Pay Attention, Carter Jones

by Gary D. Schmidt

  “Young Master Carter, it’s time.”

  I was shivering hard.

  Because I was mad.

  Because Currier was . . .

  Because my father was . . .

  Because everything in me was about to come out and I couldn’t stop it.

  “Young Master Carter, the wicket is yours.”

  I could feel the green marble hard in my pocket.

  Currier’s marble.

  Currier, who was dead.

  I fingered the cricket ball.

  “Warming up is in general a—”

  “I know,” I said. “Okay? I know.”

  The Butler took a couple of steps back. “Your wicketkeeper is ready,” he said.

  “I know,” I said.

  The first warm-up to Yang didn’t even bounce before it got to him. In case you’ve forgotten the rules, that’s not a good thing.

  The second hit the ground by his ankles.

  Yang looked at me, sort of confused.

  The third bounced twice and dribbled in.

  Yang looked at me, really confused.

  Krebs ran in. “You do remember how to do this, right?”

  “I remember how to do this,” I said.

  “So you’re just kidding around with those deliveries, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Because Chall can always bowl first.”

  “I can do it.”

  “Good,” he said. “So let’s see some bowling.”

  The next ball bounced just where I wanted it to bounce and it sprang up into Yang’s hands like it meant business.

  The next one would have taken the bails off.

  And the next one.

  “Good,” said Krebs, “because you don’t want to screw up now.” And he went out to talk to the slips.

  I could hardly breathe.

  The screeching of the high birds.

  I stood on the wicket. I held the ball.

  The little kid in the stands, cheering.

  His father holding him.

  His father wrapping a blanket around him.

  His father laughing and cheering and holding the blanket tight around the little kid.

  “Time,” said the Butler.

  Currier would never see the Blue Mountains of Australia.

  “It’s time, young Master Carter.”

  Maybe Max would—​but never Currier.

  The ball almost fell out of my hand.

  In the Blue Mountains of Australia, the air is blue, and everywhere you can hear the water falling, and the trees are so thick you can’t see the sky, and you can’t go off the path because there are dinosaurs hunting, and poisonous snakes slithering everywhere in the low grass, crocodiles—​maybe huge crocodiles—​scrambling through the underbrush, and it’s stupid to try to start a fire with wood that’s wet.

  “So is that why you didn’t get home before Currier? You were camping with Max and his mother?”

  “Don’t be stupid, Carter. I tried to get home.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “Pay attention to the fire.”

  And I screamed, “When do you pay attention? When do you?” And Captain Jackson Jonathan Jones looked at me, and I said, “Never. Never. You weren’t home. You never come home. You didn’t even come home when Currier was sick. You didn’t come home until he was dead. Until he was freaking dead!”

  “Shut your mouth,” Captain Jackson Jonathan Jones said.

  “So who’s Max?”

  “A kid. Just a kid. And see? Look at the fire. You screwed it up.”

  “You screwed up!” I think I screeched that. “You screwed up!”

  And Captain Jackson Jonathan Jones kicked the fiery branches into the wet grass and water spilled from the thick leaves above them and the white birds screeched at the smell of the smoke. “Get a dry shirt on,” he said.

  “You didn’t come home.”

  “It’s not my fault Currier died.”

  “I hope you never come home.”

  “We’re leaving,” he said.

  “Young Master Carter!”

  He goes into the tent, and I stand outside, breathing as hard as a human being can breathe, and that’s when the snake slithers out of the low grass, winding in curves across the clearing, his flat head so low, his body so long and perfect, the end of his tail swaying, and when he hears my father rustling in the tent, his whole body pauses.

  He stops.

  He stops right where my father will come out.

  Right where my father will step.

  And then the Butler was in front of me, and his face was next to mine, and his hands were on my shoulders, and he looked at me.

  Then I see my father’s hand at the tent flap.

  I don’t say anything. Oh, I don’t say anything.

  My father’s head comes out.

  The flat head of the snake rises.

  My father’s knee, and then his foot.

  And I don’t say anything. Because he isn’t paying attention. And we won’t make it to any ranger station. We just won’t.

  Then I scream. I think I scream.

  “So it has come to you at last,” whispered the Butler.

  A shot. All the screeching birds rise up, and the echoes of the shot come back, and back, and back.

  And my father looks at me with this look that is surprised and shocked and scared and is filled with anger and—​

  “Carter,” said the Butler.

  “When were you going to tell me?” Captain Jackson Jonathan Jones says.

  And I’m not sure that I had been going to tell him—​and he sees that.

  The Butler put his hand on the side of my face.

  And I said, “My father isn’t coming home because I didn’t—”

  “No. You had nothing to do with it.”

  I looked at the Butler. “How could you know?”

  “He blabbed.”

  “He blabbed?”

  The Butler nodded. “He told me what happened.”

  Things got kind of blurry.

  “I almost let him get bitten by a snake.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “But I—”

  “Carter,” said the Butler, “you did not screw up. Your father did. He did not come when he should have—​a pattern, I’m afraid. And he could not face what he had done, and what he was doing, and so he looked for reasons where there were none. In such circumstances, men will do, shall we say, ungentlemanly things.”

  “Do you know what I said to him?”

  The Butler nodded.

  “That I never wanted him to come home.”

  “Which is not true,” said the Butler.

  “I was mad at him.”

  “Angry. And that is true.”

  Blurry.

  “But because of me—”

  “Stop that. What happened is his dishonor, not yours. Do not heft onto your shoulders burdens you do not own. You are a good and honorable young man, and a loyal and true brother and son.”

  He paused.

  “And a gentleman,” the Butler said.

  “A gentleman?”

  The Butler stood straight. “Young Master Carter, I am a gentleman’s gentleman. I am honored to serve only a gentleman.”

  More blurry.

  “I’m not crying, you know.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Hey,” called Singh. “We going to play?”

  “Are we going to play?” said the Butler to me.

  The echoes of the shot were dying away.

  I nodded.

  The Butler nodded as well. “We are all in our whites, so we may as well have a go at it,” he said. He tightened his hands on my shoulders, and then he let go, and turned, and called out to the eighth-grade varsity cricket team. “Captain Singh, have your first batsman take his guard. Master Hopewell, are you ready? And Master Bryan? So, cricketers, with both batsmen ready, and the bowler properly warmed, it is time. Team India, mind your positions. And
Bowler—”

  I looked at the Butler.

  “Bowler, let us make a good beginning.”

  * * *

  You know what? The Blue Mountains of Australia are horrible.

  They’re horrible.

  Everything is wet. The leaves, the path, the air. Everything. The only thing the trees do is drip. Your tent gets wet and smells like it. Your sleeping bag gets wet and smells like it. You can’t go off the path because you might die because of the dinosaurs or snakes or crocodiles, and that’s all you’re thinking about. And when you’re trying to go to the bathroom behind a tree—​where the dinosaurs or snakes or crocodiles are waiting—​you realize that there’s a whole lot of you that’s sort of exposed and you don’t want to get bitten there. And it’s so hot but nothing dries out because it’s like being under the ocean, it’s so humid. And whoever you’re with is crabby and blames you for everything and even blames you for stuff you had nothing to do with and . . . the Blue Mountains of Australia are horrible.

  “Let’s see that ball,” said Hopewell.

  Horrible.

  “Shall we oblige?” said the Butler.

  And I did.

  · 25 ·

  Batsmen

  Two batsmen always go in to bat together, and they are called the striker and the non-striker. To score a run after a ball has been struck, they must each sprint the length of the pitch and touch the ground of the popping crease. The success of their team depends upon the interdependency of the two batsmen.

  Okay, so this wasn’t a match for the ages.

  James Hopewell was on twelve—​twelve—​before Krebs, who was at mid-off, caught his shot. “Good ball, bowler,” Krebs called back, even though I was lucky Hopewell hadn’t hit it out past all the fielders and gone for another six.

  Then I gave the ball to Chall and Bryan took his turn to bat and he had scored ten before Steve Yang stumped him. I think you can probably imagine what we did. And then Krebs had Team India run in and gather around their next bowler—​me, I mean—​and he said, “Okay, we’ve got things under control now. Stay focused. Okay? Stay focused. And Jones?”

  I looked at him.

  “Jones, you’re doing great. Keep on, okay? Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “How’s that spinning finger?”

  “Fine.”

  They went back to their positions and Steve Yang handed me the ball. “Bowl him out,” he said.

  And Simon Singh stepped up for Team Britannia.

  You ever hear of Shane Warne? He was from Australia—​I bet he hated the Blue Mountains too—​and he once bowled this ball to Mike Gatting, a batsman who could hit just about anything. The ball was way outside leg stump, and Gatting knew it wasn’t going to come close to his wicket. In fact, it was so far outside, he decided he’d just block it with his bat and pad. He figured the wicketkeeper would get it and throw it back.

  But Shane Warne—​who for sure hated the Blue Mountains—​bowled with this wicked spin, and when the ball hit the ground, it took off straight for the wicket—​beyond Gatting’s pad, beyond his bat, even. So when Gatting looked behind him, he saw the bails down, and he was bowled out before he had swung his bat.

  I know Shane Warne thought the Blue Mountains of Australia were horrible.

  So guess what happened to Simon Singh.

  Not that I’m Shane Warne, and not that it was anything more than sheer stupid luck.

  And not that it had anything to do with how I was holding the green marble just before I bowled.

  Even though maybe it did.

  But when Singh looked behind him, his bails were on the ground.

  And suddenly the whole of Team India was cheering and cheering and cheering. And that little kid, he was standing up and hollering too. And the two old guys in white sweaters were calling, “Good ball! Good ball!” And then everyone in the stands was standing up, even though I’m not sure they really knew what had just happened, but they were yelling too. And even Simon Singh was nodding his head and smiling. “Good ball, Jones,” he called.

  The rest of our bowling wasn’t as good, but you only get one ball like that in a lifetime, the Butler said later.

  Jenkins went for eight before the Butler called him out for hitting the ball twice.

  With Klatt I tried a googly and he hit it a long mile. Then I tried another one, since I figured he wouldn’t expect it, and he hit it another long mile. So after that I kept the balls low and fast, but he still managed ten before the ball slipped under his bat and he was stumped—​and it might have been a little bit because of the blood that my spinning finger was leaving on the ball, but I didn’t care.

  Chall bowled the final over, and you could tell he wanted to bowl de la Pena for a duck, but you could also tell de la Pena was not going to let himself be bowled for a duck. Still, he only got six runs and then it was the last ball, and the Butler called de la Pena leg before wicket, even though he said he wasn’t, and Krebs asked the Butler to let it go, but the Butler gave him That Look and de la Pena left the crease, and Team Britannia had no balls left.

  But Team Britannia had scored forty-six runs, and it was already fifteen minutes after nine o’clock.

  “Three minutes,” called the Butler, and he looked at his watch.

  Did you catch that it was already fifteen minutes after nine o’clock? Actually, it was sixteen minutes after nine o’clock. And do you remember that the Longfellow Minutemen were due to play the Seton Badgers at ten o’clock?

  And right now the score stood at Team Britannia, forty-six runs. Team India, zero runs. And there was no way we could bat all our six overs in forty-five minutes.

  Can you imagine what Team Britannia was doing right then?

  Can you imagine what Team India was doing right then?

  Can you imagine what Krebs was doing right then?

  If you’ve ever been to a middle school football game, you know that a whole lot is happening in the hour before the game begins—​and this was a game where the people in the stands had already been sitting around in the cold for a long time, watching a sport they didn’t even know the rules for—​except maybe the two old guys in white sweaters. So they were standing and jostling around, probably wondering if the cricket match was over and who won, anyway? Some were tightening the blankets around themselves to keep warm, or getting up to go find Styrofoam cups of coffee, or drinking from silver thermoses that had the Minutemen logo on them. The Minutemen and the Seton Badgers were already sprinting up and down the sidelines, their breath coming out from their helmets like exhaust. They were pounding one another’s pads and screaming stuff into the wind and driving their knees up and down like pistons and throwing footballs back and forth, and Ryan Moore and Markie Panetta were bashing into each other, and Vice Principal DelBanco was studying his clipboard and adjusting the headphones that were too big for his head.

  In the announcers’ box above the stands, two eighth graders were testing the mikes and the speakers—​“One two three one two three Go Minutemen one two three”—​and I looked over at the Butler, who looked over at me and then looked over at Krebs and then said, “Right.” He motioned to Coach Krosoczka and together they sprinted over toward the stands.

  Well, kind of sprinted. The Butler was portly, remember.

  Meanwhile, Team India and Team Britannia gathered on the wicket. And maybe I was the only one of us who saw what I saw: the Butler and Coach Krosoczka stopped in the stands, called to Mr. Krebs, and then all three went to talk to Principal Swieteck.

  The wind was picking up and it was getting a whole lot colder, so we gathered in close.

  “I guess we’re not going to be able to bowl all our overs,” said Singh.

  Krebs held a bat. He looked around at the stands, and at the Minutemen, who now were running drills on the field.

  “I guess,” he said. I thought he was going to cry.

  Hopewell—​who could be a jerk—​grinned. “So Team Britannia wins, rig
ht?”

  Krebs stared at him. If he had the right superpower, he could have shriveled Hopewell down to a small pile of mucus inside a white sweater.

  I stood next to Billy Colt. “Hey, you okay about not batting?”

  He looked at me like I was a stupid sixth grader. “Are you kidding?” he said. “It was the best moment of my life.” He pointed to the stands. “Do you want to bat in front of everyone? And it’s an eighth-grade team anyway.”

  I nodded. I sort of knew what he meant.

  And that was when the two eighth graders in the announcers’ box thumped on their mikes again. “One two three one two three. Can you all hear us? Raise your hands if you can hear us. Okay. So we’ve got an announcement from Principal Swieteck.” You could hear the mike being passed over and one of the announcers saying to Principal Swieteck, “You have to get closer. Closer. Okay, you’re on. No, you’re . . . now. It’s live now.” And then she came on.

  “Good morning, good morning. Is this on? Are you sure? Good morning, parents and grandparents and students and friends and sponsors. This is Principal Lilian Swieteck speaking. Thank you for coming out for this great event—​really, two great events: the epic battle between the Longfellow Middle School Minutemen and the Seton Badgers, and the very first middle school cricket match between Team India and Team Britannia, coached by our own Coach Krosoczka and Coach August Paul Bowles-Fitzpatrick—​who are now crossing the track in front of you.”

  Applause from the stands.

  “Let me introduce them: Coach Victor Krosoczka. Wave, Victor!”

  Coach Krosoczska waved.

  “Coach August Paul Bowles-Fitzpatrick.”

  The Butler did not wave.

  “And one more introduction: Mr. Lionel Krebs, who as of yesterday was hired by our school district as the new Director of Athletic Activities. Wave, Lionel!”

  Mr. Krebs waved.

  “I have one announcement: I am delaying the start of the Minutemen–Badgers game by twenty minutes so that Team India may complete all of its batting.”

  The Butler stopped and looked up at the announcers’ booth. So did the two old guys in the white sweaters.

  “I’m so sorry—​its overs. So that Team India may receive all of its overs. Team India is currently behind by forty-six runs, in case you lost track. If you are here only for the football game, you are invited to the snack bar behind the north side of the stands for free coffee. But I encourage you to see the second half of the cricket match, during which . . .”