The Mighty Quinn

by Robyn Parnell

  Josh slapped Matt on the back and laughed, which was no surprise, but Tay began to laugh too. Quinn bit his lip to keep himself from chastising his friend. How could Tay join in on teasing the new girl?

  Matt gave a thumbs-up to Tay and raised his hand in the air. “Ducks rule, Beavers drool!” The boys exchanged a high-five.

  “Ducks rule, beavers drool?” Neally repeated.

  “It’s a dumb sports thing,” Mickey whispered to Neally.

  “I suppose,” Neally said thoughtfully, “any sport that involves drooling animals could be considered dumb.”

  “No, it’s not the animals that drool …”

  “It’s the people who watch them?”

  Mickey began to laugh, then clapped her hand over her mouth and leaned closer to Neally. “It’s the teams’ names. Ducks are the team from one college and Beavers are the team from another. If kids’ parents went to one school they say that their team rules, and they make fun of the other team …”

  “Which drools?” Neally guessed.

  Mickey nodded. “Our parents didn’t go to those colleges, so we don’t care about silly stuff like that.” She glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice.

  “Quinn’s teacher went to the college that has the Beaver team, so he says he’s a Beaver fan. But he’s really not. He just says that ‘cause he likes his teacher. Matt’s and Josh’s and Tay’s dads went to the other school, and …”

  “Why are you whispering?” Neally asked.

  “’Cause kids who like those teams get mad if they think you’re making fun of them.”

  “Oh, powers that be, I am so frightened! I certainly don’t want a mad duck in pursuit of me.” Neally wriggled her fingers in front of her mouth and knocked her knees together. “Say, have you ever played doubles in four square? It’s way fun. Want to try it when we get in?”

  “Really?” Mickey gasped. “You’d be on a team with me?”

  “Sure. We can get everyone to double up. If you don’t have a partner in mind you can just choose the person standing next to you.”

  “She’s in the second grade, you know,” Josh said to Neally.

  “Second grade?” Neally scrunched up her nose and thoughtfully stroked her chin. “Let me see, that’s the grade between first and third, correct?”

  Josh looked confused, as if he’d asked Neally her age and she’d replied, “Canada.”

  Neally turned back to Mickey. “We haven’t been formally introduced,” she said. “My name is …”

  “Neally Ray Standwell!” Mickey said. “I heard about you.”

  Several kids standing in line turned to look at Quinn, who decided it would be a good time to retie his shoelaces.

  “Neally Ray Standwell, you have the coolest name ever!” Mickey declared. “And that’s ever in the history of all of the names of namehood.”

  “Yeah, right,” Matt snorted. He’d moved up to first in line, but ignored the open spot on the court. “Neally Standwell—what kind of name is that?” He hunched his shoulders up around his ears, leaned forward so that his knuckles grazed the ground, furrowed his brow, and jutted his chin out, in a passable imitation of the caveman pictured on Ms. Blakeman’s classroom anthropology chart. “Me Neally,” Matt grunted. “Me stand well. But me sit bad.”

  Matt’s cave man grumble devolved into a fit of high-pitched laughter, to which Josh and Tay eagerly contributed. Sam looked embarrassed, and Quinn merely looked away, while Mickey looked as if someone had thrown mud on her birthday cake.

  “Sit bad! Stand well, sit bad!” Josh doubled over and slapped his hands on his thighs. Although the look on Josh’s face suggested laughter, the noises he produced were peculiar, clacking whinnies, as if he’d inhaled a Shetland pony.

  “Anyone know the Heimlich maneuver?” Neally patted Josh’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Josh, we’ll go to the office and call 9-1-1. I’m certain the paramedics can get that wiener dog—or whatever is stuck in your throat—out of there in no time.”

  Three kids on the four square court were waiting for a fourth. “Next in line, c’mon!” the server called out. “Hey, Matt, rotate in.”

  “Your name is Matt?” Neally asked.

  “Indeed,” Sam said, flourishing his hand. “You have the honor of speaking with the Right Master Matthew Mark Luke John Barker, son of the Right Reverend …”

  “Yeah,” Matt shot Sam a withering glance, “it’s Matt.”

  “Hey Mickey, I have a joke for you,” Neally said.

  “Is it a knock-knock joke?” Mickey asked.

  “Even better. What do you call a boy with no arms and legs who’s sprawled on your front porch? Matt!”

  Quinn couldn’t decipher the expression on Matt’s face. He was well-acquainted with Mad Matt, Cruel Matt, and Smiley-Face-When-The-Adults-Are-Looking Matt, but he didn’t recognize Embarrassed Matt.

  Matt glared at Neally with a smoldering, silent gaze for a few seconds. Then he turned his back on her and joined the four square game.

  “You’re in trouble,” Mickey warned Neally. “He’s mean.”

  “So what?” Neally looked down the line, making eye contact with and dipping her chin in acknowledgement to each student who stood in line behind her. “So what, right?”

  “So, this is what.” Quinn tapped his watch. “I don’t think we’ll get to play.”

  Mickey grinned at Neally. “So what?”

  “Sew buttons on your underwear, that’s what!” Neally said.

  Mickey giggled and tried to tickle Neally, who grabbed Mickey’s hands and giggled, “Aha, gotcha!”

  “Hey, who made your shirt?” Mickey pulled her hands out of Neally’s grasp. “The tag is sewed backwards.”

  Quinn looked at Neally’s shirt and saw the outline of a clothing tag under the front collar.

  “The tag is where it’s supposed to be. I’m wearing my shirt backwards.”

  “Oh, I’ve done that before, lots of times,” Mickey said. “You can fix it in the bathroom. I’ll save your place in line.”

  “No, thanks, it’s intentional. Sometimes I wear my shirts this way.”

  “Why would you wear your shirts that way?” Tay asked.

  “Because I can.” Neally smiled a curious smile, chirped, “See ya around, cutie” to Mickey, and skipped toward the drinking fountain.

  “I SHOULDA KNOWN THIS WOULD BE THE SLOWEST LINE!”

  “Who’s gonna double with Kelsey?” Tay groaned, not bothering to turn around to see who had joined the line.

  “Matt and Josh are playing easies, so no one else can get in,” Quinn informed Kelsey. “This could go on forever, and we’ve only got a few minutes of recess left. Let’s play wall-ball.”

  “It’s too cold for wall-ball.” Tay pulled his jacket tighter. “Let’s go to the swings.”

  “Uh, Tay,” Quinn said, “it’ll be even colder swinging on the …”

  “Four square is boring to infinity.” Matt snuck up behind Tay and bounced the four square ball off his head. “Wall-ball in the gym! Last one inside plays on a team by himself!”

  The four square line disintegrated before Quinn’s eyes as all of the kids, Tay and Sam included, followed Matt to the gym. Only Mickey remained behind. She picked up the ball and looked at her brother, her eyes widening with hope and sympathy.

  “It’s all right, Quinn.”

  Quinn didn’t know what felt worse: being deserted by your so-called friends, or having your little sister try to make you feel better because she’d seen your so-called friends desert you.

  “Let’s ask Mom if she’ll take us to the pool,” Mickey suggested. “There’s nothing like a swim after a hard day at school, except for … well, except for a swim after a hard day at school. Okey dokey?”

  The buzzer rang out, signaling the end of lunch recess.

  “That’s getting to be soooo loud!”

  “Mickey, you say that every time the lunch buzzer rings. It’s the same buzzer as always.”

  Mickey tilted h
er head, touching her ear to her shoulder. She did that, Quinn thought, whenever a new idea was trying to enter her head and the old ones didn’t want to make room.

  “Really? It still sounds louder.” Mickey headed for the wall where the second graders lined up. She turned around and called back to her brother. “Say, do you ever wonder if someone counted to six thousand hundred thousand, and they were still alive?”

  Quinn knew she didn’t expect an answer. Whenever Mickey wore that quizzical face at home, Quinn and his mom would play a game. His mom would say, “Mickey’s thinking out loud,” and Quinn would circle his finger by his ear and say, “Think–ing; that’s what you call it.”

  For just one microscopic moment Quinn wished he was back in the second grade. Although he rarely missed an opportunity to tease her, Quinn sometimes felt envious of Mickey, in ways he didn’t understand. His father said that Quinn admired Mickey’s positive attitude, but it was more than that, Quinn thought. Or, it was different than that.

  YOOOOWEEE!

  Matt Barker’s distinctive yelp bounced off the walls and ricocheted off the roof of the playground cover down to the blacktop, and Quinn had his last figuring-something-out-moment before vacation: It’s not that Mickey is “positive,” or that nothing bothers her—it’s that nothing bothers her for longer than two minutes. That characteristic seems to make her happy, Quinn grudgingly admitted to himself, but he knew that not letting something bother you means you aren’t fully paying attention.

  Quinn Andrews-Lee had figured something out long before any vacation: if you pay the least bit of attention in life, things will bother you for a lot longer than a couple of lousy minutes.

  6

  QUINN PAYS ATTENTION

  Ms. Blakeman’s class was the first class to be let out for vacation. Quinn was the first student out the door, and thus was the first student to discover that while the diligent scholars of Turner Creek Elementary were cleaning out their desks, the first snow in three years had fallen in Hillsboro, Oregon.

  He let out his breath in a frosty gasp. Less than an inch of snow dusted the ground and the rhododendrons by the main building, but the stuff was glistening and white—it was snow! Quinn’s classmates pushed past him, gleefully kicking at the light powder beneath their feet. Ms. Barnes, who was bus monitor as well as playground supervisor, stood ramrod straight at the spot by the curb where students lined up for their busses.

  Quinn set his book pack down and began to scoop up snow in his hand, and a cold, wet blob hit the top of his jacket and slid down his neck. “Hey!” he gasped.

  Teena Freeman crouched behind Quinn, trying very hard to look like she had not thrown the snowball. Quinn cupped his hands to press clumps of white mush into a respectable sphere. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. As soon as the meager missile left his hand he heard Ms. Barnes’ whistle blast, which felt icier than the slush down his back.

  “The next one who throws a snowball goes to Shirkner’s office. You! BRRRREEEEET!” Ms. Barnes aimed her whistle at Neally, who was gathering a pile of snow. “Drop it, now!”

  “Oh, for Santa’s sake! Let the kids play in the snow.”

  Quinn looked to see who had dared to talk back to the whistle. The voice belonged to a man who stood at the curb, behind Ms. Barnes. It was the man who’d come to class with Neally.

  Ms. Barnes looked like she’d swallowed her whistle. Her cheeks and nose were red, as if she’d been sunburned. Quinn wondered if it were true that, as some of the sixth graders had said, Ms. Barnes had the power to cancel recess for adults.

  “There could be rocks in the snowballs!” Ms. Barnes huffed.

  “Rocks?” Neally’s father repeated.

  “This is a safety issue. If kids scoop up snow from the ground they might also scoop up rocks or other sharp objects. What if there was broken glass underneath, or rusty nails, or razor blades? A kid would get hit in the eye with it, that’s what.”

  The man ran his fingers through his beard, and his eyes sparkled as if Ms. Barnes had told him the funniest joke in infinity.

  Neally ran to her father. “I know, I know; no running in the snow,” she said as she passed Ms. Barnes.

  “C’mon.” Neally’s father enveloped his daughter in a bear hug and then took her hand in his. “Let’s go out and make some rocky razor snowballs.”

  Although Quinn’s back was wet, he didn’t feel cold. He watched Neally walk hand in hand with her father, and for the first time in a long time Quinn felt that Something Else could happen, if you paid attention. Maybe, just possibly, life could actually change. Even if he’d have to wait a whole two weeks to find out.

  7

  FAMOUS CARROT DIVER

  Click click, click click.

  Ms. Blakeman looked out over a sea of students fidgeting at their desks. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and raised her clicker over her head. “My first click of the new year. How exciting that must be for you all! Seriously,” Ms. Blakeman continued, amidst her students’ groans and giggles, “it’s good to see you. I’d love to hear your stories from winter break. Oh yes, I’ve got it.” Ms. Blakeman lowered her chin, and her glasses slithered down her nose. “We’ll get those back-to-school jitters out by putting them down. Fifth graders, pencils and paper! While I’m passing out spelling lists and going over your monthly planners, please give me two paragraphs on …” She raised her head, as if listening for a barely audible bird call. “Anyone care to guess?”

  “What I did on my winter vacation,” several students grumbled.

  “Ah, the incomparable joy that comes from teaching the gifted!” Ms. Blakeman smiled so hard her eyes disappeared into the tops of her puffy pink cheeks.

  Quinn wrote his name at the top of his paper, chewed the end of his pencil eraser, and looked around the classroom. The new seating arrangement wasn’t a drastic change; Ms. Blakeman had kept the reading groups together. Matt Barker was still too close for comfort—in the row ahead of him, where Teena used to sit—but Sam was next to Quinn, on the left. Tay sat behind Sam, next to Neally. Yes, the girl with the coolest name ever was now seated directly in back of him, and Quinn suddenly wondered what he looked like from behind. What if his underwear tag was sticking out?

  Quinn peeked at Sam’s paper. Other than his name, the date, and the title, “The Glorious Holiday Escapades of Samuel Jefferson Washington,” Sam had written nothing. It seemed to Quinn that most of the students were doing what he was doing: staring at the papers of the students nearby, trying to pass the time until morning recess.

  “There’s nothing there.”

  Quinn quickly covered his paper with his hands, but Neally was speaking to Sam, not him.

  “Your page is blank,” Neally persisted.

  “Kinda like his brain,” Tay said.

  “Insult alert, insult alert.” Sam sounded like a robot with a sinus infection. “Must hold on to self-esteem.”

  “Didn’t you and your family go on a ski trip over the break?” Neally asked. “That should give you a lot to write about.”

  “My mom and dad and sisters like to ski, but I’m not into it,” Sam said. “I can’t think of what to write. Anyway, it’s just busywork. It’s more fun to draw it.”

  “You’re gonna draw your vacation?” Tay yawned. “Another comic strip, how original.”

  Ms. Blakeman was at the front row, leaning over Arturo’s desk. She raised her arm. Click click, click click. “Fifth graders! I’ll allow some leeway on the first day back, but keep the chatter level down to a quiet roar.”

  “Samuel Jefferson Washington?” Neally tapped her pencil on Sam’s paper.

  “He signs all his papers that way,” Teena murmured.

  “It’s his name,” added Tay.

  “But everyone calls you Sam,” Neally said to Sam. “Even the teacher.”

  “Righty-o,” said Sam.

  “Then, why not just write, ‘Sam Washington?’”

  “My parents are history teachers,” Sam s
aid. “Both of them.” He drew the outline of a comic strip on his paper.

  “Your parents are history teachers.” Neally’s voice indicated she did not consider that to be a satisfactory explanation. “And your point would be?”

  “It’s a mystery.” Sam drew a picture of a stick man on skis.

  “They want his full name on all his papers,” Tay said. “Every year on Back to School Night they have to explain it to the new teacher. I’m so glad my folks aren’t teachers.”

  “I’d never sign my middle name,” Teena declared. “I don’t know why I even have to write my last name; I’m the only Teena in class. How do you sign your name, Neally?”

  “First and last. But I am considering changing that. New year, new arrangements.” Neally wrote Neally Ray Standwell at the top of her paper.

  “I wish my middle name were shorter,” Teena sighed. “What’s ‘Ray’ for?”

  “For me.”

  “No, I mean …”

  “I know what you mean.”

  Neally smiled. “It’s just my middle name. My mom says it was for a stingray she saw when she was snorkeling in the Caribbean. Dad says it’s for a beam of light, like a ray of sunshine. I like the story about the stingray best. Have you ever seen one?”

  “Only in a video,” Teena said. “But I’m going to see a live one someday. I’m going to go to Hawaii and go snorkeling. Jeff said he’d teach me.”

  “Who’s Jeff? Your older brother?”

  “My mom’s boyfriend.” Teena’s cheeks turned scarlet, and she got a thinking-hard look on her face. “The last one, I mean. Not the one she has now.”

  Quinn was bewildered by the Neally and Teena conversation. Pasty-faced, toothpick-thin, timid Teena was not normally a talker, with anyone. Two sentences was her limit, and then she’d start humming to herself and spinning her hair. Teena’s thin, shoulder-length hair was the color of the mud-stained carpet in the school music room. Teena twirled her hair when she wasn’t working, talking, or playing, which was almost all of the time. She’d grab a few strands near her forehead and twirl it around her fingers, and there was a patch on the top of her head where the hair was so thin you could see her scalp, like the spot on a rug at the front of a door where you wipe your shoes before entering the room.