Hooked
Get Hooked on a Girl Named Fred… He said: Fred Oday is a girl? Puh-leeze. Why is a girl taking my best friend’s spot on the boys' varsity golf team? She said: Can I seriously do this? Can I join the boys' team? Everyone will hate me—especially Ryan Berenger. He said: Coach expects me to partner with Fred on the green? That is crazy bad. Fred’s got to go—especially now that I can’t get her out of my head. So not happening.She said: Ryan can be nice, when he’s not being a jerk. Like the time he carried my golf bag. But the girl from the rez and the spoiled rich boy from the suburbs? So not happening. But there's no denying that things are happening as the girl with the killer swing takes on the boy with the killer smile…
Читать Hooked онлайн беплатно
Get Hooked on a Girl Named Fred...
HE said: Fred Oday is a girl? Puh-leeze. Why is a girl taking my best friend’s spot on the boys’ varsity golf team?
SHE said: Can I seriously do this? Can I join the boys’ team? Everyone will hate me—especially Ryan Berenger.
HE said: Coach expects me to partner with Fred on the green? That is crazy bad. Fred’s got to go—especially now that I can’t get her out of my head. So not happening.
SHE said: Ryan can be nice, when he’s not being a jerk. Like the time he carried my golf bag. But the girl from the rez and the spoiled rich boy from the suburbs? So not happening.
But there’s no denying that things are happening as the girl with the killer swing takes on the boy with the killer smile....
Ryan
The anger behind Seth’s eyes got worse. The blood vessels around his forehead looked freakishly ready to explode. “Some girl named Fred Oday got my spot.”
“A girl?” I was speechless. My eyes narrowed.
“Here’s the best part,” Seth continued, his voice growing raspier. “Coach isn’t even making her try out.” He chuckled darkly. “He handed my spot right to her.” His glassy eyes stared back at me. “Sweet deal, huh?”
I shook my head. Hardly.
I didn’t even know this girl, but I already hated her.
Fred
I’d been in Ryan Berenger’s classes since freshman year, and he picked today to finally acknowledge my existence.
I’d seen him tons of times at the Ahwatukee Golf Club over the summer, too. He and his short stocky blond friend were always speeding by the driving range in a golf cart. Lucky them, they
didn’t have to wait till after five o’clock for the chance to play for free like I did. Ryan could play whenever he wanted.
And now we were teammates. As my brother would say, that was irony.
That would also explain why he’d glared at me in English class and gripped my book as if he wanted to shred it to pieces. Apparently he’d gotten the news that I was on the team, too. What else would make him so angry?
It’s game-on for Fred and Ryan!
For the memory of my mother and father,
Mildred and Joseph F. Fichera
Contents
When you were born, you cried and the world rejoiced. Live your life so that when you die, the world cries and you rejoice.
—Chief White Elk (Oto Nation)
Chapter 1
Fred
I BELIEVED THAT my ancestors lived among the stars. Whenever I struck a golf ball, sometimes the ball soared so high that I thought they could touch it.
Crazy weird, I know.
But who else could have had a hand in this?
Coach Larry Lannon towered over Dad and me, his shoulders shielding us from the afternoon sun. “So, what’s it gonna be?” he said, his head tilted to one side with hair so blond that clear should be a color. “Are you in?” He paused and then lowered his chin. “Or out?”
I drew in a breath. Even though Coach Lannon had said that I could smack a ball straighter than any of his varsity players at Lone Butte High School, his confidence still rocked me off my feet sometimes. He wanted me on the team. Bad.
“Chances like this don’t happen every day,” he added, and I ached to tell him that they never happened, not to my family. Not in generations.
See, here’s the thing about Coach Lannon. I met him by accident at the end of the summer as I waited for Dad at the Ahwatukee Golf Club driving range. At first I thought he was some kind of golf-course stalker or something. He kept gawking at me as I hit practice balls. It was kind of creepy. I figured he’d never seen an Indian with a golf club.
Anyway, I pretended not to notice and concentrated on my swing. I smacked two buckets of golf balls beside him with my mismatched clubs as if breathing depended on it. After my last ball, Coach Lannon walked straight up into my face and declared that I had the most natural swing he’d ever seen. The compliment shocked me. And when I told him that I was going to be a junior at Lone Butte, one of only a handful from the Gila River Indian Reservation, the man practically leaped into a full-blown Grass Dance.1 He’d been stalking me at the driving range ever since.
Now that school had started, he was making his final pitch to get me to join his team.
“Will you at least come to practice on Monday and give the team a try? Please? If you don’t like it, you’re perfectly free to quit. No questions asked.” Coach Lannon’s lips pressed together as he waited for my answer, although the question was directed mostly at Dad.
From the knot in Dad’s forehead, I could tell he was unconvinced. And the coach didn’t bother hiding his urgency, especially after telling us that he was tired of coaching the worst 5A golf team in Maricopa County. Another losing year and Principal Graser would send him back to teaching high school history full-time, something he didn’t relish. I’d never had a teacher confide something so personal to me like that, not even at the Rez
