by Mary Amato
Before I can react, someone slams into my ankles from behind and I’m down.
The whistle blows.
“PK,” the coach calls out. “Clearly from behind, Xander. I never want to see that again. If this were a game, you’d be out.”
“He tripped! I didn’t do anything—”
The coach squats by me. “Lad? Eh? All in one piece?”
Langley’s dad appears.
I’m not sure what hurts more. My ankle, the hip I landed on, or the fact that Xander slide-tackled me.
“Do we have a parent’s cell phone?” Coach Evan is asking Langley’s dad.
I sit up. “I’m okay.” Specks of light dance around my head, and I think I might throw up. You’re okay, I tell myself.
The coach gives me a hand, and when I stand up, the rawness of my blistered feet slices through all the rest of the pain. “Walk it off, Trev, is it? Walk it off. Xander, over here for a minute.” The coach asks Langley’s dad to join them and he pulls Xander over to the side. I can hear bits and pieces of the lecture.
“No, Xander. It’s your temper. That’s what happened at the end of our last game, remember? I won’t tolerate it. As you can see, there are other lads who would like a chance to be on the team. I’m going to talk to your dad about it one more time. Sit out for the rest of this scrimmage and think about it.”
The coach blows the whistle and gives the ball to me for the penalty kick.
Xander’s hatred for me streams from the sideline. My head aches. The pain from my feet shoots up my legs.
I run up to the ball, hesitate to throw off the keeper, and nail it. The ball flies over the goalie’s head and into the goal.
“Brilliant shot,” Coach Evan says. “Right in the upper ninety.”
Langley slaps me on the back. “McBrilliant, Musgrove!”
The coach rearranges positions and tries me on defense for another short game. Just when I think I might drop dead, he announces laps and everybody groans. No problem, I think, just let me take my feet off first. It’s going to kill me and make me late—but I run the laps. I’m worried that the coach won’t take me seriously if I leave early.
Langley makes it fun by impersonating teachers whenever Coach Evan isn’t watching. He tucks his head down so he has no neck and he runs like a refrigerator. “Okay, people!” he says. “Let’s get going.” He looks just like Coach Stevins. The funniest is when he pretends to hold a walking stick and runs with short, squatty steps. “Let us perambulate to the egress for a foray,” he says in a perfect imitation of Mr. Ferguson’s voice.
When Coach Evan dismisses the team, he asks me to stay for a minute. Xander takes off. The coach tells the parents of the other kids who were trying out that he’ll e-mail them with a decision. Then he has a one-on-one hushed conversation with Langley’s dad, and I can tell they’re talking about me.
“Plug your nose. My shoes are coming off.” Langley sits down next to me and unties his cleats. “By the way … Xander sometimes gets out of control.”
“Yeah. I sort of picked up on that.”
“He just really, really, really wants to win.”
“Really?” I take off my cleats and peel off my bloody socks.
“Call 911, man,” Langley says. “Cover them up! I can’t stand the sight of blood.”
I pour water onto my feet and wince. Then Coach Evan motions for me to come over.
“Well, lad,” he says. “You were offsides twice. A couple of your runs were a bit wild, and you need a wider field of vision. You’ve got to watch the whole field, not just the ball … but …” He smiles. “You’re very hungry.”
“I didn’t get too much lunch—”
He laughs. “I mean hungry for the ball. That’s what I want in a player. You’re fast and you’ve got a strong kicking leg and you’re hungry for that ball. You go for it and you don’t stop until you’ve got it and then you see it through to the goal or you pass it.… You’re a good team player. We’ll need to talk to your parents. But we’d like to invite you on the team.”
Langley’s dad smiles and pats me on the back. “What’s your dad’s e-mail address? I’ll send him all the information about the team.”
I can hardly think straight. I mumble something about how my dad is on a business trip and our computer has been down. They ask me to put my name, address, and phone number on a form, which is a problem because I don’t really want them knowing I’m from Deadly Gardens and I don’t want them calling Mom yet because I haven’t figured out how to talk her into saying yes. So I ask them if I can take it home with me and return it later. Langley’s dad takes a card out of his wallet and hands it to me. “Well, have your mom or dad give me a call tonight or tomorrow morning at the latest.”
The coach notices my feet. “Crikey! What happened?”
“My cleats are a little tight.”
“A little? If you played that well with blisters, I’d like to see how well you play without. Bandage those up and get your mum or dad to take you out for new cleats before Friday. Right then?”
“Sure,” I say. “No problem.”
16.
CELEBRATE
When I walk in the door, Michael takes his thumb out of his mouth and says with big eyes, “Momma’s real mad at you, Trev. You’re late.”
Tish is walking around in circles, holding on to a full roll of toilet paper and letting a little drag out behind her like she’s a one-girl parade.
I lean against the door to catch my breath as Mom steps out of the bathroom. She is wearing ugly brown pants and a brown shirt that says FRY FACTORY. The underarms of her shirt are wet.
I’m afraid she’ll yell and shout. Instead she won’t even look at me. She grabs her backpack.
I try to apologize, but she snaps, “I will be back at ten thirty or so. It’s the Fry Factory on Eighth Street. The number is on the table.” She hands me her cell phone. “Call and ask for me only if there’s an emergency. Do not leave this apartment.” The door slams. Then she bangs on it. “Lock this right now.”
I lock it. And she’s gone.
Michael and Tish stare at me. I’m still out of breath.
I pick up Tish and twirl around. “I made the team!” I grab the toilet paper roll, throw it into the air, and catch it again.
Tish doesn’t know what I’m talking about. She just wants her toy back. “Mine!” she yells, reaching for the roll.
“That’s right! Yours!” I laugh and hand the roll back to Tish.
She tries to throw the toilet paper in the air except it hits me in the head.
“Oh! You got me!” I collapse and tackle her. She squeals, and Michael jumps on my back. I throw the roll in the air and it unspools, covering us with a long white ribbon.
17.
XANDER
Last night I did my homework and went to bed early so I wouldn’t have to tell Mom why I didn’t come home after school. This morning, I can’t bring up the subject of soccer or ask her to fill out the form, because it’s like I’m living in a toxic oil spill. Mom is going crazy because Michael is refusing to go to school without a new backpack. He wet the bed in the middle of the night, and we all woke up late, and I barely had enough time to grab clothes out of the pile of dirty laundry and throw them on. Then, of course, T. rex, the little King of Snotland, shows up.
On the bus Juan says, “Sorry, man.”
“About what?”
“You didn’t make the team?”
“I made it.”
“How come you don’t look happy?”
I tell him it’s complicated.
I have two problems, as I see it. My mom. And Xander. I need a plan for each. Badly. I keep to myself on the bus and try to think things through. Mom first. What if I tell her the truth? Will she let me be on the team? About as likely as her buying me a cell phone for my birthday. What if I spruce up the truth a little and tell her that I have to stay after school twice a week for … homework help? What if I convince the coach to let me run home rather
than do laps … then would I get home in time for her to go to the Fry Factory? I think that’s my best bet.
Then there’s Xander. The best solution to that problem would be for him to disappear, but that is not going to happen. I think I have to mind my own business. If I end up helping to take The Plague to the top, maybe he’ll end up liking me.
Just as I’m opening my locker door, Diamond runs over, dragging Celine along with her. “Look.” She shows the pictures in my locker door to Celine before I have the chance to close it. “He’s gonna be a famous artist,” she says to Celine, and then she rips a piece of paper out of her notebook. “Do my name, my logo, and sign it—”
“You can sell it on eBay,” Celine says.
“No,” Diamond says. “I’m gonna save it and use it for my first album cover.”
I put her paper on top of my binder and write LEAVE ME ALONE. I sign it and hand it back.
Xander is walking down the hall toward me, so I turn my back on them and open my door again.
Celine reads my message out loud and says, “Oooh, he’s playing hard to get, Diamond.”
“Shut up.” Diamond hits Celine. Then she says, “Well, I got your signature anyway, so maybe I will sell it on eBay. Ha-ha.”
Celine goes to class, but Diamond wouldn’t get a hint if you hit her over the head with it, so she just hangs there like she has the right to.
Xander walks by and says under his breath, “I thought only girls decorated their lockers.”
He lets it fly like an arrow dipped in poison.
I put up my shield and let it bounce off me.
But Diamond starts having a fit and calling Xander names.
“Sorry, Mushroom,” Xander calls back. “Since you’ve got a girlfriend I guess that means you’re not gay, but you smell like you peed your pants.”
I can’t move. My brain hurts. My feet hurt. My feelings hurt. My whole life hurts. I pulled my clothes from the dirty pile this morning. They do smell like pee.
I wish my locker worked like that magic closet in that movie. I wish I could just step right inside it and keep walking into another world. Or maybe I could shrink and go live in a giant mushroom.
In Computer Applications, I get yelled at for doodling while Ms. Cho is talking. I keep trying to explain that drawing helps me pay attention, but Ms. Cho doesn’t pay attention when I’m talking to her. It isn’t fair. My new daydream is to push the delete button and watch the entire class disappear.
To avoid passing by Xander’s locker, I take a different route to my next class and pass by the art room. I love the smell of art rooms. They’re big and full and the air smells like color. Wish I had art instead of Computer Applications.
In U.S. History, we take turns reading about the Great Depression and a guy named Sean falls asleep with his mouth open and my finger is itching to flick a spitwad in it, but I can’t afford to get in any trouble, so I keep my little fingers to myself like a good American citizen.
Math = yawn × yawn (+ yawn) × 100yawn10
After math, Diamond passes a note to me in the hallway.
RU gonna get Xander?
I throw it away.
School is the Great Depression.
18.
FRAMED
I’m dreading lunch and wishing I didn’t have to go, and then—lucky me—Xander comes along and shoves me up against a locker before I get there.
“I know you wrote it, Musgrove.”
“Wrote what?”
“The stuff on my locker.”
“What stuff?”
“What seems to be the problem, boys?” It’s Ms. Ramone, the same teacher who took away my permanent marker on the first day of school.
Next thing I know I’m in the vice principal’s office. Somebody wrote “profanity” on Xander’s locker with a permanent marker, and I’m being blamed for it.
I’m mad, but it doesn’t pay to blow up. I push my anger down and focus on staying calm. This is my first time meeting Mr. Gonzalez, and I want to make a good impression. Getting in trouble is bad enough, but getting in trouble for something you didn’t do is just ridiculous.
“Mr. Gonzalez, I didn’t vandalize Xander’s locker.” I add a little smile because innocent people have something to smile about and guilty people never do.
Mr. Gonzalez frowns, leans back, taps his pencil on the arm of his chair, and stares at me like I’m a death cap mushroom that just popped up on his lawn. “Well, Ms. Ramone says that she caught you trying to deface a locker on the first day of school.”
Hard to keep smiling.
“I was only thinking about it, I didn’t do it.”
“I hear that you have a graffiti business and that you were upset with Xander because he didn’t purchase a design from you.”
“What? That’s not true!” My brain hurts, like I just got kicked in the head. Stay calm, I tell myself. You’re innocent. You’re innocent.
“Are you saying that you don’t have a graffiti business?”
Why did I have to be such a brilliant entrepreneur? I look him right in the eye. “Mr. Gonzalez. I don’t have a graffiti business. I drew a few designs on shoes. Just on shoes. To earn a few bucks.” I show him the Musgrove on my shoe. “I was not upset with Xander for not buying a design. I did not vandalize anything.”
Our eyes are locked together. Please believe me.
He sighs. “At this point, we have no proof that you did it. Regardless of that, let me say this: You are not allowed to sell or produce any more graffiti on school grounds—even if it’s only on shoes. We can’t have kids buying and selling stuff because it’s disruptive to the learning environment. Is that understood?”
Understood. The bell rings. I missed lunch completely. Does Gonzalez care? No.
I slip through the door, barely alive.
Diamond is hanging right outside the office door. “How come you was in there?” she asks. She sounds scared that I might have gotten in trouble, which makes me suspicious. It’s like she has some stake in it. I think back to the note she slipped me—RU gonna get Xander? Did she decide to get him for me by writing on his locker?
“Come on,” she says. “Celine told me she saw Ramone bringing you in. How come?”
“Maybe you know.”
“What do you mean?” Her face goes hard.
“I got called in because somebody wrote on Xander’s locker.”
“Who do they think did it?”
“Me!”
“They can’t blame you. They don’t have any proof.”
“How do you know I didn’t do it?”
Celine comes along and pulls her off to class.
I want to make a label for her.
The thing that I hate about school is that there’s no time to stop and think. It doesn’t matter if somebody kicks your head off. You just have to pick it up and stick it back on and go from class to class to class to class.
I’ve already been late twice to English because it’s the class that takes me the longest to get to and I don’t want to add a detention to my list, so I hustle. Just before the bell is about to ring, a tug on my binder catches me off guard. I drop everything—books, binder, papers spill out.
It’s Xander.
He slips into the doorway of his next class.
19.
FROSTY POD ROT
I’m the last one into Mr. Ferguson’s room. I’ve been dreading this. I’m afraid to see Langley because he probably thinks I wrote on Xander’s locker. And I’m afraid to see Xander because I’m going to want to kick him in the face for making me late to English.
“Delighted you decided to join us, Mr. Musgrove,” Mr. Ferguson says. “Looks like we’re all here.” He picks up the big cookie jar shaped like a mushroom.
Xander smiles at me. “Hey, Mushroom, how’s it going?”
“Great.” I smile back. “I got a detention for being late to English.”
He shakes his head. “Better not make that a habit.”
Mr. Ferguson w
alks over. “For your warm-up today, I want each of you to draw a slip of paper out of this cookie jar. On it you will find your fungus of the day. Use the classroom library to make an entry about it in your Identification Notebook and look around the room. Most likely you will be able to locate your fungus, either on a poster up here or in an article on one of the bulletin boards or in real form or in my dried collection on the back shelf.”
Everybody chooses a fungus name and gets busy.
As Langley gets up he hands me a piece of paper out of his notebook. “Here’s The Plague membership info. My dad said your computer was down and he thought it would be good for you to have.”
“Oh, didn’t you tell him?” Xander looks at me and then says to Langley, “Musgrove’s dad said he can’t play on the team.”
“Really?” Langley asks.
Xander shrugs. “Am I right, Musgrove?”
I stare Xander down. “Actually, my dad really wants me to be on The Plague.”
“Gentlemen,” Mr. Ferguson says. “More work, less talk.”
Langley walks over to the bookshelf and Xander follows.
I’m going to play on The Plague if it’s the last thing I do. There is no way I’m letting Xander win. I can talk the coach into letting me get home on time. I can raise the money somehow, even if I can’t sell my designs at school.
Langley and his dad wouldn’t give me the membership info if they didn’t want me on the team. I unfold The Plague info sheet and the bottom drops out of my stomach.
COST OF TEAM MEMBERSHIP: $1,000.00
20.
LOSING IT
There should be a sound when a dream ends. Like a door or a Dumpster lid slamming … or something louder … a tree splitting … or maybe a bomb exploding. Instead, there’s no sound at all. Everybody is walking to the next class, and the hallway is filled with noise, but it’s sideline noise, and I’m walking, too, dead quiet on the inside. I hate my mom for being right. I can’t afford to be on the team. I shouldn’t have tried out. I shouldn’t have even dreamed about it in the first place.
