A Friend at Midnight by Caroline B. Cooney Page B

house.
    Lily told Amanda about the late-night conversation.
    â€œWhen’s the court date?” asked Amanda.
    â€œThere isn’t one. Kells says he can take care of us and why should Mom get all worked up and lose sleep and hire lawyers when all it is, is money.”
    â€œKells isn’t so bad,” said Amanda, referring to hundreds of conversations in which Lily and Reb and Michael had wanted Kells to dry up and blow away. “But you’ve got to tell Kells and your mother what happened and they’ve got to go after the money. Your father has to pay. Denrose gets to abandon Michael, terrify Michael, humiliate and crush Michael—and then get off free?”
    â€œPretty much.”
    â€œI wonder how he’ll spend all that nice money he’s saving by not paying child support.”
    Lily knew instantly that denrose was buying a car. Something fabulous and expensive and beyond his means. But not beyond his means now.
    She saw him tenderly parking his new car crosswise at the far end of parking lots, so it wouldn’t get dinged. Because the finish on your car matters more than the heart of your son.

    They were at the bottom of the third.
    â€œKells?” asked Michael.
    â€œYup.”
    â€œMay I have a snack?”
    â€œSure.” Kells handed him a ten-dollar bill.
    Michael waited to hear the rules—it has to be nutritious; it can’t be fried; be back in exactly five minutes—but Kells said nothing.
    â€œYou want something too?” asked Michael.
    â€œNot yet.”
    â€œI can go by myself?”
    â€œSure.”
    Mom would never have allowed it. But the stadium was small and fully enclosed and packed with parents and officials. They both knew he was fine. Michael climbed the steps toward the shaded upper tier of the stadium, where the concessions were. He surveyed each concession to decide exactly what he wanted. He passed ice cream and considered popcorn. He was approaching pretzels and tacos when he saw his father—his father!—lifting a gray cardboard tray of soft drinks from a counter.
    Michael sprinted down the polished cement. There were as many obstacles in his path as there had been at the airport. Kids and parents and strollers and trash cans and vendors of autographed programs. He weaved desperately among them.
    Dad balanced the tray of soft drinks with one hand and dropped change in his pocket with the other, and then he moved through an ice cream line and out of sight.
    Red T-shirt, Michael told himself. Jeans. No socks. Just like always.
    He flung himself through the ice cream line. Fifty feet ahead of him, the red T-shirt and jeans were ambling along and Michael tore after him. “Dad!” he shouted.
    His father did not turn.
    â€œDad!” He caught up before he expected to, and they collided. The tray of sodas crashed to the ground and the plastic lids snapped off and soda spilled everywhere.
    The man was a complete stranger.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Michael whispered. “I thought you were—umm—my dad.” He was afraid of crying. He had promised himself he would never cry again. Not in this life. Not for anything. “Here’s—umm—my snack money. Because I—umm—wrecked your sodas.”
    The man who wasn’t his father squatted down, bouncing a little on his heels, so now he was beneath Michael instead of above him. “Where is your dad?” said the man gently.
    â€œWashington,” whispered Michael.
    And the stranger nodded, as if he knew a thing or two about fathers who were in Washington. “It’s okay,” he said to Michael. “It was an accident.”
    Michael managed to back away and find the right set of stairs and get down them without falling. He slid over people’s knees and collapsed into his seat. He knew the man was watching. He knew he should glance back and wave or something.
    He sat as small and motionless as he could.
    He could not