War and Watermelon Read Online Free PDF Page A

couldn’t sleep even if I wanted to. It’s humid, but that’s not it. I keep thinking about that run, the way the hole opened up and I saw the entire field in front of me. How I raced past the defenders and would have scored if Esposito hadn’t had the perfect angle.
    It feels like my whole life’s about to change. Moving into junior high is like stepping out of childhood, whether you want to or not. And I keep worrying about how much longer my brother will be around, and maybe my father, too, and wondering why they can’t see eye to eye about anything this summer.
    There’s enough light coming in from the streetlight that I can study the cracks on my ceiling. It’s like looking at cloud formations. There’s one pattern that looks like a baby alligator sitting on the back of a bigger alligator. You have to use some imagination to see it, but it’s there.
    There’s another spot that looks like a football player stretching to catch the ball. That one’s a lot more abstract than the alligators. It never dawned on me that it looked like a football player until I saw some paintings in a magazine a few years ago.
    See, Ryan has always been a huge Giants fan. He and my father watch every away game on TV and listen to the home games on the radio. Ryan has kept a Giants scrapbook for years. It’s mostly clippings from sports magazines, but he also has some old stuff like game programs from the 1940s that belonged to my father’s father.
    Anyway, one day when I was seven, I found a magazine on the counter and it had paintings of some of the Giants. It wasn’t a sports magazine; it was Time or Life or something like that. The paintings weren’t very detailed—just bright colors and wide strokes—but they looked so active.
    I figured Ryan would love to have them for his scrapbook, so I cut them out. I did a very crappy job of it, too.
    A while later I’m in my room and I hear Ryan yell, “Who cut up my magazine?”
    I brought the pictures downstairs and said, “I cut out the Giants for you.”
    â€œOh,” he said. I could tell he was fighting back something—tears or anger, maybe—but he stayed quiet for a minute. Then he took the pictures and went up to his room.
    Later he called me over and showed me how he’d retrimmed the pictures and carefully pasted them in the scrapbook. “They look even better here than they did in the magazine,” he said.
    They didn’t, and we both knew it. But the thing is, he didn’t get mad at me. At least, he didn’t show me that he was mad. He’s never said a harsh word to me. Not once in my entire life.

FRIDAY, AUGUST 15:
    Town’s End
    T he concert is scheduled to start at four. Ryan’s so psyched for it that he yells up the stairs right after lunch.
    â€œBrody! We should split.”
    He’s wearing his homemade tie-dye shirt and a red headband.
    I look in my dresser and find my old blue and yellow Cub Scout neckerchief. I tie it around my head. Freaky!
    â€œYou fellas make sure you put on plenty of suntan lotion,” Mom says.
    â€œHave you looked outside?” Ryan asks. “Nothing but clouds.”
    â€œWell, it won’t hurt to bring some with you. I packed sandwiches and oranges. Do you want to take this watermelon?”
    The watermelon is huge; it probably weighs twenty-five pounds.
    Ryan laughs. “Why would we bring a watermelon?”
    â€œIt can be very refreshing. I bet you’ll be glad you brought it.”
    Ryan rolls his eyes. “Okay.”
    Mom is filling the red and white Coleman juice dispenser with Tang and ice cubes.
    â€œMom, we’re not lugging that thing to the concert.”
    She gives Ryan a look that says she knows better. “You’ll thank me later. It isn’t heavy—two gallons. Brody can carry it.”
    By the time we pick up Jenny and Skippy it’s nearly two o’clock. The thing is,