The Seventeenth Swap by Eloise McGraw

Saturday evening lay untouched on the kitchen table like a package under the Christmas tree, awaiting its proper moment, which was when Dad sat down with his coffee. Eric eased the comics out of it and carried them into the living room with his juice, but somehow he couldn’t settle down to them, or else they weren’t comic this morning, just pointless and dumb.
    He finally threw them aside and tried to think—which was pointless and dumb too, because he’d already made up his mind about the boots. Forget them!Nothing else to do. There were times when you just had to admit you were licked. Lots of times. You might not like it but you made your peace with it. No use smashing yourself to bits trying to break through a stone wall. No use trying to climb Mount Everest when you didn’t have the equipment. Dad had told him so over and over. Eric had acknowledged it over and over.
    Not that he hadn’t often argued—silently—with Dad’s opinions and advice. Not that he hadn’t thought, Oh, what does he know! But that was only when he was cross and rebellious, and didn’t want to face facts. The facts were that Dad knew a lot more than he did, and usually he was ready to admit that. On the whole he considered he’d jogged along pretty well, making his peace with the way things were, understanding that Dad wasn’t well off, couldn’t buy things like bikes and there was no use whining about it.
    So why couldn’t he make his peace with this? He got up angrily from his chair and started shuffling together the scattered comics. Why did he keep feeling so disappointed, just about a dumb little pair of cheap boots?
    It finally dawned on him, just as he bent to scoop up an armful of paper. He wasn’t disappointed about the boots. At least—he was, but that wasn’t the problem. He was disappointed in himself—because he couldn’t get them.
    Well—not exactly because he couldn’t get them. He mooned over this for a minute, trying to pin it down. Because he’d decided to give up trying?
    But that’s what you did, when a thing was hopeless. That was the only smart thing to do. Not try to smashstone walls or climb Mount Everest—all that. Dad said . . .
    Dad said.
    The closed bedroom door opened, and Mr. Greene emerged, tousle-haired, struggling into his old maroon robe. He peered at Eric, up and dressed, raised his eyebrows at this unprecedented sight, and vanished into the bathroom. Eric finished gathering up the comics and took them to the kitchen trash basket, plugged in the coffee, and sat down at the table to waylay his father before the Sunday paper claimed him. Maybe this time what “Dad said” would be something different.
    A few minutes later Mr. Greene poured coffee into his favorite blue mug and sat down opposite—then, after a closer look at Eric, turned his chair kitty-cornered, crossed his legs, and propped one elbow on the newspaper instead of reading it. He always knew when Eric needed to talk. What Eric didn’t know was how to begin. After a moment, to his own surprise, he bore in from an angle.
    â€œDad,” he said, “you know that time the man from Safeway phoned—’way last year or sometime?” He waited for his dad’s puzzled nod, and forged on, not quite sure himself what he was getting at. “Well—wasn’t that a kind of good job he was offering you?”
    â€œDairy foods manager.” Mr. Greene shrugged. “A little more money. Lot more hassle.”
    Hassle. That was a familiar word, too. “I was thinking it was quite a lot more money,” Eric said casually.
    After a moment his dad uncrossed his knees and turned square to the table, folding both arms on thepaper. “I started at Mulvaney’s as a box boy my first year in high school. Old Mr. Mulvaney always treated me right. Why should I go work at Safeway?”
    Eric could see that. He