by Simon Rich
I forced a laugh.
“I don’t always drink that many.”
“Yes, you do,” he said, flipping idly through the pages of his notebook. “In fact, you often drink as many as six.”
His eyes widened suddenly.
“On one occasion…you drank seven.”
I looked down at my lap.
“I didn’t think anybody saw that.”
“So?” he said. “What’s the problem? Are you ill?”
“No—just nervous, I guess. You know, because of that French quiz.”
He grabbed the textbook from my hands.
“Why are you looking at the animals page? The quiz is on job names.”
“When did he say that?”
“He didn’t,” he said. “But it’s obvious.”
“What do you mean?”
He curled his fingers and leisurely examined his cuticles.
“Mr. Hendricks never writes his own quizzes. He’s too naïve. He always just photocopies them straight out of the book.”
“So?”
“So, there are only nine vocabulary quizzes in this chapter. And we’ve done the other eight in class. There’s only one left.”
He flipped my book open to the “Occupations” page and handed it back to me. I couldn’t believe it. There were five minutes left in lunch and I had neglected the only page that mattered.
“How did you figure all that out?” I asked.
“Basic reasoning.”
I started to study the page, but at this point, I was more interested in Elliot’s strange book.
“What are you working on?” I asked.
“It’s none of your business,” he said.
“Oh. Sorry.”
I quickly returned to my book. The farmer, the businessman, the cook—
“It’s research,” Elliot said. “I’m doing research.”
“Oh, really? On what?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”
He stared at me in silence for a while, until it was clear that I wasn’t going to press him for additional information. Then he started talking again.
“My father donated a sizable amount of money to this horrible place and it seems that I’ll be forced to stay here for a longish period of time. I’m studying the school to make my time here as painless as possible.”
He flipped through his notebook and showed me some of the diagrams he had made. One charted the frequency and duration of fire drills. Another ranked the teachers by seniority. There were detailed maps of the school, including the boiler room and maintenance tunnels, and a few random codes which looked like locker combinations.
“What’s this one?” I asked, pointing to a list of students’ names.
“It’s a status index,” he said. “I’ve been trying to chart everyone’s position. See? That’s you, at the bottom.”
“That’s way off,” I said.
“You think you should be higher?”
“No…that part’s right. But the rest of it needs some work. Like, Lance should be much higher. You didn’t even put him in the top five.”
Elliot nodded slowly.
“What else?” he asked.
I scanned through Elliot’s list. I noticed that he hadn’t put himself anywhere on it.
“Well, you should probably put Jessica higher,” I said. “And the bottom’s wrong too. Some of these people have lots of friends.”
He handed me his fountain pen.
“Fix it,” he demanded.
I awkwardly took the pen.
“Okay…but, Elliot? Can I ask you something?”
“What?”
“Why did you push me down the stairs?”
Elliot shrugged.
“Amusement,” he said. “And research purposes. I wanted to test the extent to which they’d discipline me.”
“But why’d you decide to push me?”
“In order to standardize the experiment, I needed to commit a generic crime. Abusing you seems to be a pretty common offense around here.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
“Let me ask you a question,” Elliot said. “Why are you so unpopular at this school?”
I could tell by his tone that he didn’t mean any malice by the comment. He was just genuinely curious.
“You have about as much money as the other children. You’re overweight, but not drastically. I mean, some of your classmates are actually obese.”
He pointed them out.
“So,” he said. “What is it?”
I thought about my unpopularity more or less constantly, but I had never actually had a conversation with anybody about it.
“A lot of reasons,” I said.
“For instance.”
“Well, for instance…I’m not so great at sports. Especially basketball.”
Elliot’s eyes widened.
“Status is determined by athleticism here?”
I nodded.
“That’s a big part of it.”
“So that black child who’s always jumping up and down to touch the tops of things—”
“Chris.”
“Whatever. That boy is considered powerful? Even though he’s obviously on scholarship?”
“People don’t really care about stuff like money at Glendale,” I explained. “It’s more about how cool you are and how good you are at sports and whether or not people think you’re stuck-up. Stuff like that.”
“Is that what you really think?”
Elliot closed his eyes and massaged his temples, like talking to me had exhausted him. His limp blond hair, so fair it was nearly white, fell over his hands. He smoothed it back, opened his eyes and pointed at me.
“Has anybody ever told you that money trumps everything? That nothing else in this world matters?”
I shook my head stupidly.
“I could buy you all the popularity in this school,” he said. “With a little research and some well-placed investments, I could make you a king. Admired by girls, respected by boys, feared by all.”
I laughed nervously.
“What would I have to do?”
Elliot grinned.
“Everything I say.”
• • •
When I tell people stories about Elliot, they always ask me the same question: Why did he devote so much time and effort to improving your life if he barely knew you and the two of you had just met? It’s a good question. And the only way I can even begin to answer it is by talking about video games.
Before I met Elliot, I played a lot of video games every day after school. And even though I wasn’t crazy about playing basketball in real life, I was thrilled when my parents gave me NBA Slam ’97. The game was unique at the time because it allowed you to become the “coach” of a team. You could make trades, sub in players, and play an entire season against the other teams, all of which were controlled by the computer. I set the game to “easy” because it was my first time playing. And I chose the Sacramento Kings, because I liked their uniforms—purple and black with a slash of silver.
The computer suggested a starting lineup based on who the five best players were in real life. But I decided to use my coach status to mix things up. Mitch Richmond, a six-time all-star, was slated to start at guard. But that was what everyone was expecting! I decided to take him out of the lineup and replace him with Derrick Phelps, a random benchwarmer who had only played in three official games during his entire professional career. As soon as I entered the change, a line of red text appeared on the screen:
Are you sure you want to substitute DERRICK PHELPS for MITCH RICHMOND?
I hesitated for a moment, aware that I had made an unorthodox coaching decision. But then I got angry. Who was the computer to tell me who I could and couldn’t put into my starting lineup? I was coach of the Sacramento Kings! I spitefully hit the start button, and within seconds, Derrick Phelps was making his way onto the court. I won the tip-off, passed him the ball, and immediately made him fire up a
three. It was a horrible shot, barely grazing the rim, and the other team easily got the rebound. Had I made a mistake? I decided to call a time-out and take a closer look at Derrick’s stats from the previous season:
Games Played: 3
Total Minutes: 5
Points per Game: 0.0
They weren’t very encouraging, especially when compared to Mitch Richmond’s numbers for the same year:
Games Played: 82
Total Minutes: 3172
Points per Game: 22.8
I switched Mitch Richmond back in for a couple of plays. He immediately got a steal and threw a no-look alley-oop pass to my center. The crowd went wild, but their cheers left me cold. It was too easy to dominate the game as Mitch Richmond. Sure, I could play by the book and let him carry my team to a championship. Or I could turn the basketball world upside down and create a new legend from scratch. A legend named Derrick Phelps. I called another time-out and put him back in the game.
By the end of the third quarter, Phelps had taken nearly seventy three-pointers. He was programmed to miss the majority of his shots. But he had still managed to rack up sixty-six points, and with the game on “easy” mode, it was all we needed for a victory.
Within three weeks of steady after-school playing I had led my Sacramento Kings to a world championship. By that time, Derrick Phelps had broken every important record in the history of the NBA. He finished the season averaging eighty points a game. And he never missed a single minute of action, no matter how obviously fatigued his body became.
Every night while lying in bed, I imagined myself inside the game, holding a press conference as coach of my electronic Sacramento Kings.
“Where’d you discover this Derrick kid? He’s the next Michael Jordan!”
“He’s better than Jordan,” I’d say. “He’s doing things in this league that have never been done before. Things that have never been dreamed about.”
“Do you have any problems with his shot selection? Last night he attempted thirty-seven three-pointers, including nine from behind the half-court line. Isn’t that the mark of a selfish player?”
“You listen to me,” I’d say, pointing angrily at the imaginary reporter. “Phelps has brought more fans to this league than any player in its history. If he wants to shoot sixty-footers, well, I think he’s earned it.”
When I found Derrick Phelps, he was an inexperienced player with no respect in the league, and within one season, I’d transformed him into the most dominant superstar the sport had ever known. He was my greatest achievement.
I never told Elliot about any of this, but I think he would have understood. Of course, Elliot never played any video games himself. He didn’t have to.
• • •
I knew Elliot’s proposal was insane. Popularity wasn’t something that could be bought, like a pair of sneakers. It took years to acquire, or if you were Jessica, one physically intense summer. It was fun to imagine being popular: sitting wherever I wanted at lunch, playing two-player video games, humming without fear of violence. But those were just fantasies and my time at Glendale had taught me not to dwell on them.
Besides, my situation wasn’t nearly as dire as Elliot had suggested. Sure I wasn’t popular in the traditional sense, but people still respected me. In fact, I had just been invited to the most important social event of the year: Lance’s birthday party. The invitation had come a few days late and I had spent a whole weekend in panic mode, convinced I was one of the few people he’d left out. But eventually my mother had presented me with the glossy red card, signed by Lance himself. How bad could things be? I had been “cordially invited” to “Lance Cooper’s Slammin’ Swim Party.” As an afterthought, maybe. But who cared? Lance wanted me there. And that was honestly enough for me.
I dreaded the event itself, of course. I hadn’t appeared in front of my classmates in a bathing suit since the seventh-grade swim test. And the memory of that event was so terrifying it literally caused my face to sweat. On the morning of the party, I would almost definitely feign illness to avoid having to go. But that was beside the point. Lying awake in bed, with Lance Cooper’s invitation propped against my windowsill, I felt a contentment I hadn’t known in months. It was the first party I’d been invited to since enrolling at Glendale. And who knew? Maybe my life was starting to turn around.
I was about to fall asleep when an unmistakable odor drifted into my bedroom. My mother was baking something—something delicious. I instinctively hopped out of bed and groped my way down the darkened hall. It wasn’t until I saw the kitchen clock that I realized something was amiss. My mother never baked this late at night.
The kitchen was completely dark except for the faint, yellow glow of the oven light. I looked around for my mother, but she had gone into her bedroom to wait out the baking process. I peered into the oven incredulously. It didn’t make any sense: My mother was making cookies—an entire batch of peanut butter cookies—and I hadn’t been informed. I was about to knock on her door and confront her when I caught sight of a tin box on the counter. My mother had lined it with wax paper and attached a thank-you card to the lid. It was addressed to Mrs. Cooper.
Lance’s mom.
I flipped open the card.
Thank you so much for agreeing to include Seymour, he couldn’t be more excited! As per our discussion, I will make sure Seymour is aware of proper pool hygiene and that there won’t be a repeat of the swim test “incident.”
I slunk back to my room, queasy with shame. My father had seemed so thrilled when I told him about Lance’s party at dinner. I wondered if he knew about my mother’s pathetic intervention—and the preconditions she had agreed to. I could picture Lance arguing with his mom for three long days before reluctantly signing my invitation. I could picture him eating the cookies with his friends, explaining their sad origin.
It was eleven at night, way past any reasonable kid’s bedtime, but somehow I knew that Elliot would be up. I locked my door for the first time I could remember and quietly looked up his number in the directory.
“Okay,” I said. “When can we start?”
Elliot laughed.
“Immediately.”
• • •
“So, Vlad, you never played in the National Basketball Association?”
“Well…no. Not officially. But I practiced with the Pacers one summer, and I played with NBA players in the CBA.”
Elliot rolled his eyes.
“You’ll have to do,” he said.
The basketball player stared down at Elliot with huge, unblinking eyes. Vlad was probably the tallest person I had ever met and his limbs were frighteningly muscular. But he spoke with the quiet nervousness of a boy introducing himself on his first day of school. He dribbled his ball against the hard wood and the echo reverberated all around us. Elliot had rented out an entire YMCA and it was completely empty except for me, Elliot, and Vlad.
Elliot hadn’t told me where we were going after school; he’d just pushed me into the back of his limo. I asked him a few questions on the ride over, but he had been too absorbed in phone calls to respond. When we got to the Y, he tossed me a bag of gym clothes—but otherwise he ignored me.
He was wearing a double-breasted gray suit with a blue handkerchief poking neatly out of one of the pockets.
“When does the coach select his roster?” he asked.
I shrugged.
He took out his cell phone and pressed a single button.
“Find out the exact date of Glendale’s eighth-grade basketball tryouts,” he told somebody. He closed the phone and put it back in his pocket.
“Well?” he said. “What are we waiting for?”
For the next hour or so, Vlad subjected me to a variety of basketball drills to assess my “skill level.” The first time I dribbled the ball—hurling it against the floor with two shaky hands—he gasped. He tried his best to remain professional, offering me polite encouragement after every botched layup, but I could sense the horror on hi
s face. I’d later find out that Elliot was paying Vlad based entirely on my performance. If I failed to make the eighth-grade basketball team, he would forfeit a staggering amount of money.
After my second coughing fit, Vlad cut the drills short and walked me over to the bleachers. Elliot was engrossed in some kind of military history book—naval, from the looks of it—and it took us a few tries to get his attention.
“Well, how is he?” Elliot asked.
“He’s not bad,” Vlad said, forcing a smile. “He’s got heart.”
Elliot snapped his book shut and pointed his tiny index finger at Vlad’s face.
“Don’t bullshit me!” he shouted.
He waited a few moments for the echo to subside. Then he continued in quiet, measured tones.
“This isn’t about ‘feelings,’ Vlad. This isn’t about ‘self-esteem.’ This is about victory. I’m paying you for victory. Now give it to me straight: Can you train him to make the team? Or will I have to find somebody who can?”
Vlad sat down on the bleachers.
“Okay,” he said. “To be honest? It’s not going to be easy. This kid looks like he’s never played the game before, or even seen it played. And it’s not just his skill level. He’s a total mess, physically. For a fourteen-year-old, his lung capacity is really poor. And his gait…the way he runs…it’s crazy. When he first ran onto the court, I thought he was making some kind of joke. But he wasn’t. That’s actually how he runs.”
Elliot nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “So what’s it going to take?”
Vlad looked up at the rafters and let loose a long sigh.
“I’d say a minimum of two hours a day. Plus strength and conditioning. But that would just be for fundamentals. Without other players to scrimmage with, he’s not going to have a real sense of how the game is played.”
“Fine, we’ll get some other players.”
“How are you going to do that? I mean, you can’t just get an entire squad of—”
Elliot’s eyes narrowed.
“Here’s a thought,” he said. “You stop telling me what I can and cannot do. Did someone tell you about my situation? Who I am, how I operate, that sort of thing?”
