Mascot

  That’s the final straw. “Shut up, Logan!” I shout.

  He flashes me a smug grin. “Or what? You’ll leap up and hit me?”

  “Shut. Up!” yells Dee-Dub.

  Logan roars with laughter. “Monster Truck speaks!”

  Bam! It’s like watching a viper attack. One moment, Dee-Dub is as stationary as a hibernating bear, and the next, he tackles Logan. Both of them crash to the ground.

  Alyssa flies from her chair and wraps her arms around Dee-Dub, trying to pull him away. But Dee-Dub is too heavy and strong. When she hangs on to him, he rises like the Incredible Hulk and they tumble backward.

  Alyssa’s head collides against the corner of the teacher’s desk with a sickening crack and snaps forward. By the time she hits the floor, she’s out cold.

  Logan is lying on his side, whimpering. His nose is bleeding like a leaky faucet.

  I try to get to them, but there’s a maze of classroom furniture in the way. I feel frozen, just taking it all in. Dee-Dub seems frozen too. But then he looks at me, and I look at him, and like he’s snapping out of a trance, he begins to cry.

  “I don’t want to move schools again,” he whimpers. “Please, don’t make me move again.”

  Suddenly, Ruben “Dee-Dub” Hardesty’s strange world begins to make sense to me. Too late, I understand what Alyssa meant when she said I’m not the only one who wants a chance to start over.

  But as the saying goes, the past always catches up to us eventually.

  Following the shouts and screams, students run from the hallway and into our classroom. When they see Alyssa and Logan, they begin hollering for a teacher.

  That’s when I forget about the past altogether. Who cares about it when the future looks so gloomy?

  28

  Good Principal, Bad Cop

  I like Principal Mahoney. He’s a good guy. True, he has less hair than a naked mole rat and a smile that makes him look deranged, but hey, if I were in charge of Wellspring Middle School, I’d probably pull my hair out and look bonkers too.

  The way he always seems so tired makes me want to be honest with him, just to make his life a little easier. But today, that’s not an option.

  He tells me that Alyssa’s parents have picked her up from school and that Logan and Dee-Dub have been suspended for fighting. He doesn’t say how long they’re suspended for, but I get the feeling it’s not just one day. And that’s the problem, right there—I think he’s waiting to hear my side of the story before deciding on their final punishments.

  “So, tell me what happened this morning, Noah,” he says in his friendliest voice.

  “Alyssa hit her head,” I say.

  “Yes. I’m aware of that. But I was hoping you could tell me how she hit her head and why Logan’s nose is broken.”

  I frown. I don’t mean to, but it sort of happens. I didn’t know that Logan’s nose is broken. It seems a much bigger deal than a straightforward bloody nose. It also means that Dee-Dub is officially in deep doo-doo.

  Principal Mahoney leans across his desk and knits his hands together like he’s about to pray. “I want you to know that you’re not the one in trouble here, Noah.”

  “Right. Because I didn’t actually do anything,” I reply. Which is, conveniently, the truth. I couldn’t even help Alyssa for about two minutes because Dee-Dub and Logan’s battle shifted the teacher’s desk and it was blocking me.

  “But you saw everything, didn’t you?” he says.

  I’m getting Good Cop Mahoney, but Bad Cop Mahoney is hovering in the background. I can see it in his eyes. There’s a lot of punishment to be handed out, and he wants it to go to the guilty students.

  But who is really guilty here?

  “You’re not going to expel anyone, are you?” I ask.

  Principal Mahoney hesitates, which I guess means yes. “This is a serious matter. I understand that Ruben is your friend, and that’s wonderful, but I need to know exactly what happened.”

  I shrink in my chair. “What did the others tell you?”

  “Alyssa didn’t tell me anything because she couldn’t. She was concussed and needed to go to the hospital. I’m sure you must feel very bad for her.”

  Unbelievable! He’s avoiding the question and trying to make me feel guilty. Of course I feel bad for her. She’s my friend, and anyway, none of this is her fault. But still . . .

  “What about Dee-Du—I mean, Ruben?” I ask. “What did he tell you?”

  “Nothing,” replies Principal Mahoney impatiently. “Now I want to hear your side.”

  “What about Logan?”

  “Noah!”

  I swallow hard. I’m not used to spending quality time in the principal’s office, and I don’t want to be here now. But if Dee-Dub is about to get kicked out of school, it’s not going to be me spilling the beans.

  “I’m not really sure I saw anything,” I say. “Maybe if you told me what Logan said, it might jog my memory.”

  I brace myself for full-on Bad Cop Mahoney. Or Chief Punisher Mahoney. Or even Ballistic Missile Mahoney. But he must think I’m braver than I really am, because he backs down. “Okay, fine. Logan says that he was taunting you and Ruben and Alyssa, and—”

  “Yes,” I say quickly, because I like this version of events. “That’s exactly what happened.”

  “Right. But that still doesn’t tell me who started the fight.”

  I can’t stall the guy forever, but as I replay his words, I realize that he told me something important. If Principal Mahoney doesn’t know who started it, Logan didn’t tell him. I don’t know why Logan didn’t tell him, but it might be the difference between Dee-Dub getting suspended and being expelled.

  “I, uh, couldn’t really see,” I say finally. “Alyssa was in my way.”

  Principal Mahoney narrows his eyes. Bad Cop is about to make another special guest appearance. “That’s very convenient,” he mutters.

  “Not really. If only I could’ve seen what happened, I’d be able to help you.” I give him a closed-mouth smile, but he doesn’t smile back.

  “You must’ve seen what happened to Alyssa, though, right?” he asks.

  “Yeah. Like I say, she hit her head.”

  “Do you know how?”

  “No. But I’d like to.”

  Principal Mahoney is making a strange sound at the back of his throat. I don’t think it’s a happy sound. “She claims that she tripped, Noah. Tripped!” he adds, like it’s the craziest thing he’s ever heard. Which, come to think of it, it might be.

  “Uh, just now you said she didn’t tell you anything,” I remind him. “You know, because she was concussed.”

  He grabs a pencil like he’s about to write Dee-Dub’s death warrant. Then he snaps it in two. “I don’t want bullies in my school, Savino! No matter how smart they are.”

  “I don’t think you have to worry about bullying anymore,” I assure him. “After today, Logan will know better than to go around running his mouth.”

  “I’m not talking about Logan! Ruben just sent two of my students to the hospital. I don’t want anyone else to follow them. So, if he’s a danger to others, you’ve got to tell me.”

  It’s his final play. He’s appealing to my sense of justice and also warning me that it’ll be partly my fault if anything happens to anyone else in the future. But he’s missing the point: Dee-Dub never would’ve been in that room if it weren’t for me. If I’d just told him about the car accident in the first place, we could’ve avoided the whole situation. Instead, I pushed him away, and even then he stuck around to support me. How can I turn my back on him now?

  “Alyssa is concussed,” says Principal Mahoney pleadingly. “Logan’s nose is broken!”

  I swallow hard. Concussion is a big deal. So is a broken nose. I picture Logan, his swollen schnoz bent back at a weird angle like on one of those crazy-looking tropical birds at the zoo, the ones that spend all day squawking and pooping. I read somewhere that they have remarkably small brains, so I guess Logan
has that in common with them too.

  I can’t help it—as I picture those stupid, screeching, poop-producing birds, a smile begins to play on my lips. This is not a funny situation, and I do not want to snort in front of Principal Mahoney. . . .

  The snort comes out anyway. I try to make it look like a sneeze and even wipe my nose for effect, but my principal isn’t fooled.

  “Did you just laugh?” he demands. “For heaven’s sake, we’re talking about the poor boy’s nose!”

  That does it. The image of Logan’s supersized schnoz dances through my mind again. Now I’m laughing so hard, there are actual tears. “It couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” I say.

  Principal Mahoney leans back in his chair and gives a little smile too. Then he hits me with my first-ever detention.

  Oh, well. I guess I had it coming.

  29

  If Life Had Do-Overs

  Detention, it turns out, is not much fun for beginners. Maybe when you’ve had a few, you build a healthy prisoner-guard relationship with the teachers. But I’m new to it, and the three teachers who take turns to babysit me all seem really disappointed.

  Kind of like Mom, actually. She’s not impressed by my new bad-boy reputation either. She didn’t earn her black belt in conflict avoidance by starting a fight with her middle school principal, that’s for sure. And by the time Principal Mahoney lets me out of school, she has visited the school office, found out everything that’s gone on today, waited a full hour, and been forced to reschedule my PT appointment.

  None of these things makes her happy.

  We travel home in silence. When we arrive, Mom yanks my wheelchair from the back, slams the rear door, and comes around the side of the car to glare at me. “I’m still waiting for an apology,” she snaps.

  Over her shoulder, I can see Mr. Riggieri watching us from his porch. “I already told you,” I say, “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “And I’m telling you: I. Don’t. Care!”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  I think Mom would like to pull a Dee-Dub on me right now and toss me in the garbage, but she’s as gentle as ever as she helps me out of the car and into my wheelchair. She massages her lower back as she straightens, and I feel bad.

  I’m about to apologize to her when she storms off. Even worse, as she reaches the front door, she slides the wooden ramp onto the porch like she’s raising a drawbridge.

  “What are you doing?” I shout. “I need the ramp to get up.”

  “No. What you need is a little air. And I need some space.”

  She steps inside and slams the front door behind her.

  It’s bad enough that she’s not going to help me. But to make it impossible for me to get inside is . . . is . . .

  “You’ve got to respect your mom, Noah!” Mr. Riggieri shouts from across the street. “Always got to respect a parent.”

  He’s rocking back and forth, and he looks like he just woke up from a nap. The skin around his mouth is particularly red and saggy, kind of like an aging bloodhound.

  If I could still use my legs, I’d run up to his house and tell him what I think about respect. But I settle for wheeling myself across the street and calling out to him from the sidewalk instead. “And what about parents, Mr. Riggieri? Do they have to respect their kids?”

  “Only if the kid earns it.”

  “Earns it? No wonder your kids hate you.”

  He pulls himself out of his seat and stomps to the front of his porch. Stooped over, hands resting on the rail, he looks really old. And really angry.

  “What did you say to me, boy?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you’ve got kids?”

  He glances from right to left. He’s probably not happy about having this conversation out on the street. Well, too bad. I can’t climb the steps to his porch, and Mom has shut me out. This is the only place left.

  “What does it matter to you?” he growls.

  “You never really talked to me before my dad died, but now you do. And when we broke your windshield, you let us off. Why?”

  He’s silent for a moment, just glaring at me. Then his shoulders relax. “You can’t get up here without help, right?” he asks, rapping his knuckles against the porch railing.

  “Right.”

  I don’t think he’s strong enough to help me get up those three steps. They probably seem bigger every year when you’re as old as he is.

  “Let’s take a walk,” he says.

  He grips the rail and takes one step at a time. When he’s beside me, we trundle slowly along the sidewalk.

  “Who told you?” he asks. “About my kids.”

  “My mom.”

  “Did she now?” He smiles to himself. “One day, you’re yelling at poor Odell Dillon that he’s not your dad; the next, your mom tells you I’m a terrible father. Quite a coincidence.”

  “I don’t want to talk about him,” I say. “I want to know what happened between you and your kids.”

  “Why?”

  “Because . . .” I’m not actually sure how to answer that. I’m curious, but it’s more than that. I’m angry too. “Because it doesn’t make any sense. For them to be so close and you still never see them. If my dad were still around, nothing would keep us apart.”

  We turn left. I don’t know if either of us is thinking about Berra Park, but that’s where we’re heading.

  “What did your mom tell you?” he asks.

  “That you were mean when you practiced baseball with your son.”

  Another little smile, but this time it seems sad. “That’s an understatement. Marco had the talent to be great, but he was lazy. That’s what I thought, anyway. Now I think he just didn’t love the game the way I do.”

  I hesitate. “That’s it? That’s why you don’t see each other anymore?”

  “There were other things too. Things I said. Things I can’t take back.” He waits for me as I bump down a curb, cross the road, and bump up the other side. “Anyway, it’s too late to fix now.”

  “No, it’s not! Just tell him you’re sorry.”

  “I’ve tried. Some words aren’t easy to undo. You might want to remember that.”

  We continue in silence to Berra Park. It’s strange to be back here after Saturday’s nightmare. My pulse is faster than usual, and my palms are sweaty. It’s not the pain I’m reliving either. It’s the humiliation. The shame. And the fear that it could happen again.

  Some older kids are using the baseball diamond, so we stop at the edge of the playground and watch them. They’re pretty full of themselves, and I’d take Alyssa and Dee-Dub over them any day. If my friends are still able to play, that is.

  Mr. Riggieri watches me from the corner of his eye. “You okay? Seem to have a lot on your mind.”

  “Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask.

  The question catches him off guard. He looks away and stares at the baseball diamond, his eyes tracing the line from home plate to first base, and second, third, and home again, as if he’s imagining a home run.

  “Your father was a good man, Noah. Always ready to help people. Like, when my waste disposal blocked last year, he came over that night and got it working again.” He nods to himself. “I envied him, actually. The relationship he had with you and your mother. Every time I saw you all, I couldn’t help thinking about what I’d lost.”

  “You haven’t lost your kids, Mr. Riggieri. They live on The Hill.”

  “I know, but . . .” He stuffs his hands in his pockets and sighs. “You’re right. They do.”

  “And I’d do anything to spend another day with my dad.”

  “I know you would.”

  I take a couple deep breaths. What would I tell Dad about first if he were here right now? My genius best friend? How Alyssa and I are closer than we’ve ever been? There’s so much to say, but Mr. Riggieri isn’t my dad. And neither is Mr. Dillon.

  He lays a hand on my shoulder. “It’s tough, isn’t it? Being apart from someone you love.”


  “Yeah,” I say, although I don’t think he’s just talking about my dad and me anymore. “Just so you know: if you were my dad, I’d still want you around.”

  He squeezes my shoulder. “And if you were my son, I’d be proud. But no one will ever take your dad’s place. No sensible man would try. I’d just like to see you smile again from time to time. You’ve got a lot of life still to live.”

  “So do you,” I remind him.

  We begin the journey back home. It’s uphill, and I’m still feeling a little beaten-up from Saturday’s accident at home plate, but I won’t let it show. Mr. Riggieri is probably finding it tough going too, and he won’t let it show either. We’re pushing each other in more ways than one.

  The long, slow climb gives me time to think. About fathers and sons, and wasted opportunities. About the things we can’t change and the things we can.

  Especially the things we can.

  As we head along Elizabeth Avenue, I can see that Mom has replaced the ramp by the steps. It’s not exactly a flashing neon sign that says “You’re forgiven, Noah,” but it’s as close as I can expect, seeing as how I got a detention and Mom had to sit around waiting for me. So I say goodbye to Mr. Riggieri and wheel up to the front door.

  Once I’m inside, I head straight for the computer. When Dee-Dub was here, he found Mr. Dillon’s address with a single search. I scroll through the browser history until I find the site he was using, and click on it.

  Using only one finger, I type the words “Riggieri Elizabeth Avenue” and hit Enter. A moment later, I have my first result.

  Age: 65–69

  Current: St. Louis, MO

  Knows: Marco Riggieri, Camilla Berrios, Elena Cohen

  Marco is Mr. Riggieri’s son. Camilla and Elena might be his daughters. When I click on Marco’s name, the site links to a new address on Botanical.

  Botanical? That’s just the next block over. How can two people possibly avoid each other when they live so close? And why? Really, why? I get that Mr. Riggieri was mean, but he’s changed. He wants to be forgiven. And if his son and daughters are too stubborn to realize it, then maybe someone needs to help them understand.