by Maria Padian
So we had decided to take turns, one of us standing at the gym entrance, reporting the scores sportscaster-style to the one stuck in the Shack. With two minutes to go, Kit was stationed at the entrance and I struggled to hear her above the noise.
“Okay, our ball!” she yelled. “Ty Davis is driving hard down the middle…they’re pressing! They’re pressing him hard! Pass! Look, look…he’s open!” she yelled.
“Who’s open?” I shouted. Kit kept forgetting I couldn’t see a thing.
“Excuse me. Can I have a popcorn?” A little boy, no bigger than Merrill, stood at the counter holding a dollar bill.
“Yes! Yes!” Kit screamed. The mob in the gym roared.
“What? What?!” I yelled.
“A popcorn!” the kid repeated, loudly. Kit was jumping around like the floor was a hot griddle. I grabbed a large-size popcorn carton, scooped it full, and thrust it at the little kid.
“I want a small one,” he said.
“Take a big one,” I snapped impatiently. “Go on, you can have it for free. What happened?!” I shouted at Kit.
“You’re weird,” said the kid as he walked away.
“Time out,” Kit called. “Oh, man, this is so close….”
“Kit, if you don’t tell me what happened, I’m gonna lose it!”
She trotted over to the Shack. “The Bucs are pressing. Hard. They were all over Ty Davis, he came to a complete stop near the middle of the court, I swear, he was going to lose it, when Bob Levesque broke free from his man, Ty rolled it to him, Bob flew down for the layup, hit it, and got fouled! Three-point play!”
“He made the free throw?”
“Oh…not yet. The Bucs have called a time-out. But he will!” She bolted back to the entrance as the horn sounded. There is no way I’m missing this, I thought. Grabbing the Snack Shack keys off the hook, I slammed the door, locked it, and ran over to Kit.
“C’mon,” I said, grabbing her arm and pulling her into the gym.
Before my redefinition as a two-timer in the suspension club, I would never have abandoned my post selling junk food in the Snack Shack. True, the old me was no goody-goody; I made my share of mistakes. But I had always tried to follow the rules.
But those days were over. In early December of my eighth-grade year “the rules” no longer made any sense. Nice guys didn’t necessarily finish first. Mean, rotten people got to be popular. Being good didn’t mean good things would happen to you. Because if it did, then nice people like Michael and Monique Rose and the others in Fifth Period wouldn’t get teased. And my Nonna, the best human being on the planet, wouldn’t have ended up bald and skinny and vomiting from cancer drugs. Unable to eat her Thanksgiving dinner, or even get out of bed.
Kit and I managed to squeeze into the bottom-row bleachers just as Bob squared up for his free throw. Some Buccaneers on the other side were barking like dogs and waving their arms, trying to distract him. Bob calmly bounced the ball three times, eyes on the hoop, knees bent, compressed for the shot. He let it fly….
Nothing but net. Our fans erupted.
I saw the furious shake of green-and-white pom-poms way at the other end of the bleachers as the cheerleaders bounced like, well, cheerleaders. I wondered if any of them actually knew the rules of basketball. As the screaming from the fans died down a bit, I could hear them chanting.
“Bob Levesque! He’s our man! If he can’t do it, no one can! Goooooooo Bob!”
While they shrieked their special Bob cheer, Diane stepped from the line. She had put aside her pom-poms and was running, full tilt, arms extended over her head. Then, without anyone to spot her or a soft, cushy mat beneath her, she began handspringing before the entire length of bleachers. Over and over, at breakneck speed, finally ending in a complete flip, a perfect stop, a perfect satisfied smile. The Smoking Demigods of Cool, at least the ones who weren’t playing, roared appreciatively from the stands.
She was utterly, flawlessly beautiful and amazing. I had no idea how she did it. I could sink free throws and three-pointers all day, or direct a soccer ball into a goal with laser accuracy. But complete a forward roll, let alone a tumbling run at sixty-five miles per hour? No way.
“You go, girl!” screamed Kit, jumping up and pumping her fist in the air. I could feel myself wanting to applaud as well. But I stifled the urge and focused on the game instead.
Bob’s three-point play had ignited the rest of the team; they couldn’t do anything wrong after that. They started running down the clock, breaking free of the Bucs’ press and just passing, passing, passing the ball, forcing the Bucs to foul them and then swishing their free throws. When the buzzer finally sounded, it was Mescataqua Maineiacs 54, Topsfield Buccaneers 45. The gym shook.
“Let’s get back!” I yelled in Kit’s ear, pointing toward the lobby. We sprinted out the double doors and made it back to our posts just as the first wave of departing fans lined up for candy and soda.
After ten minutes of selling pandemonium the crowd cleared out and Kit and I started shutting down the Shack. Unsold popcorn tossed, pizza warmer unplugged, that sort of thing. We were almost done when a few members of the team, flanked by girls still wearing their cheering uniforms, approached. Bob. Ty Davis. Diane and Jeanne Anne. I was suddenly really busy stacking candy cartons on the back shelves.
“Awesome game, you guys!” Kit exclaimed, high-fiving Bob and Ty.
“Are you closed?” Bob asked.
“Only to the general public,” Kit said. “Star athletes and gymnasts may still purchase candy and drinks.” Everyone laughed.
The guys bought Cokes. Jeanne Anne bought some chocolate and chattered aimlessly with Ty, who didn’t seem to be paying attention to a thing she said. She was doing a great job of pretending I wasn’t there. We had both perfected the art of ignoring each other’s existence, which suited me fine. Diane stood at the entrance, indecisive. I pushed a carton of Skittles toward her on the counter. Her favorite.
“Oh, great,” she said. “I’ll take two.”
“That’s probably her dinner,” joked Bob. “Better make it three.”
“Shut up,” she said, smiling as she fished around for change in her backpack. The guys popped their Cokes and drifted toward the exit doors as Diane counted out quarters and dimes. I took a deep breath. Like I was about to duck my head under water.
“That was really cool,” I said. “That handspring thing you did.”
“Yeah, save it, Brett,” she replied shortly.
“Huh?”
“I don’t need a hard time from you, okay? So save it,” she said quietly.
I could feel my face burn. “I wasn’t giving you a hard time.”
Diane flashed me a yeah-right glance as she stuffed the Skittles into her backpack. “Whatever,” she said, walking away.
At that instant the outer doors opened, and in walked Mrs. Pelletier. Her eyes darted, looking for Diane.
“Hey, hon. Ready to go?” She was wearing a black skirt and nice shoes, like she had just come from work. She had tired circles under her eyes. Diane nodded, calling out her goodbyes to everyone as she headed for the doors. Then Mrs. Pelletier saw me.
“Brett!” She came striding over. “How are you? How’s your grandmother?”
She used The Voice. Not a whisper, but quiet. Friendly, but not cheerful. Sympathetic. Interested. The way adults spoke whenever they asked about Nonna.
“She’s okay. Thanks for asking.” I had learned to say that. Thanking them helped cut the conversation short. Assuring them that Nonna was fine seemed to make them feel better. Less guilty. Not that there was anything they could do. But they all acted sort of guilty, like they should have been bringing over meals and get-well cards but hadn’t gotten to it yet.
“That’s great,” Mrs. Pelletier replied, relief in her voice. “I keep meaning to get over there, but…well, you know how it is.” I didn’t, actually, but I still nodded. I just wanted her to shut up and go away.
“Do you need a ride home?” s
he offered.
“No,” I replied instantly. “Dad’s picking me up. But thanks.”
The idle chatter in the lobby had come to a complete halt. Everyone had stopped pretending to look out the windows or tie their sneakers or adjust their backpacks. They just listened.
“Well, tell your mom hi from me and let her know if she needs anything… just call.”
Mrs. Pelletier headed out the doors, and Diane followed, shouldering her pack. Just before they disappeared into the black night, Diane turned. Our eyes locked, and I had this impression of water between us. Like we were floating in the same big ocean but in two separate lifeboats. Neither of us spoke, and her eyes were expressionless. Impassive.
Impassive: giving no sign of feeling or emotion.
It made me wonder what she saw in my eyes.
ex•as•per•at•ed
“Well, what did you expect? Did you think one nice compliment would make up for two months of ignoring each other?”
It was a few days before the Bazooka Birthday party, and Michael had come over to humiliate me at Ping-Pong. I let him do this every once in a while; it’s the only sport he beats me at. As we batted tiny white balls back and forth over the net, I told him about my run-in with Diane at the basketball game.
“Of course not,” I replied. “But I didn’t expect her to just march off, either.” I popped the ball up high to his forehand. Not smart.
Michael crooked his arm behind his head and spiked the ball swiftly into my backhand. He plays Ping-Pong like he was born and raised in Beijing, China.
I ducked under the couch to retrieve the ball. It was cracked. The third one that morning.
“Be nice,” I said, holding up the disabled ball. Michael pulled another from his pocket and we started over. Tap-pock. Tap-pock. Occasionally blahtt! whenever I set it up high for one of his slams. I hate the sound of Ping-Pong balls.
“I guess my question is what’s your goal?” Michael said as we hit.
“How do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean do you want to be friends with Diane again?”
“Sure,” I said instantly.
“Really?” Michael said. He caught the ball. The playroom seemed oddly quiet without the annoying tap-pock. “You want to eat lunch with Jeanne Anne and Darcy, maybe add a few of Bob’s friends to your Buddy List, and spend Saturdays at Abercrombie and Fitch?”
“Who?” I asked, totally confused.
“Aahh!” he exclaimed, and pretended to bang his head on the Ping-Pong table. “Not who. What. They’re a store. It’s a store.”
“And your point is?” I asked irritably.
“My point is that while those girls practically live at the mall, you can’t tell the difference between Abercrombie and Fitch and…and…Rosencrantz and Guildenstern! While they’re shopping, you’re practicing free throws. While they’re painting their toenails, you’re building Ped-o-Sleds in your grandmother’s garage. Don’t you get it?”
“I don’t get what this has to do with Diane,” I said. I tossed my paddle on the table and flopped into the overstuffed couch. Michael sat next to me. He wore his “let-me-explain-this-to-you-stupid” expression.
“You’re not like them. Diane is.”
“Not true.”
“She is.”
“She’s not.”
Michael let out an exasperated sigh.
Exasperated: irritated, annoyed.
“You’ve got to let go of this, Brett.”
“What, you mean give up? Give up on a friend?”
“Give up on pretending you have to save her,” Michael said. “I hate to break this to you, but she seems perfectly happy in Jeanne Anne World. Accept it. Move on.”
Jeanne Anne World. It was as if Michael had said, “Lights! Camera! Action!” and I could see vivid images of thin girls with their hair pulled back tight, wearing stylish clothes from…Rosenstern and Guildencrantz. Girls with nail polish and smoking boyfriends. Girls who could do cartwheels on balance beams. Who had as much in common with me as the man on the moon.
“So you think there’s no chance Diane and I will ever be friends again?”
“Probably not,” Michael said. “Not the way you used to be, at any rate.” There was silence between us.
“I hate this, you know?” I finally said, tears in my voice. “The way everything is changing?” I didn’t need to define “everything” for him.
“Yeah,” he agreed. Then Michael did something that totally shocked me. He shifted closer on the couch, so that our legs touched, and wrapped his arms around my shoulders. He rested his chin on top of my head, and I realized with a surprised little jolt that he was bigger than me. Somehow, when I wasn’t looking, short, skinny Michael had hit a growth spurt. Go figure.
But here’s the even more shocking thing: I didn’t push him away. I felt myself lean back into the couch, into him, and relax. I felt all this tension flow away, my muscles unwind, and I closed my eyes.
“You are so cool,” he said quietly into my hair. “So many people like you.”
“Yeah?” I said. “Like who?”
Michael lifted his head and looked into my eyes. “Kit. Your soccer, basketball, and lacrosse teams. Practically the whole Fifth Period. Really, Brett, everyone keeps asking me if you’ll stay on after the lighthouse project is done.”
I felt a little surge of pride. He was right. True, I wasn’t a math whiz, or a science genius, like some of them…but I wasn’t a dope, either. Apparently they thought I was a really good storyteller, and on the days when we had to “share” our notebooks, they’d applaud after I read my entry.
“Where’d you learn to write like that?” Monique Rose had asked me. I remember the day. Fifth Period had just ended, and we were walking together to gym. It had been my turn to bring the Surreptitious Snack: my term for Food You’re Not Supposed to Eat in the Hall. This had gotten to be our thing, Monique Rose and I, sneaking snacks on the way to gym.
“Write like how?” I’d asked, tearing open a foil pack of Fruit Roll-Ups and looking over my shoulder to make sure there wasn’t a hall monitor in sight. I unwound one long snake of rubbery goo, ripped it in half, and handed her a piece. She chewed thoughtfully.
“With your senses,” she finally said. “When you describe things, I don’t just see them. I can hear them. Smell them. Taste them. I mean, next time I eat a lobster, I’ll be thinking, ‘So, is this both sweet and salty, like Brett says?’”
I shrugged. It was hard for me to imagine how someone like Monique Rose, who’d already taken the SAT twice and scored high enough to get into college, thought my scribbles were anything special.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s just what I do. But I’ll tell you what. When you come to the island with us next summer, we’ll eat lobsters and then you can decide whether I know what I’m talking about.” Monique stopped walking. She even stopped chewing.
“Are you inviting me to the island?” she asked quietly.
“Of course you’re invited to the island,” I replied. “There’s an acre of woods that’s perfect for the Fairy Condo Complexes I know you’re dying to build.” She hesitated for a moment before giving a little squeal and throwing her arms around my shoulders.
“Oh my god. This is so cool!” she said when she finally released her hold on me. “You have no idea how much I wished you would ask me. I mean, it sounds so incredible, and so beautiful….” Monique Rose enthused all the way to gym.
Michael was right and I should have left it at that. Should have accepted his compliment, wiped my eyes, and picked up the Ping-Pong paddle.
Unfortunately, I have a big mouth. A big sarcastic mouth with a mind of its own. And sitting on the couch like this with him was more than I could handle.
“Great. So now I’m Queen of the Geeks. Next thing you know, I’ll try out for Destination Imagination,” I quipped.
I felt him stiffen, then pull away.
“You need to stop that,” he said flatly. There were two
red patches on his cheeks.
“Stop what?”
“Einsteins, Brainiacs, Nerd Herd Honchos, the Great Gifted Wonders…it’s not funny. We have to listen to that stuff all day in school, and I don’t expect someone who is supposedly my friend to pile on. Especially when we’ve let you in.”
“Excuse me? We? I thought Mrs. Augmentino let me in.”
“I don’t mean literally. I mean…as a friend.”
“Geez, no need to get so sensitive!” I replied. “You know I don’t mean anything by it, and hey…Monique Rose and I even have sleepover plans this weekend. I mean, I’m an official member of the Geek Lovers of America now.” I burst out laughing at my own joke.
“I’m outta here,” Michael said, getting up from the couch.
“Oh, c’mon, lighten up!” But he was finished. Without another word Michael climbed the basement stairs. I heard the kitchen door open and close, signaling his departure from the house.
“Fine, be a jerk,” I said.
It struck me that I was talking to myself.
dis•si•pate
“Michael’s mad at me.”
I spilled this to Nonna one afternoon while we made cappuccino brownies spread with cream cheese frosting and topped with a dark espresso glaze. Enough caffeine in a single brownie to give you the zooms for days.
It was Thursday, the best day of her week. Fridays were treatment days, a.k.a. anti-growth-chemical days that left her weak and vomiting. Usually right on through the weekend, by Monday the sickness slowly dissipating until she felt almost normal on Thursday. Then back to the hospital again for another round.
Dissipate: to fade; slowly drift away.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Michael mad at anyone,” said Nonna. “Are you sure?”
