Eddie's Choice

by Marilyn Reynolds

  “Tell me a joke!” she says, looking at me.

  “Zoe...” Rosie starts.

  “Please!” she says, then turns to Rosie. “He promised me a Thanksgiving joke. Remember?”

  “Ummm, yeah, I guess you did,” Rosie says. “Before you left on Wednesday.”

  Oops. I did promise her a Thanksgiving joke if she’d leave us alone. Time to deliver if I want my joke promises to keep their power. “Okay, Zoe, but first I’ve got to go check my tires,” I tell her.

  She looks at me like she doesn’t know whether to believe me or not.

  “Really, I’ll be right back,” I say, and walk out to my car. I stand at the side of the car where she can’t see me and quick search for Thanksgiving jokes on my phone, then sprint back to Tilly. “Okay,” I say to her. “Did you have cranberries for Thanksgiving?”

  “I don’t like cranberries.”

  “But were they on the table for people who do like them?”

  Zoe shakes her head, but Rosie says, “Yes they were. In that pretty glass dish. Remember?”

  “Those were cranberries?”

  “Anyways,” I say, “Why did the cranberries turn red?”

  “Why?”

  I wait.

  “Because they didn’t want to be blue?” Zoe guesses. Sometimes her guesses are funnier than the punchlines.

  I tell her, “No. The cranberries turned red because they were embarrassed that they saw the turkey dressing.”

  “Ha. Ha. Ha,” Zoe says, and goes back to the house.

  “I hope your application spell is better than your Thanksgiving joke,” Rosie says, laughing.

  We decide to hand deliver her application into the post office mail slot, so I take her to the big post office up on Main Street. I do the abra cadabra spell again. Rosie kisses the seal and drops the envelope into the slot.

  Then she wants to pick up a sweater that Brianna borrowed weeks ago so we go to Brianna’s. Her mom says Brianna’s with Brent, playing some beanbag game or something. She doesn’t know where the sweater is.

  We go to Brent’s and sure enough, he and Brianna are playing cornhole. “We’ll start over,” Brent says. “Let’s play partners. Brianna and I will beat the crap out of you and Rosie.”

  They don’t exactly beat the crap out of us, but they win two out of three in close games. Brent for sure is getting better. I guess that old thing about practice makes perfect has some truth to it. He may still not be good enough to beat his dad, though.

  The official cornhole tournament is set for December 10 so Brent’s still got a couple of weeks of practice to go. And he’s obsessed. Every day after school, all day on weekends, that’s all he wants to do. Cornhole.

  WHEN WE GO BACK TO school on Monday, there’s more of those “14 Words” signs on the side of the gym, in black marker, about the size of a sheet of notebook paper. The same thing on the door to the boys’ restroom and on a table in the quad. And “14 Words” is scrawled across the bank of lockers in the C Building. And then, when I’m putting away the mats after Yoga, I see “14 Words” printed in black on the floor, under the mat that Jason was using.

  I get ammonia and a scrubber sponge from the supply closet and start scrubbing away, but you know permanent marker. Joe comes back to see what I’m doing. I point to the spot I’m trying to clean and tell him about the “14 Words” on the lockers. “I don’t get it,” I say.

  “Count ‘em,” Joe says. “‘We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.’ That doesn’t include you and me.” He gets a wad of steel wool from the cabinet and brings it back to me. Then he runs his hand across the markings. “I thought maybe that kid was coming around,” he says, turning back to his office.

  I scour the marker off. I scour the floor’s finish off, too—can’t help it. A future for white children? Give me a break! How about a future for all children? Just shows Jason’s an even bigger butthole than I thought he was.

  TOURNAMENT DAY ARRIVES. Brent’s dad got new beanbags for the game, weighed them to the exact ounce.

  “I want to be sure you guys haven’t tampered with any of the equipment,” he says with a laugh. I think he’s only half kidding, though.

  Mr. Bruno repeats the deal before they start the game. He says to Brent, “You lose, which you will, you lose and get a calculus tutor an hour a day, three days a week, for the rest of the school year. And, if you end up with less than a B in calculus, you go to math camp. Right?”

  “Right,” Brent says. “And?”

  “And, if I lose, which I won’t, no tutor, no math camp.”

  They shake hands. Mr. Bruno double checks the measurements to be sure everything is set up according to regulation.

  We do a practice game, me and Zitter on one team and Brent and his dad on the other. Then things get serious. It will be two out of three, deciding Brent’s fate.

  Cameron and I stand on the sidelines. Brent and his dad are at opposite ends of the court. Two of his sisters, Brook and Bridget, bring out those grandma soccer game chairs.

  “Hey, you guys want chairs?” Bridget says, looking at me.

  “No thanks,” I tell her. Bridget’s the one who liked me better than she liked Brent, but that was a long time ago. I don’t know if that’s still true or not.

  “I’d like a chair,” Cameron says.

  Bridget goes back to the garage, brings out two more chairs and unfolds them next to us. “You might change your mind if the game gets boring,” she says to me.

  Mr. Bruno calls me over and takes a quarter from his pocket. “You do the toss for us, Eddie.”

  Brent wins the toss so he gets to choose who goes first. “You first, Pops,” he says. Mr. Bruno grabs a beanbag, stands beside the nearest board, places his feet just so, lobs the beanbag high in the air, and we all watch as it drops cleanly into the hole.

  “Lucky throw,” Brent calls out, but I can see he’s worried.

  “Not too shabby,” Mr. B. says, rolling his shoulders and stretching his calves and quads as if he’s about to get into some tough, super-competitive soccer tournament, not a beanbag game.

  Mr. B. starts out strong, 15 points to Brent’s five on the first round. Besides practicing cornhole, Cameron and I have both been practicing calm, easy breathing with Brent, and positive imagery, something Cameron’s baseball coach pushes them to do. We’ve practiced everything we know to practice that might keep him from caving under pressure. Brent always caves under pressure. Like way back in the third grade, he’d get so worried about the Friday spelling test that even though he for sure knew every single word, he never got more than a C on the test.

  Bridget and Brook jump up and down and cheer when their dad’s beanbag goes through the hole. They do the same thing for Brent. I don’t know who they want to win. Maybe they don’t care. Or maybe they’re not showing favorites for the sake of domestic tranquility.

  Mr. B. wins the first game, but Brent got better after the first throws, so it was close. Just a two-point difference. I think Mr. B was surprised by that. It’s not exactly a secret that Brent’s been practicing, but most of the time he practiced when Mr. B. wasn’t around.

  Second game. Brent wins. He comes running over, high fiving us—well, high-fiving Cameron. High-two-ing me.

  “God, I’ve got to get this next one. A no-calculus-tutor year! A no-math zone summer! The rest of the year will be dope!” Brent grabs a water and sits in one of the soccer chairs, staring at the court like he’s willing it to be on his side.

  Mr. B.’s standing at the back door trying to get Mrs. B. to come watch the game. She sounds mad. “This is the most stupid bet you two have ever made! You’re going to be so upset if you lose, Brad. It’s stupid to make a bet that will have you upset for months if you lose.”

  “I’m not going to lose! Come cheer me on!” When Mrs. B. doesn’t come out, he saunters back to the court.

  Bridget says to him, “I thought you weren’t even going to have to play the third game, rig
ht, Dad? Huh, Dad? What happened?”

  So, I guess I know whose side Bridget is on.

  “Thought I’d give the little guy a chance,” Mr. B. says, smiling. It’s one of those barely skin-deep smiles, though.

  In this last game, they’re back and forth, within two points of each other all the way up to what’s bound to be the last round. Both of them three points from game. Who knew cornhole could be so exciting? I guess anything’s exciting if the stakes are high enough.

  Cameron nudges me. “Does cornhole go into extra...you know...innings? Like in baseball?”

  “I don’t know. Check the rulebook—it’s over there on the porch steps.”

  “I’ll wait and see,” Cameron says.

  It’s Brent’s turn to go first, which means Mr. B. will get the last throw. With his fourth turn, Mr. B. is over game point. Brent is two points behind. He stands for a long time, deep breaths, doing that positive imagery, I hope. It looks like he’s concentrating so hard his brain will break.

  “You can do it!” Cameron yells.

  I punch him. “Shut up! Don’t distract him!”

  Mr. B. stands a few feet away, watching, smiling, knowing he’s going to get his way again with the tutor and math camp.

  Brent pitches what looks to be a 3-pointer, which would put him ahead of Mr. B., but instead of being a 3-pointer, the beanbag clings to the edge of the hole.

  “Already got a tutor lined up for ya,” Mr. B. tells Brent. It’s the last throw of the game. Mr. B. does that fancy lob thing again. A high clean throw. Almost clean. The red beanbag clips the side of Brent’s blue bag, tips it into the hole without following it. There’s a moment of silence, like no one can believe what happened, and then Brent jumps high in the air and yells, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” and then we’re all jumping around him, high-fiving, high-two-ing, laughing. Bridget runs over to Brent and throws her arms around him.

  “I can’t believe you won!” she says.

  Mr. B. comes over and shakes Brent’s hand.

  “Good game, son,” he says. But he looks as puzzled as he did the day he walked into the classroom and saw Mrs. Calahan’s black hair.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Watch Out

  It’s eleven a.m. on Friday, just before winter break. I’m outside the doors of the auditorium with my fourth period class and about a thousand other kids, waiting our turn to be let inside and herded to our seats for the annual winter concert. The full choir concert will be tomorrow night at a big Hamilton Heights church, but it’s a long tradition to do a short band and choir program for the school on the last day before vacation.

  The singers stand grouped together by a side door. The guys are wearing black pants with white shirts and red ties. The girls wear red dresses that, according to Rosie, nobody likes. “Everybody looks fat in those dresses. Nobody likes to look fat.” Well, some of the girls look fat in those dresses, but only the fat ones. Most of them look good. Not as good as Rosie. But good. At least that’s what I think.

  Sofia and Fatima are wearing the same kind of dresses. They all come from the same catalog, or pattern, or something, because they’ve all got to be alike. But Sofia and Fatima also have shawls, made from the same material as the dresses, covering their shoulders. Their head scarves match, too.

  Finally, with lots of shuffling around and chatter, we’re all packed into our seats in the auditorium. Mr. Hockney walks on stage and stands in front of the microphone. He waits for things to get quiet. It’s the usual, how lucky we are to have such fine music groups, and everyone should be sitting with their 4th period classes, and here are the exits, etc., etc. And now let’s enjoy the concert.

  The band director, Mr. Davenport, stands in front of the band with his arms raised. He waits, then brings his arms down, and the band starts with a jazz rendition of “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire.” I know that’s what they’re playing because it’s listed in the program.

  Cameron has a short drum solo in the middle of the song. It only lasts about twenty seconds, but I can tell he’s pretty happy about it.

  While the band’s still playing, Mr. Taggerty, dressed in his tuxedo, comes over to where I’m sitting. I think wearing a tuxedo for a high school assembly is extreme, but that’s Taggerty, all formal for choir concerts. He motions for me to follow him to a front seat on the right aisle, removes a “Reserved” sign, reaches under the seat, and pulls out a cardboard file box.

  “Do me a favor. When the band finishes their last number, the lights will dim and singers will process in from the back of the auditorium, with candles, singing ‘Silver Bells.’ It’s a beautiful opening,” he says.

  I’m waiting to hear what the favor is.

  “So have a seat here until the first singer gets to about two rows from you. Then stand up and hold the box out so singers can drop their candles into it as they walk by. Not too complicated, huh?”

  “They’ll drop lit candles into this cardboard box??”

  “Fake candles. You know. With batteries.”

  He’s all sarcastic, like I should have known that. Why didn’t he say fake candles in the first place?

  “Got it, Eddie? Just sit right here, then stand with the box when the first singer gets close.”

  “Got it.”

  As applause for the band’s last number dies down, Taggerty walks up to the center of the stage. He welcomes everyone, makes his usual remarks about being a respectful audience, then cues someone backstage to dim the lights. There’s a faint flicker at the back of the auditorium as the first singers enter.

  “City sidewalks, busy sidewalks, dressed in holiday style...” The sound is faint as the first few singers enter from the back, then gains in volume as others follow. It is pretty in the almost dark auditorium with the tiny lights and the full voices.

  The first singer to walk past and drop a candle into the box is Brianna. Rosie’s about five girls back, right in front of Sofia. I’m watching her, listening for her voice, when from somewhere off to the side, a guy jumps out, yanks Sofia’s scarf from her head, stomps on it, yells “Go back where you belong, Raghead!” and runs in front of me toward the side door. Asshole!

  I push into him, hard. He stumbles, nearly rights himself. I shove him down. Then Taggerty’s there, pulling the guy up by the arm. Matt grabs his other arm. Then Hockney’s there and Marcus.

  There’s lots of jostling around in the auditorium, some gasping, some calls of “Oh, no,” and louder yells of “America for Americans!” and something about “illegals” and “faggots” and stuff I can’t make out. I see Rosie stop to pick Sofia’s scarf up from the floor. She brushes it off and hands it to Sofia. Security handcuffs the scarf-puller and walks him out of the auditorium. I don’t recognize the guy, but it’s a big school, and I don’t know everyone.

  Davenport’s in front of the band giving a signal and they start blasting away at the “Star-Spangled Banner.” By the time they get to “the dawn’s early light,” most of the kids are standing quietly for the national anthem, like we’ve all been taught to do since kindergarten.

  Singers rush past me, not singing, dropping candles in the box as they hurry on stage. Some start to take their places on the risers, but Taggerty shakes his head and points them toward the backstage door. By “the twilight’s last gleaming,” the singers are no longer in sight. Taggerty stands at the microphone, silent, looking out over the student body. It is pin-drop quiet now. It looks like he’s getting ready to say something, but then he just shakes his head sadly and follows the choir offstage.

  Hockney takes the microphone. “Teachers, please take students back to your classrooms and proceed with your usual activities.”

  Then, his voice rising, he says, “Students! Anyone who does not return to his or her classroom for the remainder of fourth period will have an automatic three-day suspension starting January 2nd!”

  I’m still standing with the box at my feet in the front row. I’m shaking. Not panic-attack shaking. Anger shaking. What a wimp-a
ss thing to do, rush a girl from behind and grab her scarf! I wish I’d given him a swift kick to the nuts. Or spit in his face when he was down or...Okay, deep breaths. Stop with the coulda, shoulda. Another calming breath and I go backstage to find Rosie. The girls are huddled together in a bunch, and it takes a minute to see her in the midst of the look-alike dresses. They’re all in a close circle around Sofia and Fatima. The boys are mostly standing to one side, ties loosened, looking at their feet. Rosie’s got her arm across Sofia’s shoulder. Sofia’s got her scarf back on.

  I’m making my way over to Rosie when Taggerty stops in front of me. “Mr. Hockney wants you to come to his office,” he says.

  “Why?”

  “Probably wants to talk to everyone involved in the incident. That was a brave thing you did, Eddie.”

  “Really? It’s not like I thought about it.”

  “Well, then you’ve got good impulses.”

  Hockney’s secretary shows me into his office. Marcus is there, too. And a policeman. With a notebook.

  “This is Officer Christy,” Mr. Hockney says. “He’d like to ask you a few questions.

  “Officer Christy, this is Eddie Barajas, the young man who stopped the aggressor.”

  We shake hands. Christy takes a pencil from his shirt pocket and turns to a blank notebook page. “I understand you knocked the anti-Muslim boy down as he was running to the exit. Do you know who he was?”

  “No. I didn’t recognize him.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “Not to me. I heard him yell ‘Go home, Raghead’ at Sofia.”

  “And you just happened to be standing there in front when he ran past you?”

  “I was collecting candles,” I say.

  “Candles?”

  I explain about the candle collection job.

  “Where did the guy who pulled Miss...” he checks his notes “...Khan’s scarf off come from? Did you see?”

  “He came from just a few rows back, on the other side of the aisle. At least, I think that’s where he came from. All of a sudden, he was there, yanking at Sofia’s headscarf.”