in the mirror— and then he said the words that dressed him head to toe. Kevin stared at himself in the mirror from all angles, admiring his flashy designer outfit, complete with brand-new basketball shoes, until he caught sight of Teri standing in the doorway behind him.
"What's with you?" she asked, morning gravel still in her throat.
"Nothing," said Kevin, casually flipping up the collar on his new leather jacket. "I'm checking out some new clothes—is there anything wrong with that?"
"You're such a basket case," she replied, both of them knowing full well that the true basket case was Teri, as she shuffled off with drooping eyelids toward the bathroom.
That morning Kevin joined his father on his morning jog—something Kevin had tried only once before. On that one occasion, Patrick Midas had driven Kevin to absolute exhaustion and then acted surprised when Kevin couldn't keep up.
His father, who liked to speak in short, meaningless phrases, always told Kevin, "No pain, no gain," and used that motto as an excuse to turn any father-and-son physical activity into a trial by fire for Kevin. Kevin was amazed that after all that, he still enjoyed sports as much as he did—although his best sport was soccer, the only sport his father absolutely detested.
With the glasses firmly affixed to his face and a well-placed wish on his lips, Kevin joined his father on the morning run and left the poor man in his dust. When Patrick Midas finally made it back to the front door, dripping with sweat and barely able to breathe, Kevin, already there, jogged in place, barely winded at all, and said, "No pain, no gain," with a shrug.
Before going inside, Kevin sat on the porch and watched the Kimballs for a while. Their house would never be the same, but perhaps that didn't matter, because the old couple was excitedly preparing for what would be the mother of all garage sales.
Things were different for Kevin in school. It began that very day and gradually took hold throughout the week. Perhaps it was the way he was dressed—or perhaps it was the way no one could see his eyes behind those intensely cool glasses that seemed to change color at will. Or maybe it was just self-confidence; a presence about him that made kids get out of his way when he walked down the hall, even though he was a head shorter than most.
Or maybe it was the way that he always seemed to have just what people needed when they needed it.
Kevin had never before had the guts to join in a conversation with kids who weren't his best buddies—but now that had changed.
Justin Gere, an eighth grader, was complaining to a couple of his friends that he had every major- league baseball card issued that year except Carlysle Sparks, one of the Dodgers' rarely used relief pitchers. Rumor was the card had never been printed.
"Well, wouldn't you know it!" said Kevin Midas. "I've got an extra one." He presented Carlysle Sparks to Justin as if he had pulled it out of his sleeve, which he had.
Alyssa Peevar was in tears because she had lost her charm bracelet down a deep storm drain that appeared to go all the way to China. The bracelet was, of course, lost forever, but Kevin reached down into the drain and produced it—or at least a good replica.
When Dash Kaminsky, who the girls claimed was drop-dead gorgeous, got his million-dollar lips smashed by a hockey puck, who was there with a handful of ice and a kind word that seemed to make the swelling go away in seconds? Kevin, of course.
In just a few days Kevin's popularity had grown like a vine on the brickwork of Ridgeline Middle School—quickly and silently, so that very few people remembered it being any different. Kevin had made the transition to everybody's buddy, and although he wasn't the most popular kid in school, people who would never have given him the time of day before suddenly said hello and didn't mind having him around.
It was clear to Kevin that things were changing—he was changing. But changing
"What's with you?" she asked, morning gravel still in her throat.
"Nothing," said Kevin, casually flipping up the collar on his new leather jacket. "I'm checking out some new clothes—is there anything wrong with that?"
"You're such a basket case," she replied, both of them knowing full well that the true basket case was Teri, as she shuffled off with drooping eyelids toward the bathroom.
That morning Kevin joined his father on his morning jog—something Kevin had tried only once before. On that one occasion, Patrick Midas had driven Kevin to absolute exhaustion and then acted surprised when Kevin couldn't keep up.
His father, who liked to speak in short, meaningless phrases, always told Kevin, "No pain, no gain," and used that motto as an excuse to turn any father-and-son physical activity into a trial by fire for Kevin. Kevin was amazed that after all that, he still enjoyed sports as much as he did—although his best sport was soccer, the only sport his father absolutely detested.
With the glasses firmly affixed to his face and a well-placed wish on his lips, Kevin joined his father on the morning run and left the poor man in his dust. When Patrick Midas finally made it back to the front door, dripping with sweat and barely able to breathe, Kevin, already there, jogged in place, barely winded at all, and said, "No pain, no gain," with a shrug.
Before going inside, Kevin sat on the porch and watched the Kimballs for a while. Their house would never be the same, but perhaps that didn't matter, because the old couple was excitedly preparing for what would be the mother of all garage sales.
Things were different for Kevin in school. It began that very day and gradually took hold throughout the week. Perhaps it was the way he was dressed—or perhaps it was the way no one could see his eyes behind those intensely cool glasses that seemed to change color at will. Or maybe it was just self-confidence; a presence about him that made kids get out of his way when he walked down the hall, even though he was a head shorter than most.
Or maybe it was the way that he always seemed to have just what people needed when they needed it.
Kevin had never before had the guts to join in a conversation with kids who weren't his best buddies—but now that had changed.
Justin Gere, an eighth grader, was complaining to a couple of his friends that he had every major- league baseball card issued that year except Carlysle Sparks, one of the Dodgers' rarely used relief pitchers. Rumor was the card had never been printed.
"Well, wouldn't you know it!" said Kevin Midas. "I've got an extra one." He presented Carlysle Sparks to Justin as if he had pulled it out of his sleeve, which he had.
Alyssa Peevar was in tears because she had lost her charm bracelet down a deep storm drain that appeared to go all the way to China. The bracelet was, of course, lost forever, but Kevin reached down into the drain and produced it—or at least a good replica.
When Dash Kaminsky, who the girls claimed was drop-dead gorgeous, got his million-dollar lips smashed by a hockey puck, who was there with a handful of ice and a kind word that seemed to make the swelling go away in seconds? Kevin, of course.
In just a few days Kevin's popularity had grown like a vine on the brickwork of Ridgeline Middle School—quickly and silently, so that very few people remembered it being any different. Kevin had made the transition to everybody's buddy, and although he wasn't the most popular kid in school, people who would never have given him the time of day before suddenly said hello and didn't mind having him around.
It was clear to Kevin that things were changing—he was changing. But changing
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