“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Holding the elevator for my dad,” she says. “This might be our only chance to talk to Fredbird.”
Dee-Dub and Alyssa and I exchange anxious looks. A couple days ago, I was ready to unmask Fredbird. Now I want to protect Makayla from the truth. But if she hears Fredbird’s voice, she’ll know it isn’t her father.
“Let’s just see him later,” I say.
“Good idea,” says Alyssa.
Mom tsks. “Don’t be silly. If Makayla wants to see her father, she should.” Then she leans over and shakes Dynamo’s hand. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Noah’s mom.”
“Dynamo Duric,” he replies.
Mom opens her eyes super wide. She’s heard this name a lot over the past couple months. “Not the Dynamo?” she says, glancing at me.
“The one and only,” says Dynamo. “I’ve got lots of imitators, but no one can replace the real thing.”
Geez. Dynamo’s ego is so big, I’m surprised he can fit into Busch Stadium. I’m about to say so too, when Fredbird leaps into the elevator. Makayla releases the doors, which close with a clank, and gives the bird a hug. In response, Fredbird reaches for his big feathery head, lifts upward, and—
I gasp. So does Dee-Dub. Because the face behind the mask is very familiar.
I stare at Mr. Dillon. Mr. Dillon smiles at me.
I think I’m about to pass out.
There are only two possible explanations for why Mr. Dillon is dressed as Fredbird.
(1) He just beat up the real mascot and stole his outfit.
(2) He is Fredbird.
As impossible as it seems, number two actually makes more sense.
Mr. Dillon claps a hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, Noah,” he says. “Everyone gets tongue-tied when they finally meet Fredbird. But just remember: you can’t let on that you know it’s me, okay? I’m not supposed to be seen without the mask.”
Before I can reply, a bell chimes and the doors open. Mr. Dillon slides the gigantic beaked mask over his head, leaps out of the elevator, and begins doing jumping jacks in the middle of the concourse.
I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Mr. Dillon is a tank of a man, but put him in a Fredbird suit and he prances around like a ballerina.
Makayla cackles in delight. Mom chuckles. Even the mighty Dynamo gives a cheer.
Dee-Dub and I exchange glances. Did I say it was lucky we never went through with Operation GMU?
Scratch that—it’s a freaking miracle.
37
Face-Off
While everyone else returns to our section, Alyssa and I stay behind on the concourse.
“So,” she says, “I’ll see you tomorrow morning at Berra Park. It’ll be Logan Montgomery’s last stand.”
“It will be if you hit him in the leg again.”
Alyssa wiggles her eyebrows. “That’s my backup plan.”
The concourse is emptying as Cardinals fans hurry to their seats in preparation for the start of the game. For several seconds, Alyssa watches them leave. Just as our silence is getting awkward, she crouches in front of me and takes my hands in hers. My palms are sweaty, but her fingers feel warm and smooth.
“This thing tonight,” she says. “You know it was crazy, right?”
I bow my head. “I tried to call it off, but Dee-Dub—”
“Noah!” She squeezes my hands hard. I stop talking and look at her again. She has really pretty eyes. “I like you,” she says. “A lot. I liked you even when I couldn’t get you away from Logan and the rest of the morons you hung out with last year. But if you ever do something this stupid again, I will come after you with a baseball, and I will not be aiming for your glove. So promise me you’ll grow a brain.”
“I promise,” I say, nodding quickly. I’ll agree with anything Alyssa says because she’s holding my hands, and she’s beautiful and funny and cool, and I can’t believe she really likes me, no matter how long we’ve known each other.
“Good,” she says.
I think it’s my turn to say that I like her too. Except I’ll really be saying more than that, and my mouth has stopped working. I’m as nervous as I was when Dee-Dub handed over the keys.
Just say it, Noah.
Alyssa bites her lower lip, waiting. Then she stands, and I know I’ve missed my chance. All the air seems to rush out of me at once.
No! I can do this. “I—I like you too,” I stammer. “A lot.”
Alyssa smiles. Her face brightens. Then she leans forward and kisses me lightly on the cheek. She even stays in place as I turn my head, so that for an instant our lips brush together. It’s not exactly a Gabriella Masterson face suck, but our lips definitely touch. I feel like the world has just turned upside down.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she whispers. Then she bites her lip again, which is super cute, and strides away.
I watch her disappear along the concourse. None of the people walking past me seem to realize what just happened. How I just kissed Alyssa Choo. And to think: it never would’ve happened if Dee-Dub hadn’t told Alyssa about Operation GMU, because then she wouldn’t have come to stop us.
Sometimes, it helps to be an idiot.
Finally, I join the others in my section. They’re all watching Fredbird. He’s standing beside Dynamo’s cheerleader sister and waving at the crowd, as restless as Logan after too many energy drinks.
Dee-Dub leans toward me and whispers, “I can’t believe Mr. Dillon turned out to be Fredbird.”
“You and me both,” I whisper back.
“It totally ruins our plan.”
“Shh!” I look around anxiously, but no one is listening. “It would’ve, yeah. Which is why we need to keep quiet. Just act normal, and no one’ll ever suspect anything.”
Dee-Dub thinks about this for several long seconds. “Someone’s bound to find out eventually,” he says.
“No way. Alyssa’s the only other person who knows, and she’s not going to tell anyone.”
“What about the 43,975 people in the stadium?”
“What about them?”
“Well,” he says, “don’t you think they’re going to notice when the itching powder starts to work?”
My stomach flips. My heartbeat races. I feel like I can’t breathe and the world is spinning. “You’re kidding,” I croak.
Dee-Dub shakes his head.
“But . . . but . . . when we saw you, you were heading toward Fredbird’s nest.”
“Oh, that,” he says. “Yes, well, I left the packet of itching powder in the room by mistake. I was going back to get it so there wouldn’t be any evidence.”
“Did you just say itching powder?” asks Dynamo, who has clearly been listening.
“Itching powder?” exclaims Makayla. “Who’s got itching powder?”
Dee-Dub bites his thumbnail. “Oh, dear.”
“What are you talking about?” demands Mom.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Nothing,” says Dee-Dub. “Except for Operation Face-Off.”
“What’s Operation Face-Off?” asks Mom.
“It’s the new name for our plan,” he explains. “Since Noah and I can’t decide between Operation GMU and Operation MUD, I think we should go with Operation Face-Off.” He turns to me. “You have to admit, it’s far more descriptive.”
He’s right. It’s a great name. If he’d come up with it a week ago, I would’ve told him so. Now I just want him to keep his mouth shut.
“That’s lovely,” says Mom, like it’s not lovely at all. “So what exactly does Operation Face-Off involve?”
“It’s complicated,” I say quickly. “Way too complicated to explain right now.”
“Not really,” says Dee-Dub. “I put itching powder in Fredbird’s mask.”
“You did what?” Mom’s eyes bug out. Her mouth twists into a really awkward position. She looks like a monster from a horror movie. “So help me, if Mr. Dillon—”
She shuts up as the nationa
l anthem begins. I can’t stand up for it, but I place my hand over my heart. All around us, the stadium is silent and still.
Well, not completely still. Every few seconds, Fredbird twitches.
The young woman singing “The Star-Spangled Banner” has a voice as powerful as the stadium organ. When she’s done, the crowd cheers loudly.
Fredbird doesn’t cheer, though. Instead, he jerks his head like a mosquito has invaded his mask . . . or a thousand mosquitoes. Then, as everyone in the stadium claps their hands, our team’s mascot claps his . . . head.
“Uh-oh,” says Dee-Dub.
It’s a pretty weird thing to watch a mascot smacking his noggin, and it doesn’t seem to be helping either. Fredbird whacks himself again, harder this time. Dynamo’s sister looks at her beaked costar like he’s crazy.
“It’s possible the itching powder is starting to work,” says Dee-Dub.
I groan. “You think?”
Little by little, the stadium becomes quieter. The place is full, and everyone is tuned in to Fredbird’s strange performance. The camera operators even project his image onto the giant screen across the park so that no one misses out on the craziness.
“He can’t take the mask off,” murmurs Makayla. “He just can’t.”
A loud rock song starts blasting over the speakers. Fredbird throws himself to the turf and head butts the ground. Somehow, it’s in perfect time with the music, and the crowd roars with laughter. Then, several people nearby start to mimic him, and others join in too, until our entire section is like a crowd of head bangers at a hard rock concert.
All around the stadium fans rise to their feet. They strum air guitars and sing along with the music.
On the baseball diamond, Fredbird launches himself backward and hits the ground headfirst. He flops wildly like a fish out of water, swings his arms at his head like a confused boxer, and slams his head back so fast it’s like watching a whip crack. But through it all, Mr. Dillon refuses to take off the mask. It must be torture for him to keep it on, but some mascots aren’t meant to be unmasked, I guess. Even ones who are going to wake up with some serious bruises tomorrow morning.
I ease my wheelchair backward, trying for a sly escape—in situations like this, it’s important to rescue yourself first—but Mom has her foot behind one of the wheels.
Makayla has a foot behind the other. “You’re not going anywhere,” she says, eyeballing me.
Beside me, my genius best friend is chomping on his thumb knuckle like a starving baby with a chocolate-coated Binky.
“We need another plan, Dee-Dub,” I whisper. “Seriously. How are we going to get out of this?”
He thinks for several seconds and announces, “Variables!”
“What?”
“That’s the problem,” he concludes. “Not enough variables.”
Something tells me this is going to be a very long night.
38
Mr. Dillon’s Highlight Reel
The ride home isn’t much fun. We ought to be celebrating the Cardinals’ walk-off win in the bottom of the ninth, but no. Mom is fuming, Makayla’s giving me the silent treatment, and Dee-Dub’s probably trying to work out where it all went wrong.
“What were you thinking?” cries Mom for the third time.
I don’t have a good answer, so I keep quiet. Unfortunately, Dee-Dub blunders in. “We believed that Mr. Dillon was being untruthful about his mascot identity,” he explains.
In the rearview mirror, I see Mom frowning. “But why?” she asks him.
“Well, for one thing, Noah observed Fredbird at Makayla’s school. Noah felt that the mascot’s physical prowess was incompatible with Mr. Dillon’s physique.” After a moment, he adds, “Which is more like mine. We’re both quite large, you know.”
Mom sighs.
“For another thing,” continues Dee-Dub, “we were under the mistaken impression that Mr. Dillon is a refuse consultant.”
“How would you know that?” Mom asks.
“We hacked into the Cardinals’ payroll accounts.”
Mom almost runs us off the road.
“The refuse consultant thing is just a cover,” Makayla pipes up. “It’s like an alias so no one knows he’s really Fredbird. He has to keep it secret. Otherwise, the paparazzi will be after him all the time.”
I don’t think the paparazzi are interested in a strange-looking bird with a bright yellow beak, but I don’t say anything. Mom is driving really slowly, and I’m afraid she’s about to dump Dee-Dub and me on the side of the road.
“What does GMU stand for?” Makayla asks.
“It’s not called GMU anymore,” replies Dee-Dub. “I changed it to Operation Face-Off.”
“How can it be Operation Face-Off?” I ask. “Mr. Dillon never actually took off the mask.”
Dee-Dub starts making strange sounds at the back of his throat.
“Fine!” I say. “Operation Face-Off, it is.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it!” Mom snaps.
“We should’ve agreed on the name,” says Dee-Dub, sulking. “Names are important.”
“So are brains,” adds Makayla. “You two should try getting some.” Then she and Mom bust out laughing like this is the funniest thing in the world.
It could be worse. As long as Mom is laughing, she probably won’t ditch us.
Forty minutes later, Mom, Makayla, and I are sitting in our living room, watching TV with the sound low.
Mom is bolt upright in her favorite armchair. “I only hope Odell can forgive us,” she says, glaring at me.
“He will,” chirps Makayla, eyes fixed on the TV. “He likes you, Mrs. Savino.”
Mom turns on a smile. “Well, that’s sweet of you to say. I guess he’s got good taste, your father.”
“He likes Noah too.”
Mom’s scowl returns. “Perhaps not such good taste, then.”
There’s a knock on the door. I shrink farther into my wheelchair as Mom goes to answer it.
The TV is on quietly, so I can just make out her voice and Mr. Dillon’s. I can’t hear what they’re saying, though. Maybe that’s a good thing—they’re probably not sharing their favorite Noah stories right now.
Makayla isn’t paying any attention to our parents because she’s totally focused on the TV. The channel is ESPN, and the show is SportsCenter—specifically, the segment called “Top 10 Plays.” At number four, there’s an amazing catch by a Yankees outfielder; at three, an incredible goal by a European soccer player; at two, blurry footage of an elementary school kid who can already dunk a basketball.
“And at number one,” crows the SportsCenter anchor, “the mascot for the St. Louis Cardinals redefines the meaning of crazy. Don’t try this at home, kids!”
“Dad!” Makayla shrieks. “Come see!”
Mr. Dillon rushes into the living room at the very same moment that he appears on the TV in his Fredbird costume. I’ve already watched this routine live in Busch Stadium, but close up on the TV screen it’s even freakier. The mascot contorts his chubby body like an Olympic gymnast. Who would’ve guessed that Mr. Dillon is as flexible as a Slinky?
Or he was. Right now, he’s hunched over, and his face looks frozen in pain . . . or horror. At least, it could be pain or horror. It’s hard to tell. Mom is in the process of slathering anti-itch cream across his cheeks, so he looks like he face-planted in a can of white paint.
On the TV, Fredbird throws himself headfirst onto the ground and head-butts the turf, arms and legs flailing behind him. Because this is SportsCenter, I figure they must have other stuff to show. But I guess not, because there goes Fredbird again, smacking his face, and tweaking his beak, and throwing his head backward and forward like an amped-up rock star. The show’s anchors are laughing so hard, they’re probably peeing their pants.
“Oh, my!” one of them says. “That is serious commitment from Fredbird, bravely going where no mascot has gone before.”
“And where we hope no mascot will ever go a
gain,” adds the other.
“True that. I’m going to have nightmares about this for weeks. And to think, he kept this up the entire game!”
Swallowing hard, I look at Mr. Dillon. He doesn’t seem to be moving much. I think he might need a night off after this . . . and a heavy dose of painkillers.
Makayla mutes the TV and turns to face me. So does Mom. So does Mr. Dillon. Even Flub raises one furry, wrinkled eyebrow. I don’t like being the center of attention, especially not tonight. I wonder if this is what it feels like to face a firing squad.
“So,” begins Mom, “what do you have to say for yourself, Noah?”
I open my mouth, catch a glimpse of Mr. Dillon’s cream-smeared face, and close it again.
“I can’t believe Noah got you on SportsCenter, Daddy,” says Makayla. “I always knew you’d be famous one day, but I never thought you’d be number one on ‘Top 10 Plays.’” She puffs out her cheeks. “Number one!”
All eyes shift to Mr. Dillon. Slowly, his pursed lips relax, and he begins to nod. “Number one is quite an achievement,” he agrees.
“Quite an achievement?” exclaims Makayla, his personal cheerleader. “All over the country right now, people are talking about Fredbird. About you!”
His lips twist upward into a smile. “Number one,” he murmurs. “Do you think I’m the first mascot in history to make it to the top?”
“Definitely! This’ll probably never happen again in the entire history of sports.”
“I bet you’re right.” Mr. Dillon raises his fist triumphantly. “Tonight, I scored a victory for the people behind the masks. This was for all the men and women in duck suits and bear costumes. For the ones dressed as sharp, pointy objects . . . and trees!”
Makayla frowns. “Trees?”
“Don’t ask,” says Mom.
“I showed everyone there’s nothing a mascot can’t do when inspiration strikes,” bellows Mr. Dillon.
Mom shoots me a cold look. “Inspiration and itching powder,” she reminds him.
“Whatever it takes. If I need itching powder to bring out my inner genius, so be it.” Mr. Dillon looks at the tube of anti-itch cream drooping from Mom’s fingertips and busts out laughing. “I’m just kidding. . . . Well, kind of. I really feel like I made a breakthrough today. I’ve been going through the same routine for years, but tonight, I rewrote the book on being a mascot. And now that I’ve done it once, I can do it again—without the powder next time.”