The Big Time

CHAPTER FIVE

" WHAT, MOM?" TROY ASKED , his voice dull.

"You've got a big day tomorrow," his mom said. "The Falcons need you. I've got about a hundred emails with media requests that we've got to make some decisions on. You need to come inside and get some sleep. How's that finger?"

Troy shrugged.

"Can I see it?" his mom asked.

Troy held out his throwing hand, wincing even though she held it gently, and clucked her tongue.

"Come inside, Troy," she said. "We need to put some ice on this, and you need to get to sleep."

"You said that already," Troy said.

His mom squatted down so that her eyes were level with his. She gently let go of his hand and touched his shoulder. She spoke in a soft whisper. "You have to forget him, Troy. He's not part of our lives. I'm sorry."

Troy's eyes brimmed with tears, and he shook his head. "All this time you said he didn't care, Mom. You said he wasn't a father, but he didn't know."

"Honey," she said, softer still, her fingers trailing through his hair, "he knew. Believe me, he knew."

"You said it was possible," Troy said, his voice hot. "I heard you; you just said that."

"Troy, 'possible' is a huge word," she said, still stroking his head, her voice still soft. "It's possible that the world could stop spinning, but it won't. Your father can twist things around-he's tricky like that; he always was. I'm not surprised he became a lawyer."

"I want to see him," Troy said, crossing his arms and dipping his chin.

His mother's hand stiffened, and she pulled it back and stood up so that he couldn't see her face outside the glow of the car's overhead light.

"That's not going to happen," she said, her voice cold now. "You come inside. It's bedtime."

Troy sniffed hard and swept the tears from his face. He jumped out of the car and glared at her.

"No," he said, "I won't, and you can't make me. I'm going to see my father if I have to hitch a train to Chicago, and you can't stop me!"

"Troy!" she yelled.

Troy didn't care.

His feet were already moving, flying across the tops of the needle beds, weaving through the pines and into the pitch-black of the night.