Louise Fitzhugh - Sport

For more than forty years,
Yearling has been the leading name
in classic and award-winning literature
for young readers.

Yearling books feature childrens
favorite authors and characters,
providing dynamic stories of adventure,
humor, history, mystery, and fantasy.

Trust Yearling paperbacks to entertain,
inspire, and promote the love of reading
in all children.

OTHER YEARLING BOOKS YOU WILL ENJOY

HARRIET THE SPY, Louise Fitzhugh

THE LONG SECRET, Louise Fitzhugh

HARRIET SPIES AGAIN, Helen Ericson

THE PHANTOM TOLLBOOTH, Norton Juster

SAMMY KEYES AND THE SEARCH FOR SNAKE EYES
Wendelin Van Draanen

PURE DEAD WICKED, Debi Gliori

BUD, NOT BUDDY, Christopher Paul Curtis

HOLES, Louis Sachar

SKELLIG, David Almond

THE SMUGGLERS, Iain Lawrence

D ont you understand that I was once fifteen years old? That I looked at my mother the same way youre looking at me? That I see the hatred in your eyes and the despair and the love and all of it?

Im eleven, said Sport. Ill be twelve next month. Charlotte Vane had turned away. Her long, thin body leaned toward the window, her forehead touched the drape for one brief second, and then she turned back again.

Youve got a goddamned literal mind. You listen to me, little boy, because youve got one or two things you better get into your head right now. Im not a dreamer like your father. I like money. I like money very much.

Sport sat looking up at his mother, his face blank. He shifted one leg uneasily.

And dont wiggle. If theres anything I hate more than little boys, its wiggling little boys.

Sport had a dark feeling, like being an unfriendly spider. I want to get out of this room, he thought, I want to get out and go back home and make my father pick up his socks.

Your grandfather, Simon Vane, the old wretch, is down there in that sitting room dying right this minute. Your grandfather liked money a lot. Your grandfather made thirty million dollars. Made it. Do you understand that? He made it himself. He got up in the morning and he went downtown and he made it.

Sport thought of the thin, small body downstairs, of the hands you could see through, the gaunt, tiny head, the clouded, unseeing eyes, eyes that used to light up, and the mouth that used to say, Ah! Heres my boy! Heres my real son, whenever Sport walked into the room.

He didnt sit around all day in front of a stupid toy, tap-tapping, tap-tapping, that damned tapping, you couldnt get away from it. He didnt dream dream about writing a book. Where did a book ever get anybody?

Sport opened his mouth and then closed it. He had wanted to say, But he published the book. Dad published the book and it was good. He gets royalties. I know just how much. But there wasnt any use. What were those royalty checks next to thirty million dollars? The figure loomed in Sports mind. He saw himself writing it in his ledger, the one where he kept track of the household spending for himself and his father. He saw it written in red ink. Imagine owing thirty million dollars.

I know whats in your dirty little boys brain, said Charlotte loudly. Sport jumped. I know you want to get away from me. I know you wish to God Id go back to wherever I came from and never come back. You want to crawl back to that dirty hole of an apartment your father lives in, where he cant even buy you a pair of shoes, much less enough to eat. Charlotte turned and screamed, Hes no good. Hes a rotten, no-good bum, your father!

Sport held his breath. He felt somehow that this was the dead end of his mothers rage. She couldnt go any further. There was no further to go. He waited, watching her gasp, start, and then stop herself from continuing and turn away.

With her back turned to him, she said quietly, Get out. Get out of this house.

Sport got up quickly. He went out the door and closed it quietly behind him. Once in the dark hall, all his breath came out in a long whoosh. He stood a minute listening, looking into the gloom of the big old house, then ran as fast as he could down the steps.

A s Sport put the key in the door to his apartment, he heard a loud groan from his father. He looked toward the kitchen and saw immediately that his father had, as usual, boiled the coffee left over from breakfast.

I just cant get the hang of it, said Mr. Rocque sadly.

There isnt any hang to it, just watch it so it doesnt boil, said Sport.

I know, said his father. I just start working and forget its there. He started to go back into his study; then, remembering, he looked at Sport. How did it go?

Okay, said Sport, going into the kitchen. Mr. Rocque came after him. Sport tried to busy himself by looking in the icebox, but there was nothing in the icebox to look at.

How was your mother? said Mr. Rocque finally.

Okay, said Sport.

Hows the old man?

Dying.

Well put. Did you see him?

Yes.

There was a silence. Mr. Rocque went over and sat down at the kitchen table. It isnt pretty, death. His voice was quiet.

No, said Sport.

I wasnt sure you should go over there at all, said Mr. Rocque. Your mother insisted. He sighed and looked out the window. She has certain custody rights, you know. Since shes out of the country so much, she feels that whenever she comes back, she can get you over there.

Get me over there to yell at me, thought Sport.

When the old man dies, your mother will be a rich woman. Mr. Rocque looked searchingly at Sport.

Thirty million, thought Sport.

Is your mother still beautiful? asked Mr. Rocque.

Like a witch, thought Sport. He climbed on the stool and got some peanut butter down from the shelf.

I suppose she is, said Mr. Rocque, not expecting an answer.

Shes ugly, said Sport. Ugly and mean.

Mr. Rocques mouth dropped open. Was she nasty to you?

Sport looked at him. If I tell him what happened, he thought, hell get mad and call her up, then shell get mad and then theyll both end up yelling and then everybody will be yelling.

Shes just mean. I see shes mean.

She is that. But did she say anything to you?

She said that Grandpa was dying, and that he had thirty million bucks, and that he worked for it every day. Nobody can make anything of that, thought Sport with satisfaction. Its all true.

Thirty million! Whew! Mr. Rocque gave a long whistle of astonishment. No wonder that old geezer fought so hard to get you. Imagine leaving all that loot to her. Shell juice it down the drain of every gambling table in Europe.