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The Nike man's smile became indulgent. "I understand, Jamie. You think that you could never be an athlete like your brother, or all the other kids. But 6.1 could be the key for you. Blood is just like fuel, you know. The better the fuel, the better your body will work. In no time at all, you could be running track like your brother... "

Scott laughed. Mum shushed him.

"... or, with your size, maybe playing football. I could see you fitting in well at guard, or possibly even centre."

"You know, that's what I keep telling him," Dad said.

Jamie's cheeks burned. Why couldn't the guy just leave him alone and get on with the presentation?

The Nike man said, "You really shouldn't overlook the benefits of athletic competition. Athletes are much less likely to get involved with drugs or alcohol, or drop out of school. You might even get to attend college on an athletic scholarship, if you're good enough."

"Will it make me smarter?"

Dad cleared his throat.

The Nike man cast a puzzled glance toward the couch. "Well . . . Fuel is designed to enhance athletic performance."

"He's taking all academic classes," Scott said with a sneer.

"I see." The Nike man's smile thinned.

"He's still taking Basic Fitness. And he hasn't even started his Nutrition courses. Hell, when I was Jamie's age, I had already gone through Advanced Conditioning."

"We're, ah, we're very proud of him." Mum, glancing uneasily at Jamie, patted Scott's knee.

"I'll bet."

Jamie glowered at his smirking brother. "I got A's in all my honours courses this quarter."

The Nike man said, "Jamie, academic scholarships are mighty hard to come by these days. Take it from me, most schools just don't have the necessary funding."

Jamie looked at the floor. In a mumble, he said, "I guess I don't care."

"I'm sorry, Jamie; I missed that. What did you say?"

Jamie's mouth drew tight, like a drawstring bag. The collective stare of his parents, his brother, and the Nike man weighed on him, suffusing him with a deep weariness.

"Jamie? What did you say?"

He raised his chin, scowling. "I said, I don't care. All right? You happy now?"

The Nike man took a step backward.

"I don't like football. Get it? I don't like track, either. I don't like sports. I got A's in all my honours courses. Now will you just leave me alone? Please?"

His heart raced. He breathed heavily, as if he'd just run around the block. He wondered at his own words. Had he actually just spoken them in front of his parents? He turned to the couch, suddenly terrified.

"Jee-zus." Scott stood suddenly. "Do I have to stay down here and listen to this crap, Dad? You've already ordered my blood. This guy's just here to talk to Jamie, anyway."

"Scott, you be quiet!" Mum glared at him.

"Why? It's true, isn't it? You're just trying to get him with the program. Waste of time, if you ask me. His buddy's already getting scholarship offers, and fat little Jamie just hides in his books. He's a loser."

Dad stood, too. His face was stern. "That's enough out of you, young man. You may go to your room."

Scott set hands on hips. "And what if I don't? You gonna ground me? I have regionals in two weeks. You wouldn't want me to miss practice, would you?"

Mum and Dad exchanged glances. The Nike man looked at his perfect shoes.

"I'm going over to Kevin's." Scott stormed out the front door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the windows. One of Mum's ceramic angel figurines fell from the knick-knack shelf.

Jamie gaped at his parents. Neither one would meet his gaze.

And he understood why the Nike man was here. Why his parents hadn't just ordered the new blood online, as they usually did. Why Dad had insisted on Jamie being present for the presentation. Why the Nike man had focused so much attention on him.

Jamie looked around the room. His gaze found the multimedia display on its tripod, charting the performance-enhancing benefits of Fuel. He had never felt so alone in all his life.

Slowly, he got to his feet. His throat double-clutched. "I think ... I'm gonna be sick." He headed for the bathroom on unsteady legs.