Dunk by David Lubar

the money that a man in front of him was waving in his face and handed over three balls. Then he gave me several greasy bills. “Here. You mind getting me a cheeseburger before you start?”
    â€œNo problem, Boss.”
    I rushed across the boardwalk and got Bob his food.
    â€œThanks,” he said, taking the burger from me. “You ready?”
    â€œYeah, I’m ready.” I scanned the crowds pressing in from the sides. Man, there were a lot of people. I glanced over at Malcolm. I guess he wasn’t going to get out of the tank until I put on my makeup. No point leaving it empty. But he’d be gone soon enough.
    â€œYou know what to do?” Bob asked.
    â€œAbsolutely. I’ve been thinking about it all day. I know I just—”
    â€œGood boy.” He bent over and picked up an empty five-gallon bucket that had a damp, dirty towel draped over the side. “Here,” he said, thrusting it out toward me.
    I grabbed the bucket automatically as it jammed against my chest.
    â€œJust be careful. Watch your head. The first kid I hired last year caught one right in the nose. Probably have to go through the rest of his life looking like a very untalented boxer.”
    I didn’t get it. “Won’t the bars protect me?”
    Bob gave me a puzzled look. “Not where you’re gonna be.” He stopped to take another two bucks from the mark, then said, “Just make sure you don’t try to collect the balls while someone’s throwing.”
    Collect the balls?
    The truth crashed over me like a ten-foot wave. I was such an idiot. How could I have thought he was hiring me to go in the tank? I lowered my head and saw my work spread out in front of me. Baseballs were scattered around the canvas behind the target. There was a puddle by the bottom of the tank that grew larger every time the Bozo plunged into the water. The wood supporting the tank was solid, so there was nowhere for the water to drain. A lot of the balls had rolled to a stop in the puddle. That explained the towel.
    â€œWell, come on,” Bob said. “Hustle.”
    Bloody freakin’ crap. I wanted to slam down the bucket and stomp away. But I was trapped by my own big mouth. I’d told him I’d do the job—even bragged about what a dependable worker I was.
The best
.
Ask anyone
. I’d have to come through. Just for tonight. It couldn’t be that tough. I walked behind him and nearly got my head taken off as a huge guy wearing a Dallas Cowboys T-shirt hurled a ball full force.
    Nobody noticed my close brush with death.
    I dodged out of the way and waited until the Cowboys fan was finished, then dashed forward and scooped up a couple of the balls. I gave them a quick wipe with the towel before I dumped them in the bucket. There were so many balls scattered around, and the players were throwing them so fast, I barely managed to keep up.
    As I chased after a ball that had rolled behind the tank, the Bozo’s voice tore through the speakers. “Glad I don’t have your job. Talk about a pathetic way to earn money.”
    â€œShut up!” I shouted, spinning toward him.
    He wasn’t even looking at me. Or talking to me. He was pointing at a guy in the crowd wearing a bright-orange Highway Department vest. I guess the guy had just gotten off work.
    â€œReal hard job, right? You the genius who holds the sign that says
Stop?
Where’d you go to learn that trade? Moron school?” The highway guy threw eighteen balls before he dunked Malcolm. I was rooting for the mark the whole time.
    Not that I had much of a chance to think. I was too busy ducking, dashing, stooping, and scooping. And wiping. The water in the puddles was unbelievably gross. People had all sorts of crap on their hands when they grabbed the balls. The towel looked like something that had been used to diaper a baby gorilla. That wasn’t the worst part. My knees hurt from hitting them on the