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bend.
    Jeff hung back with him. “You really never played before?” he asked.
    â€œNever,” Murphy replied. His voice was thin and squeaky.
    â€œYou’re a great goalie,” he said.
    Murphy liked how those words sounded, but he knew there was nothing great about the saves he made. He stopped the ball because he was terrified. He didn’t drop the ball because his hands were frozen. And he didn’t jump out of the way because he wasn’t fast enough. That was the part Jeff didn’t understand.

9
    When Mom answered the door on Sunday morning Murphy was still in bed.
    â€œHe’s not feeling so good this morning,” she said. “If he’s feeling better later I’ll get him to catch up with you boys.”
    Not so good? Murphy was feeling like he had stubbed every part of his body. He felt worse than ever before in his entire life. Ten times worse than the night he threw up five times after eating a rotten hot dog. Twenty times worse than when he had chicken pox all over his body.
    He cuddled next to his cat. Mousetrap purred a pleased sort of sound. Mom brought cereal and orange juice to Murphy’s bed.
    â€œOuch,” Murphy said as he tried to sit up.
    â€œDo you have a fever?” Mom asked. She sat on the edge of his bed and stroked his forehead.
    â€œNo,” Murphy said. “I’m not sick.”
    He told Mom he had played soccer, which was true. He told her that he was a really good goalie, which wasn’t so true, but that’s what everyone was saying. He also told her that he made a few great saves that knocked him over. She already knew about the puddle because his jacket, pants, shirt, running shoes and even his underwear were covered with mud.
    Murphy didn’t tell her that Albert and the boy with big front teeth and glasses had hit him on purpose. He didn’t tell her that he had blacked out and seen gold and silver stars or how afraid he was when the ball came flying toward him.
    On Monday, Murphy could hardly bend his knees to climb the school bus steps. All last week, he had sat near the front on his own, but today one of the boys from the game shoved over and motioned to him to sit near the back with the rest of the players.
    â€œGreat goalie,” the boy said. “Coming out to the field after school?”
    â€œMaybe,” Murphy said, but he meant no.
    Some of the boys who had ignored him at school the week before asked him to play on their soccer team at lunch.
    â€œNo, thanks,” he said and tried to find someplace to hide. No soccer, not now, not for a long time, please.
    The only part about soccer that he liked was how everyone wanted to be his friend. Everyone, at least, except Albert and the boy with big teeth and thick glasses. When they walked past Murphy in the hall they bumped him up against the wall or stuck their elbows in his side.
    â€œWait until the next game,” Albert said.
    When Murphy got home from school, he opened the apartment door and called, “Come here, Mousetrap.”
    He checked on and under Mom’s bed and his bed. He looked in all the spots his cat could hide. He stood perfectly still. The apartment was silent except for a faint hum of music seeping through the vents from upstairs.
    Panic struck Murphy’s stomach and crawled up the back of his neck.
    His voice got louder. “Mousetrap, come here!”
    He lifted the cushions on the sofa and checked the beds again. He looked under the velvet pillow and in the bathroom. He looked in Mom’s make-up container and shoebox, places where Mousetrap couldn’t possibly fit.
    Mousetrap wasn’t in the room. Not anywhere.
    A freshly folded pile of towels and sheets and a stack of mail lay on the table. Had Mousetrap sneaked out the door while Grandma was leaving things for Mom?
    â€œMousetrap,” Murphy hollered one more time, “please come here.”
    It was no use. He rushed upstairs.
    â€œGrandma,”