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part of the graduating class from last year’s Highland Knights. And boy, did he stick out. He towered over the rest of us, and looked like he would one day soon be a main event in WWE. At first everyone, including Coach Hubbard, thought Jackson had simply showed up at the wrong practice site.
    But Jackson and I clicked right away. Anyway, when I saw that headline in the morning paper, the idea of sharing it with Jackson was the first thing I thought of. I was bursting withpride and I knew he’d be just as happy for me as I was. He was already that kind of friend. I took a deep breath and just stared some more at the paper, which I’d brought to school:
    COWBOYS’ NEW KID OWNER
    WHO IS RYAN ZINNA?
    Kid owner . I turned the name over and over in my mouth like a gumdrop, savoring the sugar coating and finally sinking my teeth into its juicy sweet center. I was the kid owner. I only wished they’d had a picture of me.
    My mom didn’t seem to share my joy. She’d read the article at breakfast and then frowned her way through the rest of the meal as she opened her laptop and scrolled through whatever screens moms look at online.
    â€œI mean, honestly.” My mom offered Teresa a look as disgusted as her voice. “Don’t adults have anything better to do than to post things about a twelve-year-old boy?”
    Teresa shrugged as she emptied the dishwasher. “It’s the Dallas Cowboys, Ms. Zinna. They are America’s team.”
    I tried not to grin.
    I checked my own phone and took a peek at my mom’s Facebook page. Lots of people were saying a twelve-year-old would be an improvement on things. I guess I should have felt insulted for my father, but I couldn’t help feeling nothing but excitement.
    On the drive to school, my mom had lectured me.
    â€œYou treat people the same as always, Ryan. Don’t let this go to your head.” She wagged a finger at me. “You’re just likeeveryone else. That’s how I want you to be.”
    â€œYeah, fine, Mom.” I nodded like I got it, but I was really thinking: too late.
    And when she dropped me off at the curb, it started.
    A pretty, dark-haired brainiac named Mya Thompson was the first one to greet me. “Hey, Ryan.”
    â€œRyan, how you doing?” asked Griffin Engle, our team’s star running back.
    â€œRyan, awesome, man!” Estevan Marin, our backup QB said, giving me a fist bump. “Go, Cowboys, dude.”
    That’s all good, but get this: people were taking selfies with me in the background. At first they tried to be cool about it; then people just came up to me and asked. I smiled as graciously as I could, soaking it up like a sponge as they slung their arms over my shoulders and clicked away.
    But after walking the halls, pretending not to notice the whispers, I got to homeroom. Jackson was already sitting there, and I was just waiting for him to talk about it, but he was studying for a science quiz and all he said to me was “Hi.”
    â€œHi? That’s it?”
    He looked up from his book and Margaret Vespers, the girl sitting next to him, nudged him and showed him her phone with what I can only imagine was the online version of the newspaper story. I watched his lips moving silently as he read. When he turned my way, I smiled and sat up straight. His deep-brown eyes widened with concern.
    â€œGeez,” he said, “I hope you’re not gonna have to miss any practices.”
    â€œJackson? That’s all you have to say?” I folded my armsacross my chest. I lowered my voice. “I own the Dallas Cowboys, Jackson. Think about it . . .”
    He scratched his head again and shrugged. “I guess.”
    â€œYou guess what?” I looked around and dropped my voice even more, to a whisper, leaning his way because my classmates had suddenly become interested in me, and Margaret Vespers was staring with an open mouth. “You guess I own them?