, he’d forged an excuse note, stayed out of school, and gone to see his dad in a futile attempt to get him to come back home.
    They would tell, too, about the fight he’d had last year with that racist kid who’d been picking on his Pakistani friend Ameer. The kid had been bigger than Matt, but he’d fought him anyway, and although he got a bloody nose and a black eye for his trouble, Matt wasn’t sorry about it.
    It was terrible,
he thought,
how even little mistakes could count against you the next time you messed up.
And what had he done, really? Just given Spengler one
    of his own cigarettes. That was bad enough, but somehow, it had gotten blown out of all proportion.
    Maybe the school would let me off the hook this time,
he thought hopefully. But probably not.
    He said good-bye, sighed, and hung up the phone.
    “Everything all right?” Clay asked, concerned.
    “Yeah,” Matt said glumly. “Everything’s peachy.”
    “Come on,” Clay said. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”
    “Sorry,” Matt said sincerely. “It’s just . . . school problems.”
    “Wanna talk about it?”
    “Not right now. Maybe tomorrow.” There’d be time enough to talk about it then, Matt figured.
If
he got reported to the principal. If he didn’t, there was no point in telling Uncle Clayton about