Fireside by Susan Wiggs (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📕

course, although at seventeen, that was the way he felt, all the time, like a struck match. With no supervision at home and nothing to keep him from exploding, he was into anything that would give him an adrenaline rush—swimming in the long, deep rice wells west of town, skateboarding through parking garages, having bottle-rocket wars with his friends, racing hot rods along the spillways and bayous of Houston—an accident waiting to happen.

He wasn’t looking for trouble. It was just that life excited him, though not always in a good way. That particular summer, he was on fire because he was pissed at his mom, who was broke again and had to give up her place in the Wagon Wheel Mobile Home Court. Sometimes when that happened—which it did on a regular basis—Bo went to stay with his big brother, Stoney. But that year, Stoney, just out of high school, was working on a rig offshore and couldn’t take him. Nor could he bail their mother out of debt. Generally speaking, Stoney was just as foolish as she was about money, and just as broke.

With his mom drifting around the Gulf Coast and his brother out on a rig, Bo had been looking at yet another summer in foster care. However, it turned out his baseball coach, Mr. Landry Holmes, had other plans for him. Holmes had played college ball in Florida with a guy named Dino Carminucci. They’d stayed in touch ever since. Holmes ended up coaching in Texas, and Carminucci became a scout for the Yankees. Coach Holmes had made all the arrangements for Bo to take part in the all-star program, somehow coming up with airfare and pocket money. Coaches were like that, all hooked into some vast, invisible network. The scheme was supposed to keep Bo out of trouble, and to give his one-and-only talent a chance to do him some good, so maybe he wouldn’t end up like his mom and Stoney, drifting aimlessly.

Bo had been on fire about girls that summer, too, an affliction that had first struck him in the eighth grade when he’d sat behind Martha Dolittle in social studies, watching her every fluttery, girly move. If there was a scale to measure craziness about girls, on a scale of one to ten, Bo would register about a ninety-nine. He’d been in love with Yolanda Martinez the summer before their senior year of high school, and they’d had a huge fight about him going north for baseball. She thought he was abandoning her, but he claimed that if he did well enough, he might get a scholarship to college, which would mean he actually had a shot at a future.

He had been the best damn ballplayer ever to wear the uniform of the Texas City Stings, and that was no brag, just fact. And finally, thank you, Jesus, finally he’d been tagged for one of the most elite baseball programs in the country, where he’d be training with the top high school players in the sport and, more importantly, in full view of talent scouts.

He hadn’t slept a wink on the flight to New York City. Sure, he’d been tired, and the trip seemed endless, but he hadn’t wanted to miss a single second of the experience of flying in an airplane. All his life he used to watch planes flying overhead, silver flashes in the smoggy sky above Texas City, and he’d imagine being aboard, flying beyond the murky pollution to a place where the skies were clear and the air sweet. He didn’t much care where the plane was headed. Away was good enough for him, even if it meant leaving Yolanda, whom he hadn’t managed to sweet-talk into bed—yet.

Flying was everything he wanted it to be. When the gate agent saw his height, she gave him an exit row seat with lots of legroom, and all he had to do was say he was willing to help out in case of an emergency. Which was a complete joke, because in an emergency, he’d be yelling his head off like everybody else, but he knew better than to point that out. He’d brought along a copy of the training camp’s prospects report—a detailed scouting writeup about each player—and a book called The Celestine Prophecy. It was one of the biggest hits of the ’90s, prominently displayed everywhere—particularly the airport. He was a fast reader and it was a short book, so he finished it between periods of simply staring out the window.

The guy in The Celestine Prophecy was on the trail of some kind of ancient manuscript, and he kept having these spiritual insights, like discovering it was divine to be a vegetarian and that a guy needed to know his own personal mission. It wasn’t much of a book, but Bo saw a handful of other people on the plane reading it, so he kept plugging away, waiting for it to get more interesting. Mostly, though, he kept watching out the window. It looked like a dream-land out there. Sometimes all he could see was an eternity of cotton-candy clouds. This was what heaven looked like in every movie he’d ever seen about heaven. The weather cleared at certain points and he found himself looking down at the world. The green landscape was veined by the silvery twists of rivers and streams, and crisscrossed by roads. Everything looked so tiny and neat, it was surreal, almost. Like flying over a map of the world.

The guy next to Bo was a been-there-done-that kind of businessman. However, when the flight attendants came with a cart laden with meal trays, Bo couldn’t contain himself. He’d been dying of hunger and here they were, bringing him hot food. It was a meal fit for a king—a piece of meat molded into the shape of a football, with gravy on a bed of rice, chunks of green beans on the side. A little salad in its own container with an even tinier container of