“Exactly! And when you get a sneak peek at my glove, you’re unstoppable.”
Dee-Dub flashes a sly grin. “It helps to know where the ball is going.”
“Sure does. It’ll help you when you face Logan in the pitch-off rematch too.”
His expression darkens. “But Alyssa’s batting, not me.”
“I’m making an executive decision. I think she should be the pitcher, I’ll be the catcher, and you’ll be our designated hitter.”
It’s his chance to bail, but Dee-Dub seems intrigued. “It would be nice to see Logan’s face when I hit his pitch for a home run.”
“He wouldn’t ever bother us again,” I say.
Dee-Dub holds out his hand for me to shake, which I guess means we have a deal. I really need to teach him to bump fists instead.
When he’s done crushing my fingers, Dee-Dub nudges the mouse on the desk and the computer screen blinks to life. He’s building something on Minecraft, but I can’t tell what it is.
“It was cool how you moved your foot yesterday,” he says. “I didn’t know you could do that.”
“Me either. I still don’t know how it happened, really. Except I’ve been practicing more the last few days. My PT got on my case. Said I need to stop hiding behind a mask.”
Dee-Dub furrows his brow. “You wear a mask to PT?”
“No! It’s just a thing people say. Like, unmask a mascot and you see who’s underneath.”
“So, you’re a mascot?”
Geez. “No, Dee-Dub. I’m not a mascot.”
As Dee-Dub zooms out from his Minecraft world, I finally recognize what he’s building. It’s Busch Stadium.
“Oh, I get it!” he exclaims suddenly. “You’re saying you know a mascot.”
The image of Busch Stadium reminds me of Mr. Dillon. “Oh, I know a mascot, all right,” I mutter. “Except he’s not a mascot at all.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” Dee-Dub turns to face me. He looks so serious, it’s almost funny. “Are you okay, Noah? You don’t sound very happy.”
I’m surprised that he noticed. “Okay, fine. Remember that stuff we found out about Odell Dillon?”
“The refuse consultant?”
“Yeah. So he says he’s Fredbird, the Cardinals mascot. But that’s clearly a lie, ’cause we already know what he does. Plus, I saw Fredbird at my old elementary school and there’s no way Mr. Dillon was inside that suit.”
Dee-Dub doesn’t respond for several seconds. “Why would someone lie about being a mascot?” he asks.
“I don’t know. To impress his daughter, I guess. She was at the school too, and Fredbird never even looked at her. It was like he didn’t recognize her. Her dad’s lying to her, and she doesn’t even know it. Which means he’s lying to my mom and me too, and I can’t do anything about it.”
“Yes, you can. It’s like you said just now: get a mascot to take off his mask and you see who’s underneath. Once everyone finds out it’s not Mr. Dillon, the game is up.”
I can’t tell if Dee-Dub is serious or not. Is he just finding a solution like he does in math? Or is he actually saying we should try to unmask Mr. Dillon?
“So, how would we do it?” I ask, playing along.
Dee-Dub scratches his chin. “Well, there might be more than one Fredbird, so we’d need to pick a day when Mr. Dillon says he’s going to be in the suit.”
“He says he’s going to be Fredbird at next Friday’s Cardinals game. Oh, that reminds me, I’ve got a couple tickets to the game. Want to go?”
“Next Friday,” he repeats like he might have a hundred other things planned for that night. “It’s possible, I suppose. But it doesn’t give us much time.”
“Much time for what?”
“To make it all happen, of course!”
He begins to type furiously—searching keywords like “mascots” and “performance routines,” “Busch Stadium” and “security guards.” The way his eyes zip across the gigantic monitor, it’s like he’s taking mental photographs of every page he reads.
“We’ll need an operational code name,” he says, eyes still fixed on the screen. “How about the Great Mascot Unmasking?”
“Operation GMU?”
He purses his lips. “Hmm. Not a good acronym. How about Operation MUD? Mascot: Unmask and Destroy.”
“Whoa! Destroy?”
“Too heavy, huh?”
“A little, yeah.”
I really don’t know what he’s doing, but it’s fun to watch. Even if it’s all for show, I feel like I’m getting a glimpse into the mind of a real criminal mastermind instead of a bumbling amateur like Noah the Anti–Spell Check.
Dee-Dub points to the screen as another wave of information flows across it. “Odell Dillon is a refuse consultant, which means he probably has keys to Fredbird’s nest.”
“Nest?”
“It’s what they call his changing room,” explains Dee-Dub, reading from a Busch Stadium guide.
“I get it,” I say, catching on. “You’re saying we should steal Mr. Dillon’s keys. Make him late to a game!”
Dee-Dub sighs deeply, like I’m failing in my role as co-criminal. “If Mr. Dillon isn’t the mascot, what difference will it make if he’s late to a game?” He shakes his head. “No. We need to change the game itself.”
“Ah!” I snap my fingers. “You’re saying we should hold him hostage. That way, everyone will know he’s not Fredbird.”
Dee-Dub stares at me like I’ve grown an extra head. “No,” he says wearily. “We borrow Mr. Dillon’s keys and let ourselves into Fredbird’s nest. Then we put itching powder in the mask.”
Silence. I wait for Dee-Dub to start laughing. It’s obvious now that he’s been joking all along. Which is actually kind of reassuring.
But Dee-Dub doesn’t laugh. Does that mean he’s actually serious?
“Did you just say . . . itching powder?” I ask.
“Yup.”
“Is that even a real thing?”
He looks offended. “Of course it’s real. You can buy it online. And it works too.”
Dee-Dub knows the strangest things.
“While Mr. Dillon is looking for his lost keys,” he continues, “the real Fredbird will be getting dressed. By the time the mascot is on the field, he’ll be getting so itchy he’ll have to pull the mask off. When he does, thousands of people will see that the guy underneath isn’t Mr. Dillon. Your job is to make sure that his daughter and your mom see it too.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “You want to unmask Fredbird in the middle of a Cardinals game?”
“Obviously.”
“Just to prove Mr. Dillon’s a liar?”
After a few moments, Dee-Dub says quietly, “I hate it when people lie. It’s hard for me to know when people are being serious or just joking around, but when they lie . . .” He shakes his head. “It’s hard for me. That’s all.”
I understand what he’s saying. And it sure would be nice to prove to Mom that I was right about Mr. Dillon. If she could see with her own eyes that he’s been lying to Makayla, Mom wouldn’t want him to come around our house anymore, that’s for sure. He’d be out of my life for good.
The trouble is, Dee-Dub’s plan is completely crazy. And now I have to find a way to break it to him gently.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve been to a lot of Cardinals games, and I’ve never seen Fredbird’s nest. It could take ages to find it. And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not as mobile as I used to be.”
This is supposed to slow him down, but Dee-Dub’s on a mission now. As he begins typing again, he has the same determined expression as when he’s flying through a problem set in math class. He’s not even using a regular search engine. It’s like he’s writing computer code. It all looks kind of . . . illegal.
Moments later, he downloads a file: “Busch_Stadium_blueprint.”
“Uh, Dee-Dub? Are we supposed to see this?”
“Supposed to?” he asks.
> I puff out my cheeks. “Is it legal?”
“That’s hard to say. Coders have a complicated relationship with the concept of proprietary rights.”
“No, then.”
He stops typing for a moment. “No,” he agrees.
I gulp. Dee-Dub really is a criminal mastermind. And he’s not done. He opens the file and scans the blueprint.
“Here it is,” he says, tapping the desk like he’s too excited to keep still. “The official room name of Fredbird’s nest is 01.32.04. Fredbird. It’s on the floor below the main concourse. There’s even an elevator right around the corner.”
“But . . . but it’ll be guarded,” I say. “They don’t let just anyone down there.”
“So we’ll create a diversion. Tell the guard someone’s fallen on the stairs.”
“And when they find out we’re lying?”
“Who says we’ll be lying? I can think of lots of ways to help a small kid fall down the stairs.”
“Dee-Dub!”
He pauses. “That was a joke,” he says.
“Oh. Ha! That’s pretty funny,” I say. But my insides are churning. Is he serious about going through with this?
“We’ll be in and out before anyone knows what’s happening.” He pulls up a calendar on his computer, selects Friday, September 29, and enters: “Operation MUD.”
“I thought it was Operation GMU,” I say.
He erases “MUD” and writes “GMU.” “Happy now?” he asks.
I truly have no idea how to answer that question.
25
Don’t Litter
When I was young, Mom used to read me this book about our “fragile” planet. It was like a before-and-after story, with a picture of a crystal clear river on one side of the page and a polluted river on the other. Or a picture of a field on one side and a landfill on the other. I realize now that it was supposed to make me care more about Earth, and it worked. I never toss litter on the ground. I don’t know anyone who does. But someone must, because one week after we cleaned up Berra Park, the area around the baseball diamond is cluttered with plastic bottles and candy bar wrappers again.
“It’ll only take us a few minutes to clear up,” says Mr. Riggieri breezily. He was waiting for us when Alyssa and Dee-Dub and I arrived at ten o’clock sharp. He has baseball gear too, which makes me wonder if this is really about picking up trash or if he’s just looking for an excuse to coach us so we never hit his windshield again.
I guess Alyssa is thinking the same thing because she corners me as I fluff up another large black trash bag. “How well do you know Mr. Riggieri?” she whispers.
“Not very well,” I admit. “He keeps to himself. Why?”
“I’m not complaining, but it’s kind of weird that we broke his windshield and he’s not even making us pay for it.”
“He said he’s insured. Anyway, we’re cleaning the park instead.”
“That’s hardly the same thing.” She tilts her head so that her long, dark hair covers one eye. “And now he’s coaching us in baseball too. Which is great, but . . . Well, you have to admit it’s odd.”
Personally, I think Alyssa has an overactive imagination, but I’m smart enough to keep this thought to myself. I’ve seen how hard Alyssa can throw a baseball, and I want her to keep aiming for my glove, not my head.
For twenty minutes, we pick up all the trash in Berra Park. I don’t mind it too much either. It’s another clear, sunny day, and there’s something satisfying about making a place clean again. Pieces of trash are a real turnoff, but now the ground is clear, and I’m itching to take my place behind home plate.
Mr. Riggieri hands me a mask and mitt and gives Dee-Dub a new bat. I almost forgot that Dee-Dub broke the last one, and Mr. Riggieri doesn’t mention it. Which makes me wonder if maybe Alyssa is right when she says there’s something weird going on. Why doesn’t Mr. Riggieri care that we keep breaking his stuff?
We pick up right where we left off last week. With Dee-Dub watching from the sidelines, Alyssa stares at my glove like she’s trying to bore a hole in it. Then she pitches . . . and it’s good. Better than good. The control is almost there, and the velocity . . . Let’s just say I’m glad I’m wearing a glove.
I move my hand to the corner of the zone, and she pitches again. The ball makes contact a few inches too low, but I know plenty of batters who would’ve taken a swing at it. She pitches again and again, and after each one, Mr. Riggieri offers a few words of advice or encouragement. He’s a patient coach, but I still don’t understand how Alyssa Choo became an overnight pitching sensation.
“What’s the secret?” I yell to her. “You’re not on steroids, are you?”
She rolls her eyes, but it’s obvious she likes the compliment. “I’ve been practicing with my dad,” she says, grinning.
“Oh.” I try to grin right back at her, but I’m suddenly hit by a feeling of emptiness. My dad and I used to practice together here. Now Alyssa practices with her father. Why didn’t she call me to work with her instead? Does she think I’m not up to it?
Maybe she just prefers hanging out with her dad, Noah.
Dee-Dub steps to the plate, blocking my view of Alyssa. “Are you okay?” he asks.
I look up. Try to focus. “Yeah. Sure.”
On the mound, Alyssa prepares to unleash another pitch. I can tell it’s going to be a doozy, but as she winds up, Dee-Dub sneaks a peek at my glove. She lets the ball fly, and sure enough, Dee-Dub hammers it halfway across the park.
Before it comes back down to earth, there’s a smattering of applause from just behind us. I crane my neck to look through the chain-link fence. I’m afraid it’s going to be Logan again, but it’s even worse. Today’s fans are none other than Mr. Dillon and Makayla.
Mr. Dillon waves at me. Makayla has a sly look on her face, like she’s already planning my next humiliation.
They wouldn’t be smiling if they knew about Operation GMU.
Having run halfway across the field to retrieve the baseball, Alyssa is panting as she prepares to pitch again. I try to warn her that she should wait until she catches her breath. If her pitch has less power than usual, Dee-Dub might hit the ball so far we’ll never see it again.
But Alyssa doesn’t have a slow gear, and when she sees the position of my glove at the bottom right corner of the strike zone, she nods once and prepares to pitch. Dee-Dub glances at the glove too. A moment later, Alyssa delivers the ball.
She’s lost some control and leaves the pitch up in the strike zone. It’s high enough that any half-competent batter would realize the error and let it rip. But Dee-Dub has already made up his mind where the ball is going. As he swings, he catches only the tiniest bottom edge.
The ball shoots straight up like a rocket. The breeze carries it back a little ways, but it’s still above me. I can catch this. I want to catch this—not just for Alyssa, who needs a break, but also for me. I want to show Mr. Dillon that I don’t need his help or anyone else’s. I am a catcher. This is what I do.
Left hand on the wheel, I spin myself around and nudge forward a couple yards. The ball is coming down now, and the wind is pushing it farther out of reach. As I propel myself again, I hear Mr. Dillon shouting, “No!” He’s rattling the chain-link fence too, to warn me that I’m getting close. I want to yell at him to shut up. I know exactly where the fence is, thank you very much, and there’s no way I’ll risk hitting it.
The ball is plummeting now, and I’m ready. Well, almost ready. A little clockwise move and another yard forward and—
It all seems to happen at once: Mr. Dillon yelling at me to stop, and my front wheel catching on something I can’t see, and my outstretched arm carrying my body forward so that I slide off the chair and crumple to the ground. The chair topples onto me, and the ball lands on my left arm, and I feel so many types of pain, I don’t even know which one makes me scream.
Dee-Dub towers over me, blocking out the sun. He looks as horrified as I feel but doesn’t have a clue w
hat to do. He doesn’t seem to realize the chair is pressing against my legs and I can’t get it off me.
A few seconds later, Alyssa kneels beside me. “Are you all right?” she wheezes.
No, I’m not all right. I’m lying on the ground, covered in red dust. I can even taste it in my mouth. I can’t move my legs, and I feel like I’ve been stabbed in my left arm. And I didn’t even make the catch.
It’s this final thought that does me in. I know it’s stupid, and really, who cares? But after PE this week, I thought I’d turned a corner.
I wanted to catch that ball so much. I needed to.
Alyssa frees my legs, but I can’t feel anything. It’s like I’m not even me anymore, and I’m just watching the scene play out. And what I see is a pathetic, dusty, crippled kid lying in a heap on the ground as a really cute girl tries to help him, like she’s his mom or something. And there’s nothing he can do about it, because he’s stuck. He’s helpless.
That’s when I realize I’m crying. I don’t want to cry, but like everything else, the tears are out of my control. I’m a passenger in my own body, and I freaking hate where it’s taking me.
“You’ll be all right,” Alyssa says in a soothing voice.
“We’ve got you,” says Mr. Riggieri, puffing after his sprint across the diamond.
“Go away!” I yell at them. “Just . . . get away from me.”
I try to push myself to a sitting position, but my left arm buckles under me, and my head hits the ground again. More dust billows into the air, and I breathe it in and spit it out and wonder if my left cheek is bleeding or just bruised.
I’m sobbing now, which completely sucks. The little kids on the playground will be frightened. No one likes to see baseball players getting emotional. I wish everyone would just go away and leave me alone. I wish it had never happened.
I wish so many things had never happened.
I feel arms sliding beneath me. Someone lifts me off the ground. “I’ve got you,” Mr. Dillon says.
I turn my head. His face is only inches away from mine. “Put me down,” I growl.
He doesn’t take any notice. When Alyssa says there’s something wrong with one of my wheels, he swings me over his shoulder like a fireman and begins to walk in the direction of home. “It’s okay, son,” he says. “I’ve got you now.”