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Anthony,” I warned him. “You might just have to eat them.”
    But even though I wouldn’t have admitted it to Anthony for the world, I had my doubts about Jimbo. I simply could not convince him of the importance of this test. We’d had plenty of time to review for the test after Jimbo had finished his civics project, but he had spent the rest of the hour telling me tales from his Alabama childhood instead. I usually found his sense of humor delightful, but it was maddening to try to teach formulas to someone who clearly couldn’t care less or, worse yet, insisted on turning everything into a joke.
    Knowing Jimbo’s attitude toward the test, I shouldn’t have been surprised when I looked out the window at fifteen minutes after six on the night before the test and found him in the front yard with Richie, tossing a football around.
    “Jimbo!” I called, stepping out onto the front porch. “Are you ready to start? It’s already a quarter past.”
    “Already? Well, since we’re late already, a few more minutes aren’t gonna hurt. Come on and play!”
    “ Me ?”
    “Sure! Come on!”
    Without really knowing why, I stepped off the porch and joined Jimbo and Richie in the yard.
    “What do I do?” I asked.
    “Richie’ll snap the ball to you and then go deep. You just throw the ball to him.”
    “What will you be doing?”
    “I’m coachin’.”
    “All right,” I said, positioning myself behind Richie. “Here goes nothing.”
    On my signal, Richie snapped the ball and then scampered across the yard. I took a deep breath and threw the football. It was a weak, wobbly pass that hit the ground long before it ever reached its intended receiver.
    “Come on, Trace!” Richie groaned. “That ball was underthrown!”
    “Look, Tracy, let me help you. Richie, get back out there.”
    As Richie sprinted across the yard, Jimbo situated himself behind me and positioned my fingers between the laces on the football. He placed his hands over mine, and guided me through the release. I knew most of the credit for the pass belonged to him, but I still felt a little thrill as I watched the ball arc gracefully through the air and descend into Richie’s outstretched arms.
    “Well, look at that,” Jimbo said. “Joe Montana won’t get a wink of sleep tonight, knowin’ you’re around.”
    He dropped his hands lightly onto my shoulders as he spoke, and I realized the thrill running through me had nothing to do with football and everything to do with Jimbo’s nearness, his sure, capable hands resting on my shoulders, and his warm breath ruffling my hair.
    “I think—I think we need to start studying,” I stammered in confusion, and hurried into the house.
     
Chapter Eight
     
    I spent a restless night that evening, my sleep disturbed by dreams of footballs and physics tests. Jimbo, on the other hand, strolled into class on test day as calmly as if he laid his football career on the line every day of his life. An hour later, it was all over but the waiting. I felt pretty good about my own test. Some of the problems were pretty tricky, but I was pretty sure I had a solid “B.”
    “How did you do?” I asked Jimbo as we left the room at the end of the period.
    “I’m pretty sure I passed,” he answered.
    “Do you think you got a ‘C’?”
    Jimbo shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out tomorrow.”
    When Mr. Donovan passed out the graded papers the next morning, I was so eager to find out what Jimbo had made that I hardly even noticed the eighty-eight penciled in red on the top margin of my own paper. I turned around in my desk just in time to see Jimbo tuck his test paper into his notebook.
    “What did you make?” I asked.
    “Well, I passed,” he answered cautiously.
    My heart leaped up into my throat. “How bad is it?” I asked, not mincing words.
    “Sixty-nine.”
    Sixty-nine. One lousy point away from the “C” he needed. I had lost my bet with Anthony, but somehow that didn’t seem quite so important