“That’s it?” he calls down to me. “You’re not even walking yet?”
He’s pooping on my parade. I shouldn’t let him get to me, but I’d really like to wipe that stupid, smug grin off his face.
“Sure,” I say. “I’ll walk.”
Dynamo isn’t expecting this. Even Angelica looks concerned. She shouldn’t be, though. Last month, she told me there was no reason why I couldn’t get on the treadmill like Dynamo.
“Let’s do it,” I say. “Strap me in.”
“Me too,” says Dynamo defiantly.
While Dynamo’s PT helps him get down from the wall, Angelica straps me into a harness on a contraption called a LiteGait. She wheels it around so that I’m standing over the treadmill, and she starts the rubber belt. It’s moving at a snail’s pace, but the sensation is still very weird. I’m aware that my legs are moving, but I can’t exactly feel them. Even when she manipulates my legs, helping me take my first steps, I’m not really in control. It reminds me of how I felt lying in the dust at Berra Park. I never want to feel that way again.
Once Dynamo is in his harness, he starts walking on a treadmill too.
“Faster,” I say.
“Take it easy, champ,” Angelica warns me. “Let’s see how we do at this speed first.”
“Faster,” says Dynamo. “This is too easy.”
Our treadmills are side by side, so I can see the display on his machine just as clearly as my own. We’re going the same tragically slow speed, and Dynamo isn’t happy about it.
“Just a little faster,” he says.
His PT narrows her eyes but nudges the speed up a pip. He’s now outpacing me by a blistering 0.1 miles per hour.
“More,” he wheezes.
She takes him up again. Now he’s racing away from me at 0.2 miles per hour. Okay, so he’s not actually racing away because we’re on treadmills, but he’s still going faster, and he knows it.
“Put me up point two,” I tell Angelica. “This is too easy.”
That last part is a lie. I’m breathing heavily and sweating. It shouldn’t be difficult to lope along at the same speed as a three-legged tortoise, but it is. Actually, it’s exhausting.
Angelica matches my speed with Dynamo’s. “No faster,” she scolds. “This is not a competition.”
I glance at Dynamo. Dynamo glances at me. The heck this isn’t a competition—it’s all-out war, and I have every intention of breaking Dynamo’s legendary spirit.
We go shoulder to shoulder for ten seconds. Twenty seconds. Our PTs raise and lower our legs, making sure we make good contact with the treadmill belt. I’m not supporting my own body weight, and I’m not even taking steps independently, but the exercise is starting to take a toll. My pulse hasn’t raced this fast in months. I imagine my chest bursting open and blood splattering against the mirrored walls, like in some kind of horror movie.
Dynamo is suffering too. His head is lolling about, and he’s sucking air like a fish stranded on a beach. He wants to win, to show me he’s still the boss, but he’s hurting even more than I am. If I’m lucky, maybe his heart will splatter first. That would count as a win for me, right?
We soldier on for another ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. Then Dynamo shakes his head, and his PT winds the treadmill down.
He’s giving in. Surrendering. Waving the white flag.
I’ve won. I’ve actually won!
Angelica slows my treadmill down too, but now I feel like I could go on forever. Beating Dynamo has given me a jolt of energy. This must be what it feels like to win the World Series.
“Are you all right, Dynamo?” his PT asks.
Eyes closed, he nods. “You got tired of being my mascot, huh, Noah?”
“Something like that,” I say. I could add that his mascot just destroyed him, but he’s still struggling to catch his breath. My victory is already losing some of its shine.
Our PTs step away, leaving us to talk in private. I don’t really want to talk to him, but now we’re just dangling in our harnesses. If someone doesn’t help us out, we could be stuck in these things forever, which reminds me how far I still have to go. Beating Dynamo doesn’t change that.
“We’re going to do this again next week,” he says. “And next time, I won’t wear myself out on the climbing wall.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s your excuse? You were tired?”
“It’s not an excuse. It’s true. I even did five minutes on the stairs before you got here,” he says, pointing to a small set of wooden steps tucked into a corner of the room.
“You’re a sore loser.”
“The Dynamo wasn’t born to lose.”
That’s the final straw. “Clearly you were born to lose because I just beat you—on my first try. You’ve been doing that treadmill for months too, so you had an unfair advantage.”
“Unfair?” He sounds amused.
“Sure. Why not?”
He laughs but stops suddenly and winces like he’s pulled a muscle. “None of this is fair,” he says, grabbing his side. “I used to ride my bike every day. A year ago, this guy in a truck ran a red light. Hit me full on. Next thing I know, I wake up in the hospital and I can’t feel anything.”
I don’t want to let Dynamo win this argument. I want him to admit that I beat him, fair and square. But I can already see my mistake. If there’s a winner here, it’s the kid who’s been coming to physical therapy twice as long as I have and never complains. How does he stay so positive week after week? More important, why isn’t he doing better?
Like he’s reading my mind, Dynamo continues. “You want to know what else isn’t fair? That you’re an L. Probably L3, right? Or is it L4?”
This shuts me up real quick. L4 is medical jargon for a vertebra—a piece of bone in my spinal column. L stands for “lumbar,” the level of the nerves that got damaged when this particular vertebra got shoved somewhere it shouldn’t go. But there are thirty-three bones in the human spine, so how the heck did Dynamo guess?
“You’re surprised, huh?” he says. “Well, don’t be. I’ve been learning about the spine for a year. That’s how I know I’ll never be able to do the stuff you can do. If life was fair, I’d be L3 instead of T12.” His eyes are welling up. “Three bones’ difference—that’s all it is. On my spine, that’s, like, nothing. A freaking inch or two, and it means you’ll get stronger and faster than me every single week.”
I look away. Not just because Dynamo’s on the verge of tears but because I am too. He’s a nine-year-old kid. He was only eight when his accident happened. He never even got the chance to play on a Little League team. And he never will.
“We don’t have to compete,” I say quietly. “We could just . . . support each other.”
Dynamo looks at me the way Mom looks at Flub when he makes a special delivery in the middle of the kitchen floor. “Support each other?” he mutters.
“Yeah. You know . . . cheer and stuff.”
I think I’ve just made things worse.
“Just ’cause I can’t beat you doesn’t mean I can’t win,” he says. “Winning just means something different, that’s all.” He shrugs. “My mom says we’re all running our own races, anyway. The main thing is you’ve got to compete. Can’t win anything without competing.”
Angelica and the other PTs rejoin us. I don’t know if they set Dynamo up to do this, and I guess it doesn’t matter. He’s been right about everything. I’m ashamed for not seeing it until now.
I reach out to pat him on the back, but he turns his head suddenly. “You’re not about to get all mushy, are you?” he snaps.
“Huh? No!”
“Good.” He holds out his fist, and we bump instead. “See you next week, then. Oh, and Noah?”
“Yeah?”
“You need a new nickname. Mascot doesn’t cut it anymore.”
33
Even Crazy Kids Sometimes Make Sense
On Thursday, Mrs. Friendly has the class running in circles again. She says something about “
concussion protocol” to Alyssa, but Alyssa refuses to sit out, so the two of us drift around the gym in super slow motion. Our classmates lap us every thirty seconds.
“Did you really have to go to the hospital?” I ask her.
“Yeah. Just so they could check me out.” She leans over and parts her hair. “I’ve got an awesome goose egg.” She points at the angry red welt on her scalp.
Instinctively, I reach up and touch it. But as soon as I feel her hair and skin, I freeze up. Alyssa doesn’t pull away, though, or tell me to stop. Does that mean she’s okay with it?
“You two back together again or what?” drones Logan, jogging past us.
I slide my fingers away from her head as Alyssa straightens. Both of us are blushing as we resume our tour of the gym.
“I can’t believe Principal Mahoney let him back already,” I say.
“No kidding.”
“I’ll tell Dee-Dub to hit him harder next time.”
“No you won’t, Noah Savino.” Alyssa bats my arm. “And you shouldn’t joke about it.”
Heavy footsteps drum behind us as Logan catches up again. His left knee must have finally healed. Too bad his nose is swollen like a parakeet’s bill. He slows down to match our pace and trails us like a pesky shadow. “So, when’s the wedding?” he asks.
“Grow up, Logan,” says Alyssa.
“Fine. You want to keep it under wraps. I get it.” He leans toward me. “When’s the baseball rematch, though?”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I say.
“No. I saw you both practicing with Monster Truck at Berra Park, remember?”
“That was before you got him suspended!”
“Oh, yeah.” He wipes the back of his hand across his tender nose and makes an odd whimpering sound, like a distressed bunny. “But I covered for him, right? I didn’t tell Mahoney that he started it. I almost took the blame myself.”
“Because you were to blame,” I say. “You were a complete jerk, just like always.”
“Oh, come on. I was just kidding around.”
I stop my chair suddenly, and Logan crashes into me. He hits the floor hard, and I almost topple over too. In a heartbeat, Alyssa is standing over him, looking as wild as Dee-Dub when he rearranged Logan’s face.
“How do you have any friends left?” she snarls. “Seriously. The way you treat people . . .”
Heaving himself off the wooden floor, Logan narrows his eyes. “What about it?”
“You’re horrible! Noah could’ve died in that car accident, and you keep making fun of him. Who does that?”
“Just trying to keep it real,” says Logan defensively.
Other students are tuning in to the standoff, which is kind of embarrassing. I’d like to speak for myself, but Alyssa’s way too angry to stop now.
“Keep it real?” she exclaims.
Logan grits his teeth. “Well, what about you, huh? You boss him around, and he doesn’t even notice. He sure as heck doesn’t shut you out. No one shuts you out.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. I visited you twice in the hospital. Twice! The first time, your mom said you weren’t ready for visitors, which was a total lie ’cause Alyssa said she already saw you. A week later, it was Little Miss Perfect here who told me to get lost.”
“I never said that!” protests Alyssa.
“You said Noah didn’t want to see me. Same difference. And don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy telling me to go away.”
Alyssa is turning a bright shade of red. I’m pretty sure I am too. I don’t understand why I’m suddenly feeling defensive, but Mrs. Friendly is keeping out of the argument, which makes me think our good-versus-evil standoff isn’t as clear-cut as it was a few moments ago.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” Logan says, looking at me now, not Alyssa.
“What did you expect?” I say. “We were never friends, Logan. And there I was, lying in bed, thinking about how I’d never play baseball again, and . . .” My voice is rising, and I don’t want to cry. So I swallow my thoughts and look away.
Logan is silent for a few seconds. “But I wanted to see you,” he says.
“Why? So you could gloat? Or pretend like you cared?”
Head bowed, Logan scans the gym and the dozens of pairs of eyes fixed on us. “No. So I could . . . say sorry.”
Sorry. That word, and the stillness that comes after it, is like the calm that follows a summer thunderstorm. But I still don’t understand what’s going on.
“Sorry for what?” I ask.
“For everything. For being mean to you. For chewing you out every time we lost a game. For my dad calling an extra practice the day you had the accident.” He picks at his thumbnail. “We all figured you were just late, you know? But my mom heard the news from one of your neighbors, and she called my dad, and he made us huddle, and he told us what happened. He said your dad died and you wouldn’t be catching for us anymore . . . maybe ever again. Like, never.”
From the corner of his eye, Logan must be able to see how everyone is listening. This is his chance to stand tall, flash us his best Draco Malfoy sneer, and walk away. But he doesn’t.
“We all started crying when Coach . . . my dad . . . told us,” he continues. “He made us snap out of it. Said you were injured, not dead, and you’re still Noah, so we should treat you the same as always. But I couldn’t. So I bought a card and got all the team to sign it, and I brought it to the hospital. Left it with your mom when she said I couldn’t see you.”
I remember the card well. It was huge, for one thing, but it was more about the messages inside—the rest of the team telling me I was going to pull through, and they believed in me, and how much I inspired them. I remember reading it all and feeling even more lost than before. They didn’t know the first thing about my injuries, and they didn’t really even know me. Why did I inspire them? It didn’t make sense.
“I didn’t know the card was from you,” I say.
He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. Point is, I wanted us to start over. I wanted to be different than I was before. But you wouldn’t let me. You wouldn’t even see me. So when school started, I figured instead of acting all weird around you like everyone else, I’d just be like I always was.”
He lets his arms fall to his sides. Alyssa and I exchange glances.
“Let me get this straight,” she says. “You’re a jerk to Noah because you’ve always been a jerk?”
He takes a moment to think this over, probably because he realizes how bad it sounds. “Well . . . yeah. Look,” he says, appealing to me, “just because I was the best pitcher and you were the best catcher doesn’t mean we actually liked each other. I get that. We made it work because we wanted to win, that’s all. So, be honest, how would you feel if I suddenly started being all nice to you just ’cause you’re in a wheelchair?”
Alyssa huffs. Yet again, Logan is dazzling us with his talent for being offensive. The weird thing is, I’m not offended.
For once, Logan is actually making sense. The only thing we ever had in common was a drive to be the best ballplayers we could be. Yes, he was a bully, and I hated that about him. But he hated that, as catcher, I got to call the pitches. Just like he hated that it was my call to let him into my hospital room . . . or to turn him away.
I don’t know if I truly hate Logan anymore, but I can’t think of a reason to like him either. We didn’t get along as teammates. Why should we get along when the only thing that connected us has gone?
Mrs. Friendly blows her whistle. “You three planning on joining us today?” she yells.
We’re the only ones who haven’t finished the circuit. Alyssa, embarrassed, takes off jogging, but Logan stays beside me as I roll slowly around the gym.
“I’ve been wanting to tell you about my dad,” he says, scratching his armpit.
“Coach? What about him?”
“He’s been different since your accident. Like, at practices he doe
sn’t chew me out in front of everyone. Sometimes, he even says I did good.”
“Sounds like a miracle,” I say.
“Yeah. It kind of feels like one too.” He shoots me a lopsided grin. “The team didn’t do so good once he went soft on us, but we all like each other more.”
“You can be lovable losers.”
“Sure. And you can be our mascot.”
I look up sharply, but he’s already stifling a laugh. “Sorry,” he says. “Just had to get in one more dig.”
“Hmm.” I push the wheels a little harder so that he has to speed up. “My mascot days are over.”
“Yeah. I think they are too. Now I think you want to beat me at baseball.”
“Alyssa’s pitching, not me.”
“Yeah. But you’ll be calling the pitches. Plus, I watched you working with her and the big kid.” He touches his nose gently like he wants to make sure it’s still there. “Admit it, you’d do anything to beat me.”
I can’t deny it. I miss our Little League team. I miss baseball. Which is why I need to finish what Alyssa started on the school blacktop a couple weeks ago. Because Alyssa and Dee-Dub and I are a team now, and I want us to win more than ever.
“Saturday morning,” I tell him. “Ten o’clock at Berra Park. Don’t be late.”
“I won’t. You can count on it.”
As we rejoin our class, Logan holds out his fist for me to bump. We used to do it every time he pitched another amazing game. It was his way of admitting that he couldn’t do it alone. That great pitching is a team effort.
For the first time in months, I bump his fist right back, and he smiles like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
Game on!
Alyssa spends the rest of PE giving me strange looks. Half an hour later, as forty sweaty bodies file out of the gym, she corners me. “Don’t tell me we’re actually going through with this crazy pitch-off,” she says.
“Okay. I won’t tell you.”
She purses her lips. “Seriously? Logan insults you every chance he gets, and you still want to play ball with him.”