Alan Cole Is Not a Coward

by Eric Bell

  He takes a pen from his pajama bottoms and writes at the top of the page: CvC: Al’s (and Nathan’s) List. “This,” he says with a flourish of his pen, “is the last, final, conclusive game of CvC. Winner takes all. This I promise.”

  One thing about my brother: Nathan always keeps his promises. He does, however, like to play with the exact wording. I’ve gotten burned by loopholes in the past. This time, I need to clarify a few things. “What’s stopping you from doing another game but calling it something else?”

  Nathan smiles. “Skeptical, young scribe? Then I promise this will be the last game we play involving a list of items we have to accomplish, regardless of what it’s called.” He twirls his pen around between his fingers slowly and almost drops it onto the grass, but he’s clearly too excited to care.

  I think some more. “What’s the hidden paper thing mean?”

  “Take a sheet of computer paper, write my name on it, and hide it somewhere in the school. Has to be somewhere visible, has to be somewhere we can both access, and it can’t leave the school until I find it. I’ll do the same for you. Do your worst.”

  I sigh. “Can’t I—”

  “No. You can’t. Unless you want me to host a big ol’ coming out party.”

  I almost tell Nathan I’ll do anything he wants as long as he doesn’t tell anyone about my secret. I almost refuse to play his game. But even though he says he’ll out me if I don’t, he wouldn’t make it that easy. He’d make me play. He wants to punish me.

  The goldfish can’t say no to the hyena.

  My feet kick the leg of the chair. “Fine.”

  Nathan grins. “May the best Cole win.”

  Before I go to bed, I check my email. Sure enough, there’s a video from Nathan waiting for me, clearly showing him setting up what looks like a little canister inside a room with a long table. Sent this to Marcellus to prove I did it, the email reads. Now it’s yours. Remember our pact. ;)

  How confident must he be to send this to me?

  How confident is he that I’ll never fight back?

  When I power down my computer, I key in a new password:

  iamacoward

  Nathan could probably still guess that, but it sure fits.

  Right when I’m about to save the change though, I see Big Green swirling around in the breeze. And I look at my sketchbook. And I think.

  Not yet.

  Not until my cretpoj is done.

  Not until I’ve changed the world.

  New password:

  iamNOTacoward

  That’s something Nathan could never guess. Not in a million years.

  THREE

  It’s a long ride to Evergreen on Thursday, and not just because 16 Werther Street is the first stop for bus 19. My head thumps in time with the bus; I swear the driver is trying to hit every single pothole on the way to school, like he gets bonus points for every dent he makes in the crossing arm. Nathan carpools with Marcellus Mitchell, his best friend (they won’t let me come with them, not like I’d want to), so you’d think this would mean I could relax on the trip, but I can’t. You’d have a hard time relaxing too with the threat of total social annihilation dangling over your head, like you were holding a lightning rod in a thunderstorm.

  His voice floats up from the pits of my pothole-addled brain.

  May the best Cole win.

  So yeah, I’m a little distracted on the bus. So distracted I don’t even notice someone claiming the seat next to me a few stops later. “Scooch,” a voice says. I shimmy to the right and press my face against the window. I wonder if there are any families out there that could use an extra kid. I could put out an ad in the paper: Charming twelve-year-old willing to play parts of obedient son and brother. Doesn’t take up much space. Free paintings of family members’ faces and bowls of fruit included in package.

  “The debate is tomorrow,” Talia MacDonald says next to me. “Ask me a question.”

  “Uh, what debate?”

  Talia shakes her head slowly. “Alan Cole, you never pay attention to anything. The debate for class president. Principal Dorset agreed to host a debate between me and Bridget Harvey. The other grades are going too. Don’t you remember?”

  “I guess,” I say.

  Talia sighs. “Well, ask me a question. I’m ready for anything. The only thing Bridget Harvey knows is what color lip gloss goes with brown eyeshadow, as if that’s something you’d even need to know as class president. Ask me a question.”

  Another pothole slams into the bus’s right front tire, making my brain do a somersault into the front of my skull. “I don’t know what to ask.” At least, I don’t know what to ask that won’t get me a Talia Lecture About a Very Important Topic.

  “Alan Cole,” Talia says again. “Look at me. No, not out the window—look at me. This is the most important day of seventh grade. When I get elected, I’m going to do lots of things class presidents have never even thought about doing. Miss Richter and I have been talking. I’m full of ideas for—at me, you muffinbrain, not at the floor—for really bringing competitive drive back to the school. Haven’t you noticed nobody cares? The only ones who care are people like Madison Truman, and someone as loud and pretentious as him isn’t a good role model. Competition and accountability. Statistics. Don’t you agree?”

  It is a small miracle, every day that goes by that I don’t have to talk to Talia MacDonald.

  “Ask me a question,” she repeats.

  I ask, “How would you become the most well-known kid in school?”

  Talia leans toward me on our seat. “What kind of question is that? If you’re class president, you’re automatically the most well-known person in school who isn’t an adult. Are you jealous of my success, Alan Cole? It’s okay. When I’m elected, I’ll make sure to look out for the little people like you.”

  She makes a stiff up-and-down motion with her neck that’s probably meant to be a nod, then at the next stop she moves a few seats down, where Rudy Brighton is sitting, probably to command him to ask her a question.

  Only Talia MacDonald would treat elections for seventh grade class president like a blood sport.

  Another thud.

  I run my fingers over my backpack, which is nestled in between me and the window. Inside there’s a folded piece of paper with NATHAN written on it, plus the closest thing to a “most prized possession” I have.

  I don’t have a clue where to hide this paper. Can’t be in a classroom: a teacher would see it and throw it out. Can’t be in someone’s locker: Nathan wouldn’t be able to get to it. As Evergreen pops up in the distance, looming tall under the sun, it hits me: where is somewhere Nathan would never go?

  The band room. Nathan’s played the cello for pretty much his whole life, and there’s a hard law at Evergreen that all orchestra kids hate all band kids, and vice versa. He’d never be caught dead in the band room, but there’s nothing stopping him from going there.

  Maybe that’s one thing he won’t be able to do.

  Zero down, seven to go.

  The plan is to foist my most prized possession on a certain kid, but that certain kid isn’t in homeroom by the time I arrive. I glance around the room. Our desks are arranged in a three-sided square, with Miss Richter’s desk at the fourth side. Talia is off cornering Shariq Hakim—“Ask me a question”—and Madison Wilson Truman is reading the Wall Street Journal, and Miss Richter is taking a big swig from her tree-trunk-sized coffee cup, and Connor Garcia (gulp) is leaning back in his chair, looking over science notes or something. The room’s abuzz with the kind of half-excited, half-exhausted energy you only get in a seventh grade classroom at seven in the morning. What would all these kids say to me if they knew? What would they call me? What would they do to me?

  I guess I space out for a while, because next thing I know, we’re all on our feet for the Pledge. I practically trip over my desk legs on the way to my feet, which of course Connor has to see. He gives me a little nod and a smile. Before I can dwell on yet another
new embarrassment to add to my collection, a certain kid shows up right in the middle of the Pledge, like he’s done every day since the school year started, bursting through the door out of breath.

  Miss Richter, still on “to the Republic for which it stands,” motions with her head, and Zack stands at the desk next to me to finish the Pledge.

  Once everyone’s seated (my desk decides not to wrestle with me this time), Miss Richter makes a little notation in her roll book.

  “I’m sorry,” Zack says, still panting, not even bothering to whisper over the morning announcements. “I didn’t mean to be late. Did you know you can see all the way down Main Street from the roof?”

  “Why were you on the roof?” Rudy Brighton asks.

  “I got lost.”

  More people laugh. Zack doesn’t blush, because Zack, unlike me, has no shame.

  Miss Richter puts a finger to her lips. After the announcements are over, she says, “I’m sure the roof is very fascinating, but it’s off-limits to students. And is it really worth getting another detention over? Start showing up on time or you’ll be seeing me more after school than during the day.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Zack says with a salute.

  Once the bell rings to end homeroom, I swallow and make my move. Zack’s busy squinting at the fluorescent overhead lights like he expects them to transform into pink and purple mermaids, but he perks up as soon as he notices me. “Hi,” he says with a smile.

  “I want you to have something,” I say.

  Zack gasps. “You’re giving me something? Is it a blender? I’ve always wanted a blender. Did you know there’s blenders that can make peanut butter? I always wanted to try blender butter. Since it’d be better than regular store-bought stuff, it’d be better blender butter. Better blender butter. Better bletter blatter—wait, better better batter bitter—batter batter, hey batter batter batter—” He starts cracking up, snorting really loudly.

  I look around to make sure nobody is watching this debacle. “It’s not a blender. It’s my most prized possession.”

  “Wow,” Zack says as we leave homeroom and head down the hall. “You’re giving it to me? Really? That’s awesome!”

  “It’s, uh,” I whisper, “my lucky underwear.”

  Yeah, my lucky underwear is my most prized possession. You can stop laughing anytime.

  When Mom bought me a pack of Hanes briefs, one pair (and only one) was bright orange. She almost threw them out, but I begged her to keep them. I mean, it’s not every day you find a pair of tighty-orangies. The first day I wore them, Nathan found some new project to work on and stayed out of my hair for a whole week! I wore them on a day I found twenty bucks outside the Pine Garden bus circle. I wore them when I asked Mom for a new sketchbook two weeks ago since my old one was getting full, and she actually took me to the mall and bought me one—the same exact type as my old one. And I wore them on the first day of middle school, when Nathan was too busy to bother me. And when he put cottage cheese in all my undies, it was only Orville Orange, smuggled in the pocket of my church pants, that escaped the cheesocide.

  I even picked Orville as my prized possession over my almost-full sketchbook—my cretpoj is going to change the world, sure, but until I actually make it, it won’t change much of anything. Orville, however, has saved my fanny more than once, and you can’t beat that track record. I could’ve kept Orville until the end to give me lots of luck, but giving him away is the easiest thing on the list, so it’s best if I get it over with.

  Orville has one last gasp of luck to give.

  I know, I know, it’s silly. But Zack—and this is why I picked him—he grins. “Awesome,” he says. “That’s so awesome. Are you sure you want to give it up? Everyone needs a little luck.”

  “I’ll be okay,” I lie. Of course I don’t tell Zack why I need to bestow this sacred artifact onto him, because then he’d want to help me with the rest of CvC, and I want that as much as I want to be swallowed by a boa constrictor. And of course Zack doesn’t ask why I’m giving it to him, because he’s Zack.

  We pause in front of an empty classroom and out comes Orville, wrapped in three plastic bags so nobody sees I’m carrying around fluorescent undergarments. I take a deep breath, then pass it off to Zack, who takes the bag like he’s King Arthur and he’s found the Holy Grail.

  He goes to open it, but I say, “Wait until you get home,” and he nods, like we’re exchanging some sacred, ancient artifact that must be opened in private (but it’s really so he doesn’t drop his shorts and try them on right in the middle of the hall).

  We start walking again, this time in silence. Eventually Zack pulls something out of his pocket. “Check this out. This is my most prized possession.” In his hand he holds . . . an ordinary-looking rock.

  “Oh,” I say.

  “It’s my special rock. My dad gave it to me. Neat, huh?”

  I don’t want to be rude—most prized possessions are serious business—so I nod as Zack puts the rock back in his pocket. “Yeah.”

  We part ways near the auditorium: beyond here is swimming class, and there are no friendly faces there. “Thanks,” I say.

  “I’m the one who got a great gift,” Zack says. “I should be thanking you.”

  “Okay,” I say. “You’re welcome. Use Orville well.”

  Zack’s eyes widen. “Orville?”

  My cheeks flare up.

  He giggles again. A loud snort rips through the air. “I’ll take good care of Officer Orville. I won’t let you down!”

  “That’s great,” I mumble.

  Zack puts his hand in front of his chest and dips his upper body really low, so low he almost trips. When I don’t do anything, he giggles. “Handshakes are so formal. Bows are way more fun. Don’t you think?”

  I try to ignore the upperclassmen watching us with smirks on their faces. “How about I owe you one?”

  He smiles and off he goes. Who even knows where he’ll wind up, or how late he’ll be. Something tells me his class isn’t even down this part of the school. He skips away with Orville (yes, he literally skips), and there’s an invisible thread that gets snipped when they disappear. No more lucky underwear for me. No more magic powers. No more hope that some mystical force is going to throw me an assist.

  Now I’m on my own.

  One down, six to go.

  FOUR

  If you’ve never spent the earliest parts of your morning thrashing around a cold pool and getting your lungs filled to bursting with chlorine for forty minutes and walking around the rest of the day with soggy hair smelling like the inside of a janitor’s closet, you don’t know what you’re missing.

  It’s the first year swimming is required for all seventh graders (still definitely not calling myself a Sapling, thanks for asking). If you want to pass the class and not repeat it in eighth grade, you need to complete the exam: two lengths of the pool—one length freestyle, half-length backstroke, half-length breaststroke. We had to do this on the first day of class, after Coach Streit had explained things like locker room etiquette (“If I ever hear the sound of one towel snapping, it is going to be a very long year for you”) and poolside behavior (“If I ever catch you running along the perimeter of this pool, it is going to be a very long year for you”). When it came time for my turn to swim the test, I stayed in the stands.

  “Cole?” Coach Streit asked. “Alan Cole?”

  “Hi,” I said.

  “You’re up,” Coach Streit said.

  “Uh, there’s a problem,” I said, trying not to notice everyone else staring at me.

  Coach Streit crossed her arms. Then her voice changed. “Can’t swim?”

  I nodded.

  Someone laughed, and Coach Streit pivoted on her foot and barked, “There’s no shame in not being able to swim. That’s what we’re all here to do: learn. If you don’t want to learn, it is going to be a very long year for you. Fortunately for you, Cole, I’ve got a Shrub volunteer who’s going to be spending his gym period trai
ning to be a lifeguard. He’ll be working with you and helping anyone else who needs some extra practice. He’s an honors student and a great worker, so you’ll be in good hands.”

  Three guesses who that volunteer is.

  If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking: remember Nathan can’t swim?

  Today, Marcellus Mitchell raises his head in greeting as I climb into the shallow end of the pool. My brother’s best (and only) friend is apparently a pretty good swimmer, even though so far he hasn’t shown me much of anything except for how to get my face wet, which I already knew from my trips to Swirlieburg, Pennsylvania. Marcellus doesn’t always join Nathan in games of CvC, but he’s certainly never tried to stop Nathan from—

  Oh crap.

  He knows about CvC.

  “Hold on to the edge of the pool,” Marcellus says. He grips my hands and looks around for Coach Streit. “I want you to focus on one leg at a time. Spin one leg in a circle until you get tired, then do the other one, then keep going back and forth.”

  “That doesn’t seem very helpful,” I say.

  “I’m like your coach,” Marcellus says. “Don’t you think you ought to listen to me?”

  Now, I don’t know much about swimming, but I know you won’t get anywhere if you’re trying to learn to swim by working one leg at a time. “Coach Streit’s not an idiot, you know,” I say.

  “Neither am I,” Marcellus says, his voice even. “When she comes over, work both legs. Do a lot of thrashing around. Show her how hard you’re working.”

  “I could go to her and—”

  “And what?”

  He watches me, the calm to Nathan’s excitable. Never takes his eyes off me. Knows what I’m going to do next.

  “Yeah,” I say, staring into the green pool water, “I’ll listen to you.”