Frost Hollow Publishers | Books for Boys

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HARRY THE HOOK

Robert Holland once again has written a top-notch action thriller. Holland writes about the lives of everyday teens; which is not always an easy thing to do. Things that happen to Harry really do happen to teenagers.

Harry helps his friends and he becomes a genuine hero in more than one way. Holland is so good with character description that he makes anything seem possible. Harry the hook is an excellent addition to Mr. Holland's series and I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

--Bobby Donahue, age 12

I liked the way the setting in this book reminded me of my own town. That made it easier for me to relate to the story.

I also liked Harry because he has a good sense of humor. He is also quick-thinking and sets his mind on what he wants to accomplish. The action kept me on the edge of my seat. Harry's adventures with hunting and basketball make for great reading.

--Matt Kirk, age 13

Chapter One

Thin ... Like Really, Really Thin

Harry Jensen stood in his black boxers patterned with red devils, looking in the full length mirror on the back of his closet door. Yup! He was definitely taller. In fact, he was a whole lot taller than he'd been at this time last year. But he was still not tall enough. Even at six-three he wasn't tall enough. Maybe, if he played guard, six-three would be okay but he couldn't dribble which meant he had to play with the trees, the tall, rangy guys.

He turned sideways. Okay, maybe he was almost tall enough but he was also skinny. Face it Harry, my boy, he told himself, you are not just skinny, you are like a refugee from a marathon. When you turn sideways, you are a disappearing act. You need rocks in your shoes just to walk in a high wind and if even some really little guy bumps into you, you're going airborne off the court. His arms looked like fat hot dogs and his shoulder bones stuck out like somebody had sewn rocks under the skin. And his legs! Jeesh! Broken broom handles that looked like they'd been strapped together in the middle with a whole roll of duct tape!

He shook his head, stepped away from the mirror, banged his right big toe on one of the weights piled near the wall, and with his face screwed into a grimace, fell backward onto the bed. It hurt! It really, really hurt! Damn, he'd probably broken it! Wouldn't that be about right? Just when he's getting ready to start thinking about getting himself in shape, he breaks his toe. He pulled his foot up onto the bed as he sat up. He wiggled the toe. Did that mean it wasn't broken? There was a small scratch but it wasn't bleeding. He swung his leg from the bed and set his feet on the floor. The only thing to do was try it. He stood, putting weight on his right foot. Well, it wasn't broken, he thought, but it was still plenty sore. He pulled on his tee shirt, jeans, and socks, and then slipped on his New Balance court shoes. The toe still hurt but it wasn't all that bad.

Darn dumb weights anyway. He oughta move them down to the cellar, and he would have if they weren't so heavy. And then he looked around at the mirror. What he should have done was listen to his brother, but who ever listened to an older brother, especially a guy who, now that he was in college, didn't even play sports? Even when he was in high school he hadn't been all that great. In fact, now that he thought about it, there weren't any athletes in the whole family. Nobody even played golf! It was hard to believe. A whole family full of bright successful people and not a single jock! Man, was that ugly or what? I am descended from generations of geeks!

He dropped into the easy chair in his room and looked out the window, keeping his back to the set of weights Aaron had left behind. But whether he could see them or not, they were there, big and heavy and threatening as any oozing glob of alien slime. It was like they were alive and he could hear them breathing, calling his name ... Harry ... Harry ... time to pick us up, Harry, time to build some muscle, Harry ... But it wasn't so simple. In the first place they were very heavy, even the little ones, and it was embarrassing to have to strain to pick up something most of the girls he knew could pick up. One whole week, he'd pumped them up and down and in and out and back and forth and nothing had happened. Even when he held his arms up and tightened his biceps there was nothing more than there had been before. Hot dogs with a lump in the middle, snakes that had swallowed small frogs. Not that he'd expected to look like Schwarzenegger after a week, but for God's sake, he had expected something ... anything!

And what's more he didn't have to sit here taking that crap from a set of weights. He could go eat, that's what. Yeah, bulk up. Pack in the food. Both his parents were still asleep and he got a box of cereal from the pantry, sat down at the table, filled his bowl, and then added milk. From here he could see the basketball hoop hanging from the garage. It was a big court, because the garage had four bays. Everybody thought they were rich. But that was a long way from true. His dad used two bays for his hobby business, buying and selling rare books. Both bays had been closed off and lined with book shelves and he'd had a special heating and humidity system installed, and there were big, very special locks on the doors. It was weird because when you opened one of the outside garage doors all you saw was a solid wall. Doors to nowhere. There was also a huge safe made of concrete with a door that had come from an old bank.

Kind of a boring business ... nothing but bunches of musty old books. And it took Dad away from home a lot because he only had vacations, weekends, and nights to spend at it. The rest of the time he worked as the head of marketing for Bergerac, Inc., which meant he hardly ever traveled for the company.

Harry poured another bowl of cereal. His mother was assistant head of sales for Redline, a software company and she was always flying off to Europe and Japan.

At least his dad included him in the book business, taking him along when he went to pick up books, and on the long rides, it was pretty cool. He was a funny guy and he laughed a lot, and he had great stories to tell. The best part was that when he worked for his dad he got paid, and that kept gas in his old Volvo and covered the repairs that you had to expect in a car that had traveled nearly three hundred thousand miles.

It had been better, though, when Aaron was at home because he was a lot like Dad, always finding the funny side of things. And he'd been looking forward to Aaron coming home from college for the summer. Instead he'd gotten a job at a resort out on the Cape. He'd been here two weeks and then gone. Harry shrugged. How come things never worked out the way he wanted? Was it so much to ask? Dumb questions.

On the other hand there was a good side to all of this, he thought. Sure he missed Aaron, who wouldn't? But in the past year, with Aaron away at school, he'd had the run of the place and he'd gotten kind of tired of Aaron telling him how to do everything. It was the same thing with Mom. He missed her when she was away, but the way it worked, once she was out of the house, he had a whole lot more freedom. Dad never asked dumb questions about what he did with his friends, or who he was going out with. He just told him what time to be home and to call if anything was likely to make him late.

Dad had even taught him how to cook, and now Harry did his own laundry and even ironed. Sure it was a pain in the butt, because it was always better to have someone taking care of all that stuff, but on the other hand, if he had to, he could take care of himself and that was no bad thing.

He finished a fourth bowl of cereal, put away the box and the milk, rinsed off the bowl and spoon, and put them into the dishwasher. What he ought to do was get his summer reading out of the way. Not that there was much of it. Maybe three books. Not like the guys who went to St. Francis or Blake Academy. Those poor guys had to read ten books and during the year they got hours and hours of homework. And for what? You didn't have to work all that hard to get into a regular sort of college. Look at his parents. They'd gone to Penn State and they were very successful, and one day they'd probably even be rich. All you had to do was get B's and A's, and get over eleven hundred on the SAT's.

He looked up at the clock. Nine. Mom and Dad would be up soon. They often slept in on Saturdays and another time he might have waited but now, after a week of school, he needed to practice the way he had all summer: every morning, every afternoon, because that was the only way he had a chance at making the Jayvees. But he'd be careful, throw up a few hoops, nothing long, just layups and short shots around the basket so the sound of the ball didn't thunder through the house when it hit the backboard. That always drove his folks wild. It was worse than poking a hornet's nest.

He picked up the ball from the bench on the breezeway and walked out into the bright July day. It wasn't hot and it wasn't cold and there was no wind. Ideal. Somewhere up the street he could hear someone cutting their grass and he looked out at the broad lawn. He had to get it done today because the grass was getting too high, and if he didn't cut it today, he'd end up having to rake. And that was punishment!

He dribbled across the asphalt, watching the ball into his hand the whole way. You weren't supposed to look at the ball when you dribbled. The guards never looked at the ball, well, at least the good ones didn't. Which meant he wasn't going to be a guard. But then, he knew that because he wasn't fast enough and he was too tall. The only dribbling he'd need was enough to get to the hoop once he'd faked out the guy who was defending him. Dream on, Harry, he said to himself. You couldn't fake out a rock, never mind somebody who was trying to stop you.

He faked and stepped into his jump shot, his weight coming down on his right foot and rolling it forward toward the sore big toe.

"OW!" he shouted, stopping his shot as he limped like a hobbled horse.

Okay, with his toe out of commission he had an excuse to quit. A year ago he would have. But not now. Try a layup. He increased his speed, bursting to the basket, leaping, and then, discovering he was in too far, he reached back and flipped the ball off the backboard with his right hand like he'd done a thousand, thousand times before, and ... it went in ... A miracle! An absolute miracle!

Quickly, he pivoted, picked up the ball, threw a head fake to the right, dropped back a step, feeling an imaginary defender coming in from behind. He was trapped and there was no one to pass to. Then he made a fatal mistake, gave up his dribble, and ended with his back to the basket ten feet away.

It was desperation time. He faked a jump shot because with his sore toe he couldn't shoot a jump shot, and now they were closing in on him. He pivoted to his right, jumped, and tossed up a shot he had never before tried. A jump hook. The Sky Hook. Nothing but net. He stopped, looking up at the basket and then at the ball bouncing on the pavement. Just like that, without thinking, he'd thrown a jump hook and it'd gone in ... not just in, but without even brushing the rim. Awesome! He stepped forward, hurling himself through the dry September air, scooped up the ball, and threw the same shot from the left side of the basket. Net. All net. What was going on here? He grinned. Never mind what was going on ... just shoot! And he did, over and over, twisting, turning, leaping, feeling the shots that went in rolling from the tips of his fingers, and the ones that missed coming more off the palm of his hand.

In his mind he was as slick and smooth as any college small forward. On the other hand, anyone watching would have seen a very skinny, somewhat awkward kid, who seemed like he was all elbows and knees. He wasn't fast and he couldn't jump very high, and when he let go of the ball you were certain it would not go in ... but it did ... time after time after time, and maybe, just maybe there was something more, a flash here and there, a hint of more to come.

A half hour later he stopped and wiped the sweat from his forehead, aware that his T-shirt and shorts were soaked, and that he was breathing hard, but at the same time it seemed as if he could go on forever. He stepped back to the foul line and tried the same shot. No luck. It was on line, but short. He moved in a step and tried it again. Closer this time, but still short. One more step and it landed on the front rim and rolled in. A half step. Perfect. He repeated the process, backing out farther each time and the result was the same. At around ten feet he was pretty deadly, but beyond that it got iffy. He nodded. Okay. Problem stated. Solution? The weights. Right now. Go up there and work out for an hour. He needed more thrust in his legs and more power in his arms.

Later. He faked, rolled right, then left, and jumped. The ball slipped off his fingertips and went in. More. Do it again! Never stop! Talk about a rush! A whole spring of missing jump shots and suddenly he'd found a shot he could make! He drove and shot until he could hardly stand, and then backed off to the foul line. One shot was all it took to burst his bubble. Not good. He shook his head. What was he doing wrong? Not enough leg. It had to be in the legs. This time he bent his knees a little more and put less pressure on his arms as he pushed the ball upward with his right hand. The ball landed softly on the rim, rolled around, and fell off to the side.

Okay. He'd missed but it was a much better shot because it was soft. It's an egg, he said to himself as he gathered the ball and dribbled back to the foul line. Think of it as an egg and you have to land it soft enough to keep the shell intact. The key was in the legs. He dipped and let the ball go as his knees straightened. In! Okay. He knew the answer. He collected the ball and tried again, but his knees felt weak and his legs were tired. Time to shower up and go at it again later when he was rested.

The instant he stepped away from the court, he reverted to form, tripping over the cat and falling face first onto the lawn as the badly startled animal let out a screech worthy of a fire truck and scrambled for the nearest tree. Damn cats! Why do we have to have cats? I hate cats! All they do is get under your feet! He got up onto his hands and knees and jackknifed onto his feet. Well at least the grass had been soft, and, anyway it wasn't just cats he tripped over. With size fourteen shoes, each day was an adventure in walking. Sometimes he thought the world had been designed by someone with little weeny feet. On the other hand, he thought, maybe it meant he was gonna keep on growing until he caught up to his feet.

He grinned as he started up the stairs. That was a thought he could live with! If only it would happen faster so he didn't have to go around looking like he was wearing clown shoes. It was not a look the girls seemed to favor much. He peeled off his shirt. The weights looked heavier than ever. It would be like trying to pick up a bus, and even with only fifteen pounds on the bar he'd have to grunt and strain to make a single curl. But at least now he had a reason.

He bent over, grabbed onto the bar and hoisted the weights up to his shoulders and then over his head to rest lightly on the back of his neck. Slowly, he lowered his body toward the floor, feeling the muscles in his legs tighten. With his legs three-quarters bent he held for several seconds and then came back up, rising onto his toes to work the calf muscles. One. Again. Two. Boring. Very boring. Three. Four. Five. Stop. Sets of five. He had to do six sets of five.

He wanted to quit. He wanted to take a shower and zone out on some Saturday morning cartoons. He started to lift the weights off his neck to bring them forward and a new image burst from where it had been hiding in his mind. Kathy Swann! Whoa, talk about a hot babe. He rested the weights on his shoulders. Did she still go to Fellowship at the church? If he'd kept going on Sunday nights instead of drifting over to Kerry's, he'd know that. Not that he was going back. No way. It just wasn't a group he wanted to hang out with. On the other hand, if Kathy Swann went, then maybe there was a reason to go. He looked into the mirror at the scarecrow with the weights resting on his shoulders and shook his head. Get real, he told himself. Girls like Kathy Swann did not go out with human stick figures. Particularly, they didn't go out with stick figures who were ordinary looking. Not that he was bad looking, but his nose was a little large and very sharp and his sandy hair had a mind of its own, always flopping about and refusing to stay combed in any particular pattern. He had a long face too, just like his father and his grandparents on his father's side. Probably the worst part of his face was his big bushy eyebrows. Actually it was just one eyebrow. His eyes were good though. No problem there. Well, maybe they were a little too light blue. And there was also the matter of his butt-crack chin and ... he turned slightly sideways to the mirror ... chin was pretty large too, just like his jaw. Maybe he ought to grow a beard ... or maybe he ought to get his hair buzzed off close. No! None of that mattered. What mattered was muscles! Finish what you start. He began another set, despite the fact that his legs had begun to feel like freshly cooked spaghetti. He needed the strength. He needed to build up his legs. In the warmth of his room he had begun to sweat hard, and it slid down his face into his bushy eyebrows and then into his eyes, the salt making them sting, but he kept at it.

By the time he was halfway through the final set, he felt weak all over, almost as if his bones had been shaken loose at the joints. Finally, he stood with the weights on his neck and hoisted them over his head to the front, stopping with the bar just under his chin. And while he was there he decided to do at least one set of presses. Slowly he pushed the bar upward, sending it higher and higher until he had reached full extension. But he seemed to be out of balance, the weights pulling him backward and he staggered back, and then back, knowing he was going to crash downward, and he couldn't think of any way to avoid it. Finally he just tumbled backward, falling toward the floor, ready for the crash of the weights into whatever was behind him.

He lucked out. The bed caught the backs of his calves and he fell full length onto the hard mattress, the weights coming to rest across the bed just shy of the nightstand.

He glanced quickly toward the door, but it remained closed and he could hear the water running in his parents' bathroom. Only then did he smile. The world's biggest weakling. He sat up quickly. But not for long. Today was the first day of the new way of things. He picked up the weights, holding them down toward his knees and began the first curl. The weights came up slowly, his elbows bending until the bar rested against his chest. He lowered the bar and did three more and then on the fifth one he had to grunt like a pig to get the bar to his chest. Okay, nobody said this would be easy. What was it the jocks always said? No pain, no gain. Right. He set the bar on the floor and walked back and forth in his room for a minute or so before starting another set. Pain? Did he really want to suffer? Nobody wanted to suffer. He shrugged. No pain, no gain. He bent down and hoisted the bar.

More grunting, and sweating. Man, this was hard work! He let his hands fall to his sides, his shoulders slouched, thinking about taking a shower and ... no! He couldn't let himself quit. Look at Kerry. Muscles upon muscles. And he got that way by working out. Not that he looked like a body builder, but he was strong and he'd done that by pumping iron.

Harry picked up the bar and began another set of curls and this time he kept at it, taking a short break after each set until he had completed the routine. His arms felt dead, but his legs seemed to have recovered and, in fact, he felt surprisingly stronger ... until he tried presses again.

He couldn't get the bar past his chin. Okay, so he was a weakling. But he knew that. He lowered the bar to the floor took off some weight and tried again. This time it worked and though he felt kind of foolish using so little weight, he told himself that it didn't matter, that in a week or so he could increase the weight and then keep increasing it.

When he finished the set, he stood looking down at the bar, wondering what other exercises he ought to try. But, in fact, he didn't know any others.

"You awake?" his dad called through the door.

"Yeah, come on in."

The door opened and his father stood staring at the sweat running off him. "Whoa," he said, "what've you been up to?"

"Working out."

Parker grinned. "Pretty soon you can carry all the books."

"Gotta build up for basketball," Harry said.

"I thought it was football guys who lifted weights."

"Not anymore. Conditioning is everything."

Parker shook his head. "Sure makes you sweat," he said. "Very impressive. You been at this long?"

"I've already shot hoops for an hour."

"Really? How come it didn't wake us?"

"I wasn't shooting jump shots," Harry said.

"Oh." Growing up on the farm there had been no time for sports. He and his brother Dale had been expected to work after school. The only break from the routine had come in the fall when he and Dale and his father had hunted. He'd worked in college too, but then it had been in the library where he had discovered books, wonderful old rare books housed in temperature and humidity controlled rooms, which was about as far as you could get from cow barns. Now, he played some tennis, but only to stay in shape

"I'm counting on making the team this year and I've got just two and a half more months to get ready for the tryouts."

His father smiled and shook his head. "Seems like an awful lot of work."

"To be good at something you gotta work for it," Harry said. He smiled at his father. "Isn't that what you always say?"

Parker laughed. "It is indeed," he said. "I just hope you'll put in the same amount of effort on your studies."

"Jeesh, Dad. It's Summer! Give it a rest, okay?"

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