Mascot

  She picks them up for me. “Whatever it is, you should get it off your chest.”

  The word “chest” reminds me of her boobs, which are unfortunately at eye level again.

  Dee-Dub clears his throat. “Noah, are you looking at—”

  “No,” I snap. “I am not staring at Alyssa’s boobs!”

  The entire classroom falls silent. Dee-Dub opens his eyes super wide. Alyssa looks like she wants to punch my lights out.

  Is this karma for me screwing up Makayla’s spelling bee? If it is, I need to make things right soon.

  I fold my arms on the desk and rest my head. If I pretend to be asleep, maybe everyone will leave me alone. Even better, I might actually fall asleep.

  Or not. Mr. Kostas enters the room and tosses his messenger bag onto the teacher’s desk. He pulls out a stack of math work sheets and distributes one to each student. He gives a little extra oomph as he slaps one onto Alyssa’s desk.

  “For you, Ms. Choo,” he says with a voice as sweet as artificial syrup. “Cups of flour in a cake.”

  I look at the first question: 1 cup of flour weighs 4 ¼ oz; 1 oz = 28 ⅓ grams. How many cups should you use in a cake that requires 800 grams of flour?

  In the time it takes me to yawn, Dee-Dub is already writing the answer: 6 ⅔ cups.

  I must be imagining things—there’s no way anyone could work out the answer that fast—so I blink hard and look at his sheet again.

  The numbers are still there.

  Usually, I’d be impressed, but today it just annoys me. While I’m struggling to keep my eyes open, Dee-Dub is doing advanced math in his head.

  “You’re supposed to show your work,” I say.

  He pencils in another answer. “Takes too long.”

  I look at my own sheet. I’ll need to divide 800 by the multiple of 4 ¼ and 28 ⅓, which requires some serious long multiplication. And then division. I could be doing this question for the rest of class.

  Dee-Dub scribbles an answer to question three.

  “How do you do that?” I grumble.

  “Just do,” he says.

  “Geez. You’re like freaking Einstein.”

  Dee-Dub’s head whips around. “Do not call me that.”

  “Shhh!” hisses Mr. Kostas.

  I wait for our teacher to look away. “What’s wrong with ‘Einstein’?” I ask.

  Dee-Dub growls. “I said—”

  “Shhh!” Mr. Kostas places his palms flat on his desk. “That’s your second warning, Ruben.”

  But Dee-Dub isn’t listening. His full attention is fixed on me, and I’m not sure why. “It’s what they called me at my old school,” he says.

  I don’t see what that has to do with anything. I mean, these are the same kids who named him after a trailer. Is he really saying he prefers “Double-Wide” to “Einstein”? If anyone compared me to a famous physicist, I’d be thrilled.

  I’m not in the mood to argue, though. “Fine,” I say. “I won’t call you Einstein again.”

  His eyes open wide. His jaw muscles flex. Somehow, I’ve made him even angrier.

  “Ruben,” snaps Mr. Kostas. “If you don’t get on with the work sheet right now . . .”

  It’s like Dee-Dub can’t hear him. And he definitely does not look like a student who plans to get on with his work sheet. Mr. Kostas must think so too because he pushes back his chair and stands.

  Suddenly, I remember the look on Dee-Dub’s face when he smacked Alyssa’s pitch through Mr. Riggieri’s windshield. He’d taken two hits to the body without losing his cool, but then he snapped. He didn’t care whether it was sensible to hit the ball. He didn’t even seem to notice where he was or what he was doing. He just swung at the pitch with everything he had, like his body was under the control of some invisible force.

  Now I think that force is back, and it’s about to land him in a whole heap of trouble.

  “Mr. Kostas,” I say as our teacher strides toward us, “I . . . uh . . .”

  I throw Alyssa a desperate look. She raises her hand immediately.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Kostas,” she calls out.

  Our teacher freezes. “Yes?”

  “I have a problem.”

  “Don’t tell me: you don’t like cake.”

  “No. It’s that this recipe won’t actually make a cake. It’s missing eggs. And baking powder. And sugar. And butter.”

  “Oh,” says Mr. Kostas.

  “Yes,” continues Alyssa. “And so I wondered if there was another part. Just to make sure it all makes sense.”

  Mr. Kostas deflates. “Ms. Choo, I’m not a home economics teacher.”

  Lips pressed tightly together, Alyssa nods. “I realize that, Mr. Kostas. And you’re wonderful, of course, but . . . you’re always telling us about the real-world applications of mathematics. This isn’t real-world.”

  “It’s just a cake!”

  “Not really. Without the egg and baking powder, the batter won’t rise. It’ll be a powdery mess.”

  Everyone snickers. Mr. Kostas narrows his eyes. “Do you really want a detention, Ms. Choo?”

  “No!” cries Alyssa. She shifts her eyes back and forth between our teacher and Dee-Dub, who is still huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf. “I’m serious. We’ve been looking at this sheet nonstop for the past five minutes, and it’ll never make a cake. It’s like reading a book in English and pretending the main character doesn’t exist. Or memorizing the US states in Social Studies but pretending that Alaska and Hawaii don’t count because they’re not contiguous. It’s like—”

  “Enough!” Mr. Kostas waves his hand, but it may as well be a white flag. He returns to his seat and breathes in and out slowly. “Please, please . . . just finish the sheet, won’t you?”

  Alyssa glances at Dee-Dub, who seems to be channeling his anger into completing the math problems even faster than usual. Satisfied that the danger has passed, Alyssa gives our stressed-out teacher a sympathetic nod and buckles down to work again.

  I wait a few seconds and peer at her from the corner of my eye. It’s just as well she’s a quick thinker or the situation could’ve ended badly. I give her a thumbs-up and wait for her to do the same.

  Alyssa manages a smile but only just. And she definitely doesn’t give me a thumbs-up. In fact, gnawing the end of her pencil like a starving beaver, she looks right past me to Dee-Dub. From her expression, I’d say that of all the problems she’ll be asked to solve today, he might be the one that confuses her most of all.

  21

  Fredbird Has Slimmed Down

  St. Louis Public Schools uses the same set of buses for elementary, middle, and high schools, so our day begins and ends two hours before the elementary schools. This is absolutely as popular with my classmates as you would imagine, which is probably why most of them sleep through homeroom.

  But today, the crazy schedule suits me. I’m still feeling bad about my part in Makayla’s spelling bee fiasco, and the way I see it, my only chance to set the record straight without Mom or Makayla finding out is for me to explain everything to her teacher in person. Luckily, Makayla goes to the same elementary school I used to go to. Even luckier, Fredbird is making a special guest appearance this afternoon, which gives me just the excuse I need to be there.

  “Mom,” I say, buckling into my seat after school. “Can we stop off at my old school? I’d really like to see Mr. Dillon being Fredbird.”

  “You’ve got physical therapy,” she says.

  “At four o’clock.”

  Mom shuffles in her seat. “Why do you want to see him?”

  “Are you kidding? Fredbird’s a legend. How many kids get to say they know him personally?”

  “You won’t say anything of the sort,” she replies. “A lot of those kids think Fredbird’s real.”

  “You’re saying he’s not?” I pull a sad face in the rearview mirror and wobble my lower lip. “You just burst my bubble!”

  Mom doesn’t play along with my lame attempt at humor.
Something tells me she’s just as suspicious about Mr. Dillon’s claim as I am.

  “You can have fifteen minutes,” she says finally. “But don’t you dare embarrass Fredbird.”

  I’m not sure how you embarrass a mascot, but I keep this thought to myself. After all, Mom just said “Fredbird,” not “Mr. Dillon.”

  She knows Mr. Dillon’s lying, all right.

  Visitors are supposed to buzz in at the main entrance to my old elementary school, but the school office is on the second floor and the only elevator is at the back of the building, so I head there instead.

  Mr. Considine, my longtime PE teacher, is standing beside the rear entrance. He seems shocked to see me. “Noah?”

  “The one and only,” I say.

  “How are you doing?” He casts an eye over my top-of-the-line wheelchair. “I mean, you look well.” He reddens. “Hey, we’ve got Fredbird visiting today!”

  I put on a surprised face. “The Cardinals’ mascot? Here?”

  “Yeah. One of the TV announcers is here too. You should come watch.”

  He waves me inside. I weave past mounds of multicolored book bags and into the gym. Seeing row after row of cross-legged kids reminds me of when I used to go here. But there’s one kid who’s apart from it all. Someone familiar.

  Dynamo Duric sits in his wheelchair next to the far wall. Unless he started at the school in the past year, we must’ve overlapped for a while, although I don’t remember him. Come to think of it, I don’t remember seeing anyone in a wheelchair. Then again, since he’s doing PT, Dynamo probably hasn’t always needed a wheelchair.

  Up on stage, Fredbird has wrapped his enormous rubber beak around a kindergartner’s head and looks like he’s taking a big chomp. Everyone busts out laughing, including Dynamo. Eating kindergartners is clearly a popular elementary school pastime.

  As Fredbird bounds across the stage to even louder cheering, I stop thinking about Dynamo and concentrate on the mascot. Three seconds later, I’ve made some critical observations about everybody’s favorite kid-eating bird.

  (1) He’s as energetic as an Olympic gymnast.

  (2) He’s as slippery as a snake.

  (3) He can jump like a kangaroo.

  Let me compare this list to my observations about Mr. Dillon last night at the restaurant.

  (1) He gets winded walking to the exit.

  (2) He has trouble fitting through doors.

  (3) I’d be amazed if he can get both feet off the ground at the same time.

  Okay, so numbers 2 and 3 probably seem hypocritical, coming from me, but I’m in a wheelchair. Plus, I’m not the one pretending to be Fredbird.

  A guy I recognize as a Cardinals TV announcer calls for more volunteers. In the middle of the gym, Makayla wiggles her hand about like a flag caught in a tornado. She’s bouncing up and down too, which means she’s either excited or needs the bathroom.

  Unfortunately, the announcer doesn’t call on her, and Fredbird doesn’t even seem to notice her. But then, maybe that’s because Fredbird isn’t her dad.

  I was already feeling bad about the spelling bee disaster, but this might be even worse. She’s bursting with pride, like she really believes the athlete in the bird suit is her father. How will she feel when she finds out the truth?

  One thing’s for sure: I’m not going to be the one to tell her.

  Makayla’s teacher, Mrs. Coates, is leaning against the wall of the gym, watching me. She was my fourth-grade teacher too, and looks exactly the same as I remember, even down to the bright red Got Book? T-shirt. When I give a little wave, she wanders over.

  “Noah?” she says like she can’t believe her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  “Hi, Mrs. Coates.” I swallow hard. “Actually, I—I was wondering if we could talk. Outside.”

  She follows me out of the gym. We’re alone in the hallway, but that doesn’t make it any easier to speak.

  “What do you need?” she asks kindly.

  I swallow hard. “I, uh, heard you had a practice spelling bee yesterday.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “How do you know that?”

  “Makayla told me.”

  “You know Makayla?”

  “My mom’s friends with her dad.”

  “Ah.” Mrs. Coates straightens a flyer on the wall. “Makayla’s a really bright kid. You have to be on your A game with her.”

  “I noticed. She got me into trouble on Friday.” I hesitate. “That’s the problem, actually.”

  My old teacher looks lost. “What is?”

  I already don’t like how this conversation is going, and I’m pretty sure it’s about to get worse. “Makayla left her list of spelling words in our house. And I thought it’d be kind of funny to redo the list with the words spelled wrong, you know?” I give a little chuckle, hoping that Mrs. Coates might see the funny side.

  Mrs. Coates doesn’t see the funny side. “What are you talking about, Noah?”

  “I sabotaged Makayla’s test!” I blurt out. “I know it was a really bad thing to do, and now I can’t sleep. I feel like I’m the worst person in the world.”

  Mrs. Coates watches me in shocked silence. I wait for her to cuss me out or have me thrown in juvenile detention or maybe a lunatic asylum. The last thing I expect her to do is laugh.

  “Uh, Mrs. Coates?”

  She tries to stop, but that only makes it worse. Doubled over, she doesn’t even hear me. A couple teachers leave the gym and check the hallway to see what’s going on. When I shrug, they move along.

  Several seconds pass before she gets control of herself. “Oh, Noah,” she murmurs. “Noah, Noah, Noah.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Coates?”

  She blinks back tears. “Makayla Dillon got one hundred percent on the test, just like always. It’s highly likely she’ll be in the school final of the spelling bee . . . just like always.”

  “But . . .” I try to make sense of it. “I changed the words. I tricked her. She told me she failed so badly that you disqualified her from the bee. She even cried at my birthday dinner. I was so scared she was going to tell my mom what I did, I couldn’t even order dessert.”

  Mrs. Coates wipes away the tears running down her cheeks. “That’s terrible,” she says like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. “What about Makayla? Did she order dessert?”

  Like a fog lifting, the truth slowly dawns on me. And once it’s clear, I wonder how I ever missed it. It’s as obvious as one of Flub’s super-potent farts at close range.

  Makayla Dillon played me.

  I rewind through the past few days. Makayla wanted me to hear her practicing spelling words. She even made sure I knew that she was leaving the spelling sheet behind on our kitchen table, and that it was her only copy. She tricked me into sabotaging her chances, and I fell for it. I even wasted an hour typing carefully misspelled words into my computer.

  Mrs. Coates gives me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Like I say, Makayla’s as smart as a whip, so you’d better bring your A game. And no offense, Noah, but even that probably won’t be enough.”

  Mrs. Coates returns to her students, leaving me alone in the hallway. In the gym, everyone is laughing again. I’m not laughing, though. I want revenge. I want justice.

  This is war!

  22

  Girls Like the Dynamo

  Mom is leaning against the minivan. Her eyes are closed, and she’s facing the sun. She looks relaxed and happy, which doesn’t happen very often these days. Then her supersonic hearing picks up the sound of my tires from twenty yards away and she jolts to attention.

  “Everything okay, honey?” she asks, watching me.

  “Perfect,” I lie.

  As she leans over and wraps her arms around me, I push hard on the handles of my wheelchair. It helps her a little, but I can still feel the muscles in her shoulders and arms and back straining. What will she do when I’m in high school and weigh fifty pounds more?

  It takes her a couple minutes to join me in the
car. “You sure you’re okay?” she asks again.

  What she really means is that it’s obvious I’m not okay, but I’m not going to tell her why. Makayla declared war on me, not us. But Mr. Dillon . . . well, that’s a different matter.

  “Please talk to me, Noah.”

  I pick at the worn seat in front of me. “Fine. I just saw Fredbird.”

  “That was the point of going in, right?”

  “Mr. Dillon isn’t Fredbird, Mom.”

  She’s reaching for the seat belt but freezes. “What do you mean?”

  “He can’t be. Fredbird’s way too athletic.”

  Mom snaps the seat belt into place. “That’s not a nice thing to say, Noah. Very disrespectful, in fact.”

  “Okay, but . . . you don’t actually believe Mr. Dillon’s Fredbird, do you?”

  “Why would he lie?”

  “To impress Makayla.”

  Mom snorts. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Mom is one of the smartest people I know. I can’t believe she’s covering for him. “Why doesn’t this matter to you?” I ask.

  Mom jerks the keys in the ignition. “Because this has nothing to do with Fredbird. I think you just don’t like Mr. Dillon.”

  “Because he’s a liar!”

  “Enough!” She tucks her hair carefully behind her ears. “Look, Noah, I keep telling you he’s just a friend, but with your father gone—”

  I jam my hands over my ears. I can’t force her to hear the truth about Mr. Dillon, but she can’t force me to listen to excuses either. Especially if she’s going to mention Mr. Dillon and Dad in the same breath.

  When Mom gives up trying to talk, I lower my hands and pick at the seat in front of me again. I even dislodge a piece of foam. It was Dad’s seat whenever we took Mom’s minivan. He didn’t like being a passenger—said there wasn’t enough to do—so he’d spend the whole time telling us jokes about people at work. He was a manager at a hardware store, and if you don’t think that sounds very funny, you don’t know how many ways there are to block a toilet.