Mascot

  I gulp. I sure hope he’s not about to use that bat on us.

  Dee-Dub must be thinking the same thing because he shrinks back. “I promise I won’t break your windshield again, sir,” he says. “Actually, after yesterday I don’t think I’ll ever touch a bat again.”

  “Nonsense,” says Mr. Riggieri gruffly. “You’ve got a nice easy swing. Power to spare. The key is to choose your pitches wisely. And for the pitcher to stop nailing you. So, let’s get practicing.”

  Alyssa and I exchange glances. Is he really coaching us less than twenty-four hours after we put his car in the shop?

  “You want to beat your nemesis or not?” grumbles Mr. Riggieri.

  “Absolutely,” says Alyssa.

  “Then, come on!”

  He tosses her a ball, hands me a mitt and mask, and holds out a helmet for Dee-Dub. While Dee-Dub attempts to stuff the helmet on his head, Alyssa sets about kneading the ball between her fingers, the way pro baseball pitchers do.

  With the helmet squished tight around his noggin, Dee-Dub shoots me a desperate look. It’s the expression of someone who is smart enough to realize that pitchers do not perfect their craft overnight, and he doesn’t want any more bruises to prove it.

  “Here,” coaxes Mr. Riggieri, trying to hand him the bat. “You’re going to be okay, son.”

  Dee-Dub clearly disagrees, and Dee-Dub is the smartest kid I know. But he still takes the bat with trembling hands and slopes away to home plate. I wheel along beside him. When we’re in position, I slide on the mask and glove and wait for Alyssa’s first wild pitch.

  Sure enough, she winds up and unleashes a doozy: a slider that keeps its path right up to the moment that it curves inward and has a nibble at Dee-Dub’s impressive belly.

  “Yeoooooow!” howls Dee-Dub.

  “Whoa!” Mr. Riggieri is laughing like a maniac. “Dang it, girl. You keep doing that, you better learn to fight. That’s how dugout-clearing brawls get started.”

  “Sorry, Dee-Dub,” says Alyssa.

  Dee-Dub raises a hand. I think it’s his way of saying I forgive you, but it also looks like he’s trying to surrender.

  “If you don’t mind me asking,” says Mr. Riggieri, still focused on Alyssa instead of her victim, “what exactly are you aiming for?”

  Alyssa bites her lip. “I’m aiming for the strike zone. You know, the area where Dee-Dub is supposed to be able to hit the ball.”

  “Oh, I know what a strike zone is, all right. I’m just surprised that you do, seeing as how you keep roughing up your friend here.” Mr. Riggieri indicates Dee-Dub, who at this moment is cowering behind me. “Just now, when I got back here, I saw you tossing trash into a bag. Do you know why you can do that but you can’t nail your pitches?”

  Alyssa shakes her head.

  “You don’t aim for a zone. You aim for a target. And in baseball, your target is Noah’s glove. Lock in on that glove, and let the ball fly.”

  “Oh.” Alyssa fingers the end of her braid. “That actually makes sense.”

  Mr. Riggieri raises an eyebrow. “I’m glad you think so.”

  With a deep breath, Alyssa prepares to throw another pitch. I position my glove in the middle of the strike zone, and she nods. Then she winds up, throws the ball, and—

  Crack. Dee-Dub hits that sucker so hard he breaks the wooden bat in two. The ball climbs up and up, and keeps on going until it lands in the far outfield.

  Laughter ripples over from the playground. It’s Logan Montgomery, taking in the action from an elevated platform meant for little kids. “That was awesome!” he yells. “You pitch like that, Choo, you’re going to make me look even more amazing than I already am!”

  Alyssa closes her eyes, fuming. Mr. Riggieri gives Logan an icy stare. Even Dee-Dub seems to be regretting the hit, and not just because he destroyed a bat.

  I couldn’t care less about Logan, though, because I just saw two incredible things. (1) Alyssa made a pitch that flew as fast and straight as a laser beam, and (2) Dee-Dub hit it only because he sneaked a peek at my glove before she let it go. From that, just as in math, he must have calculated the flight of the ball and the point of impact. And he launched the ball so far, I’m surprised it didn’t carry on clear across Missouri.

  Logan’s still laughing, but I think I see a way to wipe that smile off his face for good. If Alyssa keeps her pitches on target, she’s got a heck of a fastball. And if Dee-Dub bats instead of her, anything is possible—especially if he knows which pitch Logan’s about to make. And I can make sure he knows too because I’m the catcher. I call the pitches.

  I may not be able to play Little League anymore, but taking down Wellspring Middle School’s home-run king with Alyssa and Dee-Dub . . .

  Well, that might just be the next best thing.

  16

  Spell Checker

  When I get home, Mom and Mr. Dillon are side by side at the kitchen sink. Mom’s washing the dishes and Mr. Dillon is drying them. I hate how comfortable he looks, like he thinks he belongs here.

  I guess it’s not so surprising, though. A week ago, he helped her unload grocery bags. Since then, she’s spent as much time with him as she has with me.

  Makayla is sitting at the kitchen table, brows furrowed. She looks as annoyed at our parents as I am. Then her expression brightens, and she says, “Serendipity. S-E-R-E-N-D-I-P-I-T-Y. Serendipity.”

  “Yes!” cries Mom, spinning around. “That’s amazing.” She turns to me. “Makayla’s studying for the spelling bee, honey.”

  “Already?” I say. “Isn’t that in January?”

  Makayla nods. “The school one is, yeah. But we’re doing a practice bee in class this week.”

  I roll up to the kitchen table and study the vocabulary sheet. Some of these words are crazy hard. I pick the worst of all. “Spell ‘Sisyphean.’”

  She puckers up her lips. “Can you give me a definition?”

  Rats! I forgot about this part of the bee. “Um, it’s a, uh . . . an impossible task. Or is it a pointless task?” I wave the thought away. “It’s one or the other.”

  “Can you use it in a sentence?”

  “Spelling bees are Sisyphean.”

  Mom narrows her eyes at me but doesn’t say anything.

  Makayla straightens in her chair. Puts on her game face. “Sisyphean. S-I-S-I-P-H-E-A-N. Sisyphean.”

  “Naaaa!” I make a sound like a demented bee. “I’m afraid that’s incorrect.”

  “It was close,” insists Mom.

  I nod gravely. “If only they gave points for effort.”

  “Well, maybe they should! Effort counts for a lot. I think it’s very admirable that Makayla’s spending her weekend trying to get better.”

  I don’t think this is about Makayla anymore. Or spelling bees. I think it’s about me and physical therapy.

  “I’d be spending my weekend getting better too,” I say, “except I was busy picking up trash at Berra Park.”

  “That’s great, Noah,” replies Mr. Dillon, eager to show his support. “What inspired you to do that?”

  “He didn’t have any choice,” snaps Mom. “He was playing baseball in the middle of the street last night. . . . Broke Mr. Riggieri’s windshield.”

  “You did that?” asks Mr. Dillon.

  “Do I look like I can use a baseball bat?” I deadpan.

  Mom shoots me an angry look. Mr. Dillon backs off too. I think he’s reconsidering his place on Team Noah.

  For several moments, we’re all silent. Then Mr. Dillon folds the tea towel he’s been using and hangs it on the oven door. “Well, it sounds like you’ve had a busy morning, son.”

  My entire body goes rigid. I am a lot of things, but I am not his son.

  “I’ll bet you’re hungry as heck,” he continues. “Hot salami sub from Gioia’s sound good?”

  Of course it sounds good. I’ve eaten enough of Gioia’s hot salami to feed my entire school for a week. But I want to grab a sandwich with Mr. Dillon about as much as I want to s
hare the school elevator with Flub and his leaky butt.

  “I’m not hungry,” I say.

  “Fair enough,” says Mr. Dillon amiably. “What about cannoli from Missouri Baking, then?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Noah,” says Mom in a warning tone.

  “I’m just not hungry,” I lie.

  She touches my forehead like she’s checking for a fever. “You feeling all right?”

  I jerk my head away. “It was the dog, not me.”

  Nobody laughs. Flub isn’t even in the room with us. I’ve ruined the atmosphere now. Mom and Mr. Dillon and Makayla were getting along great until I showed up. Mom was flipping out over Makayla’s mental database of exceedingly long and useless words. But she’s not so impressed with me.

  “Fine,” says Mom curtly. “We’ll see you later, then. Shall I ask Kathy to check in on you?”

  It’s a cheap shot, but maybe I deserve it. “I’ll survive without her,” I say. “And you.”

  Mom flinches. I didn’t mean that last part. I’m angry with Mr. Dillon, not her. But these days Mom seems to be on his side more than mine.

  As Mom circles the kitchen table, Makayla points to the spelling bee sheets. “Should I take these with me? They’re my only copies.”

  “Leave them here,” says her dad.

  “They’ll be perfectly safe,” agrees Mom.

  Makayla does as she’s told, but as she follows the adults out of the kitchen, she lingers a moment, her eyes shifting between the pages and me. She’s giving me a warning look that says, Feed these pages to Flub and I will DESTROY you.

  I know better than to underestimate Little Miss Perfect after her sucking-face routine the other night, but right now I’d do anything to shut her up. So I return a defiant look that says, Game on, little girl. Game on!

  Then I sit in the kitchen, alone and hungry, and try to think of a way to balance the scales.

  It doesn’t take me long to come up with a plan.

  And for once, it’s pure genius.

  I saw this old James Bond movie once. The criminal mastermind was named Blofeld. He used a wheelchair, and wore a monocle, and talked in a menacing foreign accent, and spent all day stroking his white cat. I don’t have a monocle, a cat, or a foreign accent, but I’ve got the wheelchair, and I’m just as evil as he was.

  Don’t believe me?

  Just watch as I open up a new document on my computer. See me match the font and point size to the words on Makayla’s sheet. Then marvel as I copy every single word on her sheet, only with a few minor changes.

  I am like the anti–spell check. I can take perfectly composed words and ruin them. I can crush consonants and violate vowels. I am the grim reaper of the spelling bee, and I will show no mercy.

  Makayla, my chirpy little friend, you and your unwelcome father had this coming.

  17

  Running Isn’t Epic

  Monday, September 18, aka my birthday. Unfortunately, it’s also a B day on the Wellspring Middle School schedule, and since Congress hasn’t gotten around to declaring my birthday a national holiday yet, I’m stuck in PE.

  My classmates are warming up by running around the gym ten times. Mrs. Friendly has even placed cones at strategic points so that no one can cut the corners.

  She’s nice like that.

  Logan is hobbling along near the back while his super-fit teammates stride out half a lap ahead of him.

  Mrs. Friendly is not impressed. “Pick it up, Montgomery,” she barks. “You ought to be running a sub-seven-minute mile in seventh grade. The way you’re going, you’ll be lucky to finish in a day!”

  Logan glares at Mrs. Friendly. Then Alyssa laps him, and he glares at her too. Finally, he catches me smiling and throws me a gut-churning death stare as well.

  Unfortunately, Mrs. Friendly notices Logan’s death stare, which is how she discovers my hiding place behind the bleacher seats.

  “And what do you think you’re doing, Savino?” she growls.

  I wheel forward as if I’ve only just arrived in PE, but Mrs. Friendly isn’t fooled. I’ve tried this trick before, and anyway, the entrance is at the other end of the gym.

  She stands as rigid as a column, hands on her hips and lips pursed like she’s considering my punishment. She must have a lot of punishments in mind, because she doesn’t say anything for a long time. Will it be fifty laps of the gym? Detention? A fistfight with one of those endangered polar bears from Makayla’s Gabriella Masterson books?

  With a sigh, Mrs. Friendly walks over to me and takes a seat on the bleachers. “So, it’s your birthday, huh?” she says.

  “Uh . . .” I can’t believe she knows that. I’ve tried to keep it under wraps.

  “I was looking up fitness guidelines for a boy in a wheelchair,” she explains. “I needed to know your age, so I checked your date of birth. If you’re twelve today, you must’ve skipped a grade.”

  “I went straight from pre-K to first grade. My mom says I was tall back then and good at math. I guess I peaked too soon.”

  Smiling, Mrs. Friendly gives my shoulder a gentle punch. I pretend it doesn’t hurt. “Well, happy birthday,” she says.

  “Um, thanks.”

  She jumps up suddenly. “I said pick it up, Montgomery!”

  Logan waits for her to look away and shakes his head in disgust.

  “So,” she says, “I saw you catching for Alyssa and Logan at their little pitch-off last week. It clearly wasn’t your first rodeo, so I asked Logan about it. He said you used to play Little League.”

  “Not anymore,” I say.

  “What do you do instead?”

  “I push myself around in a wheelchair.”

  She flexes her biceps, or triceps, or whatever those upper arm muscles are that make her look like she could take down a mountain lion. “I mean, what other talents have you been hiding?”

  “Oh. Well, I can count to ten in Spanish.”

  “That’s not exactly what I mean.”

  “I know the capital of Missouri is Jefferson City.”

  “Or that.”

  Mrs. Friendly looks menacingly at my classmates, who pick up the pace immediately.

  “Do you know why I do CrossFit competitions, Noah?” she asks, sitting again.

  “Because they pay you?

  “No.”

  “Because you get on TV?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm. Then I honestly can’t think of a single reason.”

  She leans forward, her fingers knitted together. “I do it because I know that nothing is forever. You hear me?”

  I can’t believe she just said that. If there’s anyone in the school who’s learned that lesson, it’s me.

  “Even if I’m lucky enough to live a long and healthy life,” she continues, “there will come a time when my body says, Enough. Little by little, I’ll slow down. My muscles will weaken. I won’t be able to do the things I used to do.”

  She stares off into the distance as if she’s seeing beyond the gym to a future without PE. I follow her gaze and imagine that future too. It looks pretty awesome, to be honest.

  “That is why I work out like crazy, Noah.” She stabs the air with her finger. “So that I can put off that day. And when it finally comes, I’ll be so fit, I’ll still be better off than most of the people around me.” She nods to herself. “I’ll also know that I’ve pushed myself to the limit—seen what this old body of mine can do. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “I think so,” I say, which is my usual response when either (1) I haven’t been listening, or (2) I don’t have a clue what an adult is talking about.

  This time I actually mean it, though: I do understand, because it’s the same thing Angelica has been telling me for months. But if hard work is everything, why is Dee-Dub still lagging behind One-Leg Logan?

  Or is he? Digging deep for an extra gear, Dee-Dub slowly closes the gap. It’s kind of epic, like the climax to a movie. I can almost hear the crowd cheering him on.
I imagine him surging ahead, stealing victory at the finish line.

  Is this what victory would look like for me? Lumbering, awkward, but just as epic. If I work my butt off, maybe the insurance people will get off Mom’s back and she could stop stressing out. Maybe we’d get along better again. Maybe she wouldn’t want to hang out with Mr. Dillon as much.

  Mrs. Friendly slides off the bleacher seat and stands in front of me. “So . . . any thoughts about what I just said?”

  I have lots of thoughts, actually. But I’m too busy watching Dee-Dub to share them. He’s only a couple yards back from Logan now and closing. I lean forward in my chair, willing him on. I want him to win. I want my epic movie to have a happy ending.

  She taps her foot. “Noah?”

  Logan must hear Dee-Dub’s footsteps, because he looks over his shoulder and sees my slow-charging friend. Immediately, he picks up speed, and the race, if it ever was a race, is over.

  My shoulders slump. So much for a happy ending.

  “I really want to know what you’re thinking,” says Mrs. Friendly.

  I huff. “I’m thinking that all this stuff about your body breaking down sure does make old age sound like a lot of fun!”

  I wonder if she’ll laugh or at least applaud my wit. Sarcasm has been my friend for the past few months, and until recently, people always used to like it. But not anymore.

  “Well, you know what?” says Mrs. Friendly, not sounding very friendly. “You make being young look like no fun at all, Noah Savino. And that’s just a shame.”

  She turns away and raises the whistle to her mouth. Before she blows it, though, she peers at me over her shoulder. “So, when you want to start changing that, you let me know, okay? I’ll be here, and I’ll help you any way I can.”

  Stewing in my chair, I study my legs. Mrs. Friendly has no idea what it’s like for me. No one does. Everyone keeps spouting inspirational phrases like they’ll change my life, but the words feel as empty as the printed poems on all the sympathy cards we got after Dad died. Words won’t turn back time. Words can’t fix my legs.