Noah fell silent.
“What’s going on, man?” Eddie said.
The seventh grader hesitated. “I begged her,” he finally blurted, and then the words started spilling out of his mouth fast. “I suck at English, okay? I actually really liked the book, but I didn’t do the essay, because I suck at writing. But then today after class, Shanks told me my grade is a C minus.”
Eddie inhaled sharply through his teeth. Everyone on the team knew that they had to maintain at least a C average in each class, or else they wouldn’t be allowed to compete in games—school policy for all student-athletes at Lilac Township Middle.
“Yeah,” Noah said. “So she said she was going to report my grade to Coach. And then I wouldn’t be able to play on Monday. I, like, basically got down on my knees and begged until she let me have an extension.”
Nodding, Eddie gave him a sympathetic look. He would have begged, too, in the same situation—not that he would ever get a C minus in anything. His parents would skin him alive or, worse, take away his Nintendo 3DS.
Then a realization lit up Eddie’s brain. “Hey. You’re not going to turn that paper in like it’s yours, are you?”
“I have to,” Noah whispered, even though there was nobody else around. “Shanks is already docking me a full letter grade because I’m turning it in late. So I’m starting with a B. And it has to be good enough to get my overall grade up to a C.”
Just then, Eddie heard his ringtone echoing through the room. He was right—he’d left his phone in his locker. It was probably Mom calling from the parking lot, wondering what the heck was taking so long.
Noah reached past Eddie and put his hand on the door, trying to leave again.
Eddie knew it would be easiest to just do nothing—to forget about Noah, go home, eat dinner, and play Super Smash Bros. until bed. But if there was one thing he had learned from soccer, it was that doing nothing was actually a choice.
“Wait,” Eddie said quickly, before Noah could push past him. “I’ve read the book. I can help you with your essay.”
Noah flicked his gaze up to Eddie’s face. “I don’t need help.”
“If you get caught cheating, you won’t just be out for the game. You’ll get kicked off the team.”
Noah’s forehead creased with worry.
“And you will get caught,” Eddie added. “Teachers know how to Google, too.”
Eddie’s ringtone ended. After a long silence, Noah finally gave a small nod.
“I’ll help you draft it tomorrow,” Eddie said.
“I can’t tomorrow,” said Noah. “We’re going to visit my aunt this weekend. I won’t be home until Sunday afternoon.”
“Okay, so, Sunday night.”
“But what about the pasta party?”
Eddie sighed, then looked Noah right in the eye. “I guess we’re not going.”
* * *
—
The pasta party was scheduled to start at six o’clock. Just before six-thirty, Eddie was parking his bike in front of Coffee Cave, where he’d arranged to meet Noah, when his phone buzzed with a text from Ben.
Where u at?
Eddie felt a twinge of guilt. As co-captain, he should have let Ben know that he wouldn’t be at the pasta party. But he had put off telling Ben because he figured it wouldn’t be cool to blab about Noah’s problems.
Something came up.
No way. It’s not a PP without the entire UN. Get ur butt over here.
I can’t. Tell you later. Sorry to the team and nonna.
Whatever dude. Nonna is shaking her wooden spoon at u.
Eddie grimaced. He knew his co-captain well enough to see through his humor—Ben was pissed off that Eddie wasn’t there. Putting his phone back in his pocket, Eddie pushed open the door of the coffee shop.
Noah was already sitting in a corner booth. Good, Eddie thought. One point in the little twerp’s favor. The text exchange with Ben had left him in a sour mood.
“Let’s get started,” he said brusquely as he sat down opposite Noah. “Show me what you’ve done so far.”
Noah looked alarmed, either at Eddie’s words or his tone or both. “Um. I don’t—I mean, isn’t that why we’re doing this?” He turned his laptop around so Eddie could see the screen.
There was nothing on it except Noah’s name and the date.
Eddie felt his anger rising. I should be at the pasta party, with the rest of the team. I have a responsibility to them, too, and this guy didn’t even care enough to try—
“I tried to start it,” Noah said. He sounded really miserable. “About a hundred times. I just can’t—I can never think of anything to write.”
Eddie was quiet for a moment. Okay, so I’d rather be somewhere else. But we’re here now. Might as well do this.
“Get out your phone,” he said. “I’m gonna text you some questions, and you text me back the answers, okay?”
Noah seemed baffled, but he grabbed his phone from his backpack.
Who’s your favorite character?
Rashad
What do you like about him?
Well he’s the hero of the story, right?
Not what I meant. What happens in the story that makes you like him?
Oh. He seems really real. Like he’s scared when the cop has him down on the ground. I would be too. And he gets confused by his brother and his dad.
“Okay,” Eddie said. “Switch to the laptop now. Look at your phone, and start typing out what you just texted me. But in better sentences.”
He was showing Noah a trick he had learned from his aunt Margaret, his dad’s sister. She taught writing at a nearby community college and loved using technology to help people write better.
“Really?” Noah looked surprised.
“Yeah, really.”
“Like this?” As Noah typed, he said the words aloud. “In…All American…Boys”—he paused to look at his phone—“Rashad…is my…favorite…character.”
“Good. Add the author’s name.”
“Two authors,” Noah pointed out.
“Right. Now, when you do the transfer from your phone to the laptop, make it sound more English-y. Like, ‘really real’ doesn’t sound like an essay—know what I mean?”
“So what should I say instead?”
“Come on, man. I’m not writing it for you. Just try to say it a different way.”
Fifteen minutes later, Noah had written three complete sentences:
In All American Boys by Brendan Kiely and Jason Reynolds, Rashad is my favorite character. He seems very realistic in his emotions. For example, he’s afraid when the cop pins him down on the ground.
“The next part’s easy,” Eddie said. “Find that place in the book, the scene with the cop, and cite it. Not too much, but up to, like, three or four sentences. Copy it word for word, with quotation marks, and then put the page number in parentheses.”
Noah did as instructed. When he was done, he grinned at the screen, and then at Eddie.
“That makes it longer without having to think of what to write,” he gloated.
“Yeah, but you should only do it a few times. Most of the essay is supposed to be your words.”
More essay tips, presented by the members of the UN:
The session continued, a paragraph at a time: Eddie texting questions, Noah texting back his answers and then transferring those responses to the laptop, revising and editing as he went. After the fourth paragraph, Noah looked much less tense.
“I think I’m getting the hang of this,” he said. “When I text you, it’s like I’m just talking about a book I liked.”
“It’s always easier when you like the book,” Eddie agreed. “My aunt Margaret says a lot of people are scared of writing
, but no one’s scared of texting. The texting helps you figure out what to say, and then when you transfer it to the laptop, you figure out how to say it.”
Despite Noah’s newfound enthusiasm, it still took almost three hours for him to write the whole essay. Eddie continued to text questions for each paragraph, and then gave him pointers on how to improve the work. By the time Noah was finished, both boys were exhausted.
As they packed up their things, Eddie gave Noah a tip for the next essay: take screenshots of their text exchange and use the same questions again. “You might have to sort of adapt them,” Eddie said, “but most of what I asked you can apply to any book.”
“Thanks,” Noah said. Then, hesitantly: “Do you think this will get a good enough grade?”
Eddie wasn’t sure what to say. He wanted to be both encouraging and realistic, a tricky combination.
“I hope so,” he said. “And you gotta look at it this way: no matter what grade you get, it’s better than cheating.”
“Nah,” Noah said. “Cheating would have been a lot easier.”
“What—” Eddie started to say, in outrage and disappointment.
But then Noah pointed at him. “Gotcha,” he said with a smirk.
Eddie rolled his eyes. “Go home and go to bed. This is your captain speaking.”
* * *
—
It was game day. Qualify-for-the-playoffs day. We-can’t-mess-this-up day.
Eddie saw Noah in the hallway after school. Even before asking, he knew from Noah’s glum face that it wasn’t good news.
“C,” Noah said. “That means it was a B, which is the best I ever did on an essay. But it was lowered a whole grade for being late, so my average is still a C minus.”
“Sorry, man,” Eddie said.
“I just saw Shanks go into Coach’s office,” Noah said. “So, yeah, I’m screwed. Crush Southwood today, okay?”
As Noah walked away, Eddie was surprised at how he felt. He hadn’t expected to be so upset. But it was as if he had let Noah and himself and the whole team down.
Eddie headed for the locker room, silently vowing to play his absolute hardest.
* * *
—
At halftime, the score was still 0–0.
It was a cold afternoon, the temperature in the forties. As the Lilac offense set up a corner kick early in the second half, Eddie glanced at the sidelines. Behind Coach were eight boys on the bench, waiting for their turn to sub in, their legs bouncing to keep warm.
There should have been nine boys, but a certain seventh grader was missing. A fresh wave of disappointment washed over Eddie, right there on the field.
Hearing shouts, Eddie snapped his attention back to the game. The corner kick was arcing toward the goal. James leaped up for the header, but the Southwood keeper stepped in front of him and snatched the ball out of the air.
That was as close as they got to Southwood’s goal for almost twenty minutes. Their defense was like a wall.
Southwood’s offense began pressing harder as the clock ran down. With five minutes to go, the ball popped out from a frantic knot of players in front of Lilac’s goal, and Daniel managed to clear it. Then, at last, James picked it up at midfield, turned, and took off.
Breakaway!
“Move up!” Ben screamed from the net. “MOVE UP! PUT THE PRESSURE ON!”
The Lilac defense complied, jogging forward. Eddie squinted against the harsh wind, his eyes on James.
There were only two defenders between James and the Southwood goalie. James juked around one with a quick, fluid move (which he would talk about for days afterward) and picked up speed again.
“Come on!” Eddie shouted.
James could have been all alone on the field—that was how fast he was running. Only one more player to beat…
BAM! Southwood’s sweeper came in with a hard slide tackle that cut James’s feet out from under him. He fell forward, crashed onto his hands and knees, and immediately rolled over, grabbing his left ankle.
The referee whistled for an injury time-out.
James was groaning when Eddie reached him. With his face contorted, he muttered some very expressive phrases. It looked like he had taken the brunt of the tackle on his left instep, where his foot met his ankle—a spot unprotected by his shin guard.
“I’m fine,” James said. But when he tried to stand, he crumpled to the ground again, repeating those colorful phrases.
By this time, Coach had run over. He squatted down and prodded James’s foot gently. James yelped, and Eddie saw him close his eyes tightly against tears.
Daniel hoisted James to his feet and helped him limp off the field. Ms. Morris, the assistant coach and team trainer, hurried to meet them with the first aid kit. The rest of the team dispersed to their positions or to the sidelines.
“Sub, ref!” Coach said, then turned toward the bench. “Noah! You’re in!”
Eddie’s mouth fell open.
Noah?
There was no time to ask questions. The whistle blew, and the game restarted.
Within fifteen seconds, two Southwood forwards were bearing down on Eddie. They passed around him, a classic give-and-go, then boom—a hard shot sailed toward the Lilac net.
Time slowed. Eddie could’ve sworn his heart stopped beating for a second.
Ben dove—a spectacular dive—and grabbed the ball. He curled his body over it, despite what seemed like a dozen Southwood cleats pummeling it. Then he scrambled to his feet and hurled the ball sidearm, straight to Eddie.
He trapped the ball. Looked up. Saw Noah, his skinny legs propelling him down the field.
Eddie didn’t think; he just reacted.
“NOAH!” he bellowed, then kicked the ball as hard as he could.
In one of those never-to-be-repeated miracles, the ball soared in an arc overhead, then descended to meet the foot of the sprinting Noah, as if some invisible soccer spirit had placed it there. Noah took two steps—one dribble—which put him just inside the penalty box. He drew back his right foot…waited a split second, until Southwood’s goalie leaned right…then rocketed the ball into the upper left corner of the net.
1–0, Lilac.
The game-ending whistle blew thirty seconds later, and the Lilac Township side erupted in cheers.
It was pandemonium. Noah was hoisted onto his teammates’ shoulders and carried aloft in front of the happy, half-frozen fans in the bleachers. Ben’s head got thoroughly noogied for that crucial late save. James’s efforts were lauded, too. “Did you see that move right before I went down?” he kept saying.
“No, we didn’t,” Daniel said, rolling his eyes. “Please tell us about it again.”
Eddie sat down on the bleachers, a short distance from the commotion. His legs needed a rest—he’d played nearly the whole match. He saw Noah break free from the celebrating crowd and jog toward him.
Eddie called out as Noah drew nearer. “That shot should be on ESPN.”
“Well, I don’t know if you noticed, but there was this amazing assist that set it up,” Noah said, beaming.
“Why did you get to play? You said—”
“Shanks worked it out with Coach,” Noah cut in. “She told him that my essay was a big improvement over what I’ve been handing in. So they made a deal: if I turn in an extra-credit assignment this week, I could play.”
He explained that Coach had called him while the team was warming up and told him about the arrangement with Mrs. Shankar. Noah had already taken the bus home, and his mom had been stuck at work—but she’d managed to get him to the field during the second half. Absorbed in the game, Eddie hadn’t noticed him arrive.
“Anyway,” Noah said, glancing at his feet, suddenly shy. “Thanks for your help.”
“Thanks for getting us into the playoffs,” Eddie replied
.
“Yo!”
They looked toward the voice. The other players were lining up for a team photo, and Ben’s goalie-gloved hands were cupped around his mouth. “Hurry up!” he shouted. “I’m freezing my fartleks off!”
Laughing, Eddie stood, and he and Noah began walking toward the group.
“So what are you going to do for extra credit?” Eddie asked.
“I’m not sure yet,” Noah said, smiling. “I’ll text you.”
Home
Hena Khan
A blast of heat hits my face as I walk out of our hotel into the fierce sunlight. Luckily, there’s an air-conditioned taxi parked in front of the building, and I hop inside with my parents. Baba asks the driver in broken Arabic to take us to the hospital. He says hospital, but he means the orphanage on the fifth floor of the hospital building in Meknes. We’re visiting this city in Morocco during the hottest month of the summer.
When my mom went with a friend to visit the orphanage last year, I imagined it was like the one in the movie Annie. Back home in Virginia, Mama told me it wasn’t anything like that. There was no mean Miss Hannigan, no singing and dancing, and a lot more boys than girls. One of them is my new little brother, Hakeem, who I’m about to meet for the first time.
We arrive at the square gray building and there’s no elevator to get to the fifth floor. For the next ten minutes, all we hear is the slap of our shoes against endless stone steps and our own heavy breathing in the sweltering stairwell.
“Two more,” Mama pants as we get to floor three. Her face is red.
“At least we got a workout in today, right, Aleena?” Baba says to me. I’m too hot to smile at him. I’m carrying the raccoon backpack I brought for Hakeem, and wearing my matching penguin one. Sweat is dripping down the back of my neck.
Finally we reach the top floor and my heart is hammering in my chest. It’s only partly because of the heat and the stairs. Mostly it’s because I’m finally going to see Hakeem in real life. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for since last year, ever since my parents asked my older brother, Bilal, and me if we would “welcome a three-year-old boy into our family.” I screamed yes and jumped up and down.
The Hero Next Door Page 4
