The Stupendous Dodgeball Fiasco

by Janice Repka

  Matilda took her husband’s thin, gloved hand and held it to her chubby cheek. “He’s unhappy here,” she said. “All he wants, all he’s ever wanted, is to be a regular boy.”

  “But he’s not a regular boy. He’s a Stupendous Stanislaw.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t meant for circus life,” Matilda said.

  “Nonsense,” said Leo.

  “We’ve discussed this so often,” said Matilda. “Maybe it’s time we let him make his own decision about what he wants to do. Send him to stay with my sister in Hardingtown. Let him get away from the circus for a while and experience what it’s like to be in the real world.”

  Leo pulled off his floppy shoes and replaced them with his bunny slippers. “Children don’t run away from the circus. He needs to find a way to fit in. Maybe if we sent him to clown school.”

  Outside, Phillip dropped the hose. It slithered back and forth, splashing his pants. Clown school! A room full of smelly makeup, tiny tricycles, and whipped-cream pies filled his head. He squeezed off the valve to the hose.

  “Talk to him,” Matilda said. “We have to do something.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” agreed Leo.

  Phillip heard the trailer’s squeaky door. He poured lemon-scented furniture soap onto Einstein’s hide and began scrubbing with a long push broom.

  “Whoa, boy,” Leo said. “You don’t want to wear a hole in him.”

  “I’m sorry,” Phillip said. “I know I shouldn’t have gone into the stands during the show.” He gnawed his bottom lip. “Please don’t make me do it, Dad.”

  “Do what?”

  “Don’t make me go to clown school. I’d make a terrible clown. I don’t even have a sense of humor.”

  His dad laughed so hard he had to pinch his nose and hold his breath to regain his composure. Phillip hated how hard it was to have a serious conversation with a clown.

  “Why were you in the stands?” Leo finally asked.

  “I wanted to talk to a boy,” Phillip said. “I should have waited. It won’t happen again.”

  Einstein roared. Leo helped Phillip rinse him off. When they were done, they flipped their buckets and sat.

  “What’s it like, Dad? Life outside the circus?”

  “Not as good.”

  “It’s got to be better than shoveling elephant pens.”

  “Trust me, son.”

  “How will I ever know for sure?” Phillip asked.

  “You belong here. You need to find something you’re good at, that’s all, and I have just the thing.” Leo went into the trailer and came back with the long box. Matilda came out, too.

  “Happy eleventh birthday, son,” said Leo.

  Phillip grabbed the present and tore into the wrapping paper. He lifted the top off the box and pushed aside the tissue. A long sword shone up at him.

  “It’s a swallowing sword,” Leo said.

  Phillip gulped.

  “For a sword-swallowing act,” Leo added.

  Phillip stared at the shiny metal. He picked it up by the handle and watched the sun glint off the sharp-looking edge.

  “See,” Leo said to Matilda. “I told you he’d be crazy about it.”

  Crazy is right, Phillip thought. Just looking at the sword made his throat hurt. All the disappointments of birthdays past came rushing back: the hot-coal-walking kit, the red and yellow striped leotard, the purple unicycle, the snake that almost ate him. He had been polite, said thank you, and pretended to like the circus presents. But this time, his hopes had been too high. He couldn’t even force himself to smile. It was so unfair. How could he get his dad to understand that he would never be a circus star?

  Phillip jumped up and flung the sword. It sailed straight into one of the wooden posts holding up a tent and stuck fast.

  “Wow. Great throw,” said Leo. “We can use that in the act.”

  “I don’t want to be in the act,” Phillip told him.

  “What?” Leo asked.

  Phillip didn’t want to hurt his dad’s feelings, but he couldn’t stop himself. His words poured out like clowns from a fallen phone booth.

  “I don’t want to be in the act, and I don’t want to be in the circus. I’ve tried, but I don’t fit in. I want to live in a regular town like a regular kid. Let me stay with Aunt Veola and Uncle Felix.”

  “I don’t know,” said Leo, scratching his wig.

  “Only for a while,” Phillip added. “So I can figure out where I belong.”

  Einstein stomped, demanding attention. Matilda rubbed his trunk.

  “I’ll call Veola,” she told her husband.

  “Let’s not rush into this,” said Leo. “Pennsylvania is hundreds of miles from here, and we don’t even have money for a train ticket.”

  Phillip asked, “If we did have the money, could I go?”

  “Sure,” said Leo. “But we don’t.”

  “Yes, we do,” said Phillip. He ran over to the post and, using more strength than he thought he had, yanked out the sword. He put it back in the box and handed it to his dad. “If you return my present, we can use the money to buy a ticket.”

  “I don’t know,” said Leo.

  “Let’s let him go,” said Matilda. “The boy is right. He needs to understand what the world is like if he’s ever to find his place in it. If we make the arrangements quickly, he’ll be able to start the new school year in Hardingtown.”

  Leo shook his head. “Sorry,” he said, pushing the box back to Phillip. “I didn’t save the receipt.”

  Phillip sighed and reached for the box, but his mom intercepted it and handed it back to Leo.

  “I did,” she said.

  She pulled the crinkled receipt out of her pocket and held it high. Einstein lifted his trunk and blew. To Phillip, the sound was like a train whistle.

  According to circus superstition, when a performer leaves the show, it’s bad luck to say good-bye. Unless you want to jinx someone, the only appropriate parting words are, “See you down the road.”

  “Take care of yourself, son,” Leo said to Phillip as they stood on the platform waiting for the Amtrak Limited. Phillip was glad he was not superstitious.

  He clutched his ticket to his chest, needing to feel it against his pounding heart to remind himself that this was not a dream. There was a bench next to the train station’s tiny ticket booth, but Phillip was so full of nervous energy he thought it better to stand.

  Suddenly, a whistle screamed, and the train screeched into the station. A gust of wind from the train’s approach almost made Leo’s rainbow wig fly off.

  Matilda grabbed Phillip and squeezed. For a moment, he thought he might suffocate in the folds of her enormous polka-dot dress.

  “Uncle Felix will pick you up,” she said. “If he’s not there when you arrive, wait for him on the bench under the sign.”

  Phillip felt mixed up. He wanted to smile and cry at the same time. Of course he was excited to go live with Aunt Veola and Uncle Felix, but would he fit in?

  “All aboard,” the voice over the loudspeaker said.

  Phillip slipped his ticket into his trousers and kissed the teary spot on his mom’s cheek. Leo held out his hand for a shake.

  “Put it there, son,” he said. Phillip pushed back his shoulders, proudly.

  Bzzzzz. The hand buzzer made Phillip’s whole hand tingle.

  “Gotcha!” Leo said. He hit a button on his neck strap and his bow tie spun.

  Phillip wondered why his father always dressed and acted like a clown, even when he wasn’t performing. He faked a half smile and fumbled with his luggage. Pedro, the elephant trainer, had shown Phillip how to mount an elephant many times. No one had ever taught him how to mount a train. Halfway up the steps to the passenger car, his suitcase fell. On his second try, the circus trunk slid back down. Finally, by holding his suitcase in front of him and bouncing it up one step at a time, while dragging his circus trunk behind him, Phillip mounted the train.

  “See you down the road,” his mom called.r />
  “And remember,” his dad added, “it’s better to have your eye on the ball than a ball in your eye.”

  Phillip waved good-bye from the window by his seat. He was one of a handful of people on the train. The man seated closest to him snored. The ride itself felt like any one of the Windy Van Hooten Circus trucks, but it gave him excited goose bumps. He wasn’t stealing through the darkness to another nameless place to put on the same boring show. He was heading toward a new life, in broad daylight, with his eyes open, and anything was possible.

  The world flew past his window. Scattered houses turned into trees, which grew into thick forests. The forests thinned into meadows, which bloomed with wildflowers, which brought grazing cows. The cows dwindled, replaced by barking dogs in fenced yards behind scattered houses. The houses crowded closer together as yards shrank into spaces barely big enough to hold them.

  “Hardingtown Station,” the conductor called. “Next stop Hardingtown Station.”

  Phillip jumped from his seat. He dragged his luggage down the aisle and pushed open the exit door.

  The platform where the two cars were joined together trembled like an inexperienced lion tamer. He tested it as if it were a tightrope, then held onto a metal wall handle for support. Through the glass on the door, he saw his faint reflection staring back. He was too skinny. His thick red hair stuck up in the back. His metal-framed eyeglasses jutted from huge ears. They sat clumsily on his short, pointy nose, which had a single freckle at the end. Phillip stuck out his tongue. His glasses slid down his nose.

  “Hardingtown Station,” the conductor called. “All off for Hardingtown Station.”

  Phillip was proud of himself for being first in line. He was off to a great start. No more square peg in a round hole. No more running from clowns throwing pies. No more tripping over his own two feet. Now, to get off the train without falling down the steps.

  WELCOME TO HARDINGTOWN

  THE UNOFFICIAL

  DODGEBALL CAPITAL OF THE WORLD

  HOST OF THE ANNUAL DODGEBALL

  WORLD SERIES AND BARBECUE

  HOME TO THE AMERICAN DODGEBALL COMPANY

  VISIT THE HISTORICAL DODGEBALL MUSEUM

  Phillip saw the big sign as the door opened. Dodgeball? He wondered what that was.

  He sat on a bench and watched people rush around. The weather was dreary for late August. A fog had moved in and covered Phillip’s new town with mist. When he realized he was the only person left, he reached for the snack bag his parents had packed.

  Phoomp!

  A long, green, slinky snake shot from the bag. He could hear his dad’s chuckles, even though there were now two hundred miles between them.

  Phillip checked out his bag: a cold hot dog, peanuts, and a candy apple. All his favorites, yet they seemed different without the blaring circus music and smell of greasepaint. Like they were old and stale. He nibbled the hot dog, trying to make it last.

  He wondered what he should do if Uncle Felix never came.

  Once a circus dog learns to ride a bicycle, it’s hard to stop him. But it takes the trainer a long time to teach the dog to ride. The trick, his mom once told Phillip, is to realize it’s no trick. It’s a matter of patience.

  Phillip was losing patience, waiting for Uncle Felix to pick him up at the Hardingtown Station. He tried to remember what Uncle Felix looked like from the time he and Aunt Veola had visited the circus when Phillip was five years old. No use. All the men passing by, in their noncircus clothes, looked alike.

  Phillip saw a woman approach. She wore a tan raincoat and a serious expression. Her dark brown hair was pulled back tight. Accompanied by her stocky body, the hairstyle made her look like a juggling pin. Phillip thought he should ask her the time.

  “You must be Phillip,” she said. She removed a plain white handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her hand with it. “I’m Aunt Veola.”

  She shook Phillip’s hand with a firm grip, then wiped her hand again.

  “You can catch a cold from a handshake,” she explained as she slipped the handkerchief back into her pocket. Phillip liked the look of her face. Add a few more chins and it had the same shape as his mom’s.

  “Your Uncle Felix was supposed to pick you up over a half hour ago. Don’t ask me how a man who has lived in Hardingtown all his life could get lost on his way to the train station, but he managed.”

  Phillip felt he should say something clever to make a good impression.

  “I’m assuming this is yours,” she said, tapping her shoe against his suitcase. He nodded.

  “That one, too?” she asked, pointing at the trunk. Phillip nodded again, hating his shyness.

  “I hope we have enough drawers,” she said. As they walked toward the station steps, she asked, “You do know how to talk?”

  He nodded. “I mean, yes.”

  “Your Uncle Felix has the opposite problem,” she said. “He never knows when to stop talking.” They reached the parking lot and loaded the trunk of her brown sedan.

  “I’ll take the long route so you can get a look at downtown Hardingtown,” she said. Phillip had never seen a city close up before. The Windy Van Hooten Circus caravan bypassed cities to avoid traffic, and the circus tents were set up on the outskirts.

  How crowded Hardingtown was, with its rows of sturdy, multistoried buildings. Trees dotted the wide sidewalks, their trunks shooting up from tiny squares of dirt surrounded by yards of concrete. Traffic lights shouted orders at obedient cars while streams of people rushed through crosswalks.

  Phillip rolled down his window. The grind of car engines and tidbits of conversations floated through the sedan. The fresh brew of a coffee shop mixed with the fumes from a dump truck. Near a busy intersection was a large, domed building. To Phillip, it looked like there were a zillion steps leading up to it. People were rushing in and out. Many were dressed in business suits and carrying briefcases.

  “That’s the courthouse,” Aunt Veola said, “where I work. You’ll meet me there after school each day. When I get off at five-thirty, we’ll drive home together.”

  “Where’s the school?” he asked.

  “Four blocks that way.” She pointed down a side street. “You’ll see it in the morning.”

  Phillip pushed his glasses up his nose and smiled. Tomorrow was August 30, the first day of school. His mom had enrolled him as a sixth-grade student at Hardingtown Middle School, the same school she and Aunt Veola had attended.

  “Over there is Newman’s Trophies,” Aunt Veola said, pointing to a storefront.

  Phillip gazed at the trophy shop. In the window was a giant silver statue of a man in a victorious pose.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “That,” said Aunt Veola, “is the most coveted prize in Hardingtown—the Dodgeball Master Championship Trophy.” It was three feet high and took up most of the window. “They award it once a year,” she explained, “on the last day of the Annual Dodgeball World Series and Barbecue.” Even from the rear window, as the shop began to shrink with the distance, the trophy looked huge.

  “Over there is the Hardingtown Hotel,” she said. “That’s where your Uncle Felix used to work. He was a valet. Do you know what a valet is?”

  Phillip shook his head.

  “He parked cars for the hotel guests. When the hotel lot was full, his job was to find another place in the city to park the cars. Nearly a year, he worked there. Then he forgot where he parked a couple of the cars, and they fired him.” She clicked on the sedan’s left-turn signal. “He’s got a job as a seam inspector at the factory now. You can see the smokestack from here.”

  Phillip looked off to his right. The smokestack jutted out from above the roofs of the well-maintained row homes. It had neon letters that lit up one at a time. A-M-E-R-I-C-A-N D-O-D-G-E-B-A-L-L C-O-M-P-A-N-Y.

  Phillip remembered the train station sign: THE UNOFFICIAL DODGEBALL CAPITAL OF THE WORLD.

  “What is dodgeball?” he asked.

  The car jerked to
a stop.

  “Dodgeball is Hardingtown, and Hardingtown is dodgeball,” Aunt Veola declared. Phillip gave her the same blank expression he used to give his dad when he told a new joke. A car began blowing its horn, and she accelerated.

  “I thought it was some kind of a game,” Phillip said.

  “Of course it’s a game,” said Aunt Veola. “But here in Hardingtown it’s more than that. The American Dodgeball Company is the city’s biggest employer. There is no greater honor in Hardingtown than being inducted into the Historical Dodgeball Museum’s Hall of Fame. If you want to get along around here, you’ll have to play.”

  That was the end of it. They continued in silence.

  Aunt Veola pulled the sedan off the main street and through an alley. A sharp turn led up a steep hill. Houses lined the side of the hill like a staircase. Cars were crammed together in front. Aunt Veola found an empty space near a narrow, Victorian-style row home.

  “This is it,” she announced. The brightness of Aunt Veola’s clean white house made the dirty white houses on both sides look gray.

  Inside, it smelled like disinfectant. Aunt Veola gave Phillip a tour. The whole time she was pointing out the kitchen and the laundry room and the pantry, Phillip heard an echo—“If you want to get along around here, you’ll have to play.”

  When she showed him his bedroom, Phillip noticed a picture of his mom on his nightstand.

  “So you won’t get too homesick,” explained Aunt Veola. Phillip had never seen his mom looking so young. She was wearing a red knit sweater embroidered with the initials H.H.

  As he fell asleep that night Phillip couldn’t help but wonder: Why had his mom never told him about dodgeball?

  Circus lingo is confusing to outsiders. For example, a circus cookhouse is called a pie car. But the term “cherry pie” means doing extra work for extra pay. If you go to the pie car and order cherry, you’re likely to be washing dishes on an empty stomach.

  Phillip found noncircus lingo equally confusing. “Cat got your tongue?” Uncle Felix asked him between bites of crunchy breakfast cereal the next morning. A fruity puff dripped off the edge of his mouth and landed back in his bowl. He was a thick-necked man with ferociously curly blond hair that made his head look huge. Together with his chunky torso, skinny legs, and petite feet, it created a strangely shaped body that resembled an upside-down juggling pin. Exactly the opposite of Aunt Veola and, yet, a perfect upside-down fit.