Friendship
"What're we gonna investigate?" Aaron said.
"You might want to investigate the art of listening," Mr. Collins said. "The rest of the class will study mealworms."
There were snickers. If Aaron heard, he didn't seem to care; he kept moving. His legs jiggled. He tapped his pencil on his desk. He hummed. His head bopped from side to side as if he was hearing music.
Weird kid, Jeremy thought.
I had four best friends. We lived for hockey. I was the goalie. I had a crippled leg and foot, so I couldn't wear skates. But my leather moccasins were fine. I was quick and could slide across the goalmouth really fast. They called me "Moccasin Danny."
I'm not ten feet from the stoop when my foot runs aground on something unfamiliar and I stumble. I manage to keep my balance, but what's in the pot splashes into the snow. In the thin morning light, I stare at the snow and the yellow patch where the liquid is trickling into it. Something black lies beneath. I rub the spot with my foot. It's a boot—I recognize it as belonging to Albert Brooks.
