by Jamie Sumner
When we pull into our driveway, Mom is standing on the porch in her slippers and jacket. She looks happy. Like, really happy. She waves at us… with a hammer. When we walk in, I see why. There’s finally something hung in the hallway: her psychology diploma. Our new normal.
Chapter Seven Two Kinds of People
The floor of my room is arctic this morning. My toes go numb on the sprint to the bathroom. One day Mom and Dad will find me down here, frozen solid underneath my Star Wars blanket, and regret their life choices.
When I get upstairs, the duffel bag from our ski trip yesterday is still by the front door. I can’t believe it. He’s actually going to walk me to the bus stop two days in a row. It’s a new record. I start to smile, then check the coatrack. His puffer’s gone. Anger wipes the grin off. He couldn’t even make it one day.
“Good! You’re dressed!” Mom hops down the hallway unsuccessfully trying to pull her shoe on. “Here, take this.” She hands me a Pop-Tart and a PediaSure. The bunny slippers are nowhere to be seen. She’s in work clothes. I take the Pop-Tart but leave the drink. She doesn’t notice.
“You look… different.”
She glances down at herself.
“It can’t be that different. I’ve worn this outfit to work at least a dozen times.”
“So you’re going back to work today?”
“Well,” she says, finally wiggling her foot into her high heel, “technically, the work is coming to me. My first client is due in”—she checks her watch—“twenty minutes!” She throws my backpack at me and opens the door. “Okay! Off you go!”
“This is emotional abandonment, Mom,” I call from the front steps. “I feel mentally unsettled by this sudden change.” I’m only half kidding.
“I’ll see if I can pencil you in for a session at four o’clock.” She kisses my head. “Have a lovely day!”
* * *
Em is pacing back and forth in front of my locker when I get to school. When she sees me, she motions for me to hurry up instead of waving like a normal person.
“Where have you been? Class starts in seven minutes!”
“Happy Tuesday to you too, Em.” To the casual observer she looks exactly like she always does—jeans, sweatshirt, hair pulled back so tight it looks like it hurts. But I am not the casual observer. Her sweatshirt’s a little rumpled and there are wisps of hair sticking straight up from her ponytail like exclamation marks. I wonder if something’s up at home? Is it her mom? She came to school again last week, during lunch this time, asking Em if she knew which site her dad was working construction on that day because she couldn’t get in touch with him and she was late to pick him up. Then she handed her a Carl’s Jr. double cheeseburger. Em buried her head in her hands while the rest of the cafeteria looked on. “Mom, I don’t even eat meat,” she moaned. I thought the heart-shaped sandwich and note were bad. But nobody wants their mother actually showing up in the middle of the cafeteria.
“Is everything okay… at home?” I pause, unsure what I’m even asking.
“What?” Em narrows her eyes. “Yes, it’s fine. What is not fine, however, is that the first Paw Print goes out on Friday. THIS FRIDAY, Hugo. And Jack hasn’t taken a single photo and Gray swears he has but he hasn’t uploaded them yet and now Mrs. Jacobsen says the program Micah wants to use to design the layout isn’t compatible with the school’s computers!” She rubs the side of her head.
“What do you want me to do?”
“You need to make sure Vij has his editorial done, and if he hasn’t”—she pokes me in the chest—“you’re finishing it.”
“Em, Vij and I aren’t—”
She holds up a hand.
“I don’t want to hear it. You two work out your issues on your own time. I’m done with my exposé on the illegal use of the handicapped parking spaces, of course, but I’ve got to meet with Mrs. Jacobsen to sort this Micah thing out.”
“What Micah thing?” Micah asks, wandering up to us. Today his turtleneck is green.
“Micah, listen—” Em pulls him down the hallway while I use up all my remaining six minute and forty-seven seconds talking to Andrew about his new strategy for winning over Coach, which involves six packs of SlimFast and IcyHot gel for his knee. We pass Jasmine and one of her friends, and they both smile at me, and I forget everything Andrew is saying to me and everything Em told me to do.
Then I walk into English and see Vij—already in his seat, head down, hood up—and I remember Em told me I have to play nice. I sit.
Without turning around, I say, “Em’s on the warpath. You’ve got to turn in your editorial.”
“Got it.”
“Good. Because I’m not writing it.”
And that is the end of our social interaction. But it’s only the start to my backward day where my cousin won’t talk to me but everybody else does. Word of the Garbologist—solver of mysteries, matchmaker, game changer—has gotten around. Two seventh-grade boys slip me a Ziploc stuffed with Mr. Lutz’s trash. They’re trying to pass life science. A girl in my Spanish class hands me a paper bag filled with things she collected from the floor of her brother’s car. She wants me to tell her how to get him to give her rides more often so she won’t have to take the bus. When we get to lunch, Jasmine and the rest of the girls’ soccer team wave at me long enough to make me trip over my own foot and bump into Em, who spills her barbecue chickpea puffs all over the table.
She huffs and I help her pick them all up, conveniently letting Micah take my spot when Vij arrives.
Em lunges over me toward him. “Did you finish?”
“I’ll have it done by the end of today,” he says without looking at her.
“End of today like end of school. Not end of today like midnight, right?”
“Chill, Em. You’ll get it,” Vij says. “Why can’t you ever relax?”
Em shrinks back.
“Dude, easy,” I say, and Vij finally turns to me.
“Heard you did a little night skiing.”
He’s mad I went without him. Like I owe him anything.
“Who told you?”
“My dad.” Vij stirs his fruit salad until it dissolves into a puddle of pink-and-green mush. Gray takes a picture of it.
“That is not on the list of required shots,” Em barks. He snaps one of her, and she shields her eyes like a vampire.
“You got first run at the mountain?” Jack asks. “I bet it was insane.”
Vij snorts.
“You know what? Yeah, it was awesome. Best snow I’ve ever skied. Powder at the top. No slush or ice at the bottom. And no lift lines.” I sit back in my seat. “If you’re gonna ski, that’s the way to do it.”
Vij opens his mouth to say something, but Em slaps her hand down on the table.
“Enough! We need to strategize!” She talks at us for the rest of lunch, which is fine by me because then I don’t have to look at Vij.
* * *
Maybe it’s because of all the weirdness at lunch, but I forget to prepare myself for gym. I forget about Chance. Everyone knows that the minute you forget about the monster, the monster appears.
My shoelaces have somehow twisted themselves into such a complicated knot that I have to sit down to untangle them. Except the benches are full of everyone else sitting down to put on their shoes. I prop my foot up on my locker and try to tug at what I hope is the looser end of the shoelace. It doesn’t go well. I lose my balance and take a step back. My heel lands on Chance’s toe. Hard.
“Get off!”
He shoves me forward and my shoulder hits the locker. I stay leaning against it—for moral support.
“Sorry! I’m off!”
The room goes silent.
“Are you still learning to walk, baby Hugo?” He leans in close. Under the locker room funk of mold and feet, I can smell him—morning breath that lasts all day and armpit sweat. There’s one giant pimple ready to erupt on his forehead. I try to back up, but there’s nowhere to go. Across the room, Vij stands stil
l, a spectator like everybody else.
“I said I’m sorry.”
“What’s that, little man?”
He tilts his ear toward me, and I clear my throat, but the shame sticks.
“I’m sorry,” I say as loud as I can manage.
He straightens up and I am eye level with his sternum.
“That’s okay.” He pats me roughly on the shoulder. “I mean, if a baby’s just learning to walk, you can’t really get mad at them when they fall, right, Hugo?”
I don’t say anything. I couldn’t now if I tried. I keep my eyes on my shoes. I blink and the laces blur. Maybe if I’m still enough, he’ll stop.
“Let’s give it up for little Hugo, guys! He just took his first step!” Chance starts to slow clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. They hit me like slaps. Clap. Slap. Clap. Slap. A few basketball guys join in, looking confused. Andrew is at the end of our bench. He doesn’t clap, but he doesn’t stop it. It’s like our walk to class this morning where he couldn’t stop thanking me for all my help with Coach never happened. He looks away, just like Vij. It hurts even though I tell myself it shouldn’t. How many times have I done the same to Micah? It’s harder than it looks to stand up to a bully. Then the worst thing happens—I start to cry. I’m not making noises. It’s not that kind of cry, but everyone sees the one tear that escapes before I can scrub it away with the back of my hand. I haven’t cried in front of a bully since T-ball.
Chance pauses. Crying is the most humiliating way to stop the teasing—like waving your underwear in surrender. At least it’s over. I need to get out of here. The space is too hot and too close. Too many bodies with too much nervous energy. But Chance isn’t done. He leans in close and sniffs loudly. “Something stinks. You better stop playing in the trash, man.” Then he rubs my head. “For luck.”
* * *
I’m the last one to leave the locker room. It’s peaceful in here without lockers slamming and toilets flushing. I collapse on the empty bench and work on my shoelace. The knot comes away easily.
Chance basically called me a baby and then rubbed my head like a lucky penny in front of everyone. And I let him. It’s the diaper helmet in T-ball and being called “Shorts” for years. It’s every class photo where I have to stand in the front row all the way to the left because they line us up according to size. It’s so unfair. I always just stand there and take it.
Vij sticks his head around the corner. “Uh, Coach called roll. He wants you out on the court.” His voice is quiet. Polite.
“Yeah, got it.”
He ducks out and then sticks his head back in. “We’re playing dodgeball. You’re on my team.”
Dodgeball. Of course.
In the gym, Coach is finishing lining up red and yellow rubber balls along the half-court line. The yellow ones are smaller but harder, so they hurt worse. Chance is on the far side, shooting free throws with a red one. Every shot goes in.
I take my place along the baseline. Everyone is careful not to look at me. I’ve never wanted to hurl a ball at someone more in my life. The sides are pretty evenly matched. Andrew and a couple other tall guys are on this side. It’s ten against ten. Coach puts his whistle in his mouth and steps back.
Here’s the thing you have to know about dodgeball. It separates the world into two types of people: the ones who know fear and the ones who don’t. If you’re not scared, those balls lined up neat and tidy along the half-court line are all for you. You hold five at once and throw like a quarterback from baseline to baseline. You don’t worry about getting hit, because you know the smaller guys, your wingmen, have got your back. They’re dispensable. One goes down, and another fills his place. Their whole job is to protect you, their MVP. You are a machine, and you can take your time picking your target, pacing back and forth underneath the basket like a lion.
But those of us who know fear play the game differently. We know that first dash to half-court isn’t for us. We hang back. Maybe a ball will rocket off a foot and roll our way. Maybe it will bounce off the back wall and we’ll catch it. But that’s not our priority. We’re not in it to take people out. We’re in it to stay alive. It’s all about defense. So we dart and dive and fall to our knees so hard it burns the skin off. Anything to avoid that smack across the shoulder, stomach, shin that means we’re done. It’s survival.
Mom made me take a personality test once, but I didn’t listen to the results. You know all you need to know about yourself after one game of dodgeball.
Coach blows the whistle.
And that’s when I decide to be the other guy.
Instead of slinking back, I run straight for the line. I’m faster than I look. I scrabble for three yellows. That’s all I can hold. Andrew gets there at the same time and grabs four. Chance is already ahead of us. He’s also got four and kicks three more back toward his side, which is illegal, but Coach doesn’t call it.
Andrew and I run backward to get some distance. I throw one and miss and then throw another. It just barely nicks the arm of a kid from history class. It’s enough. A hit is a hit. He heads to the bench. I get a second out on the butt of someone bending over to pick up a red ball. Easy target. I laugh out loud. Who knew all you needed to do to win was get angry?
“Dude, what?” is all Vij has time to say before he ducks a vicious spiral from Chance that I’m pretty sure was aimed at me. For once, my size is my advantage. Smaller body, smaller target.
“Here.” I pass him my last ball and run for more.
I’m bouncing on my toes halfway to the middle of the court before the other side catches on that I’m not playing my usual role. Peter, from English, can’t get out of my way fast enough. He goes down with a hit to the knee. From the corner of my eye, I see Chance signal to his wingman. They both march toward me, and I dance back a few feet. Andrew passes me a ball on my left, but before he can get another one for himself, he gets hit and Coach waves him to the sidelines.
“Sorry, man,” he calls. The kid that tagged him stands there watching him jog off the court, so I nail him with an easy lob. He looks around, surprised. You take my guy, I’ll take you.
By now it’s down to me and Vij against Chance and Gray. I feel bad for Gray. I’m pretty sure he only plays soccer because of Jack. He once told me he thinks team sports shouldn’t keep score. “I just don’t see the point,” he said, and shook his head, and now Chance is up in his face, yelling “GET THE BALL!” I can see the spit flying. My heart’s hammering, but my hands are steady. We each have one ball. This is it.
Chance winds up like a pitcher.
But I release mine first.
His is faster. It whistles through the air.
There’s no time to move.
A body flies past me. It’s Vij. He dives in front of me like he’s sliding into home base. The ball smacks his hand and it echoes like a whip. I look over him, following the arc of my own throw. Chance ducks and it gets Gray square in the stomach.
Vij and Gray take their places on the benches along with the rest of the class. It’s down to me and Chance. The sidelines are full and silent. One yellow ball rolls slowly toward me. Chance has one at his feet. He’s sweating and grunting and tired. It’s the best I can hope for.
For one second we stand there, looking at each other.
Then I dive for my ball and he dives for his.
I scoop it up and release with as much topspin as I can.
It’s a beautiful throw. A perfect one.
But it’s not enough.
I hear the slap of the ball before I feel the sting. Surprise comes first, then the pain. He got me right in the face. My eyes water and the gym floor blurs. Oh, I’m on the floor now. Some kind of liquid is coming out of my face. Blood? Sweat? Snot? All three? Black spots dance in front of my eyes, and I close them and curl up, because a nap seems like the best choice right now. Somewhere far away, Coach is blowing the whistle and yelling, “Foul!” over and over.
* * *
Vij walks me to the nurse’s office. Like my
mom, Nurse Ruby is from Texas. Except unlike my mom, you can really tell. She’s got a big accent and even bigger hair.
“Here, hon.” She hands me a bag filled with ice and wrapped in a towel. “I know it’s cold, but you’ve got to keep that on there or the swelling’s going to turn you black and blue.”
“Thanks, Nurse Ruby.”
“Sure thing.”
She turns to Vij. “You look pretty ragged yourself. Want some juice?”
He shakes his head but grins up at her. Nurse Ruby is new this year and pretty. When she walks out, Vij whispers, “Think you could look in her trash?”
I smile, but it hurts—because of my face, but also because Vij felt like he had to save me on the court. He threw himself in front of the ball to protect little baby Hugo, again. So much for the legend that was the Garbologist.
“Sorry about your shirt,” I mumble. A few drops of blood leak out onto the towel.
I’m lying on the cot, and Vij sits in the blue plastic chair near my feet. We look down at the balled-up undershirt in my hands. It’s covered in rusty red spots from my bloody nose. Apparently, he donated it to the cause when I was passed out on the gym floor.
“I think the blood is an improvement,” he jokes, but then looks out the window. “In the locker room… I should have said something. Chance is an idiot.”
When it comes to what hurts worse, it’s a tie between my nose and the embarrassment.
I close my eyes. “It’s cool.”
He nudges my foot with his knee, so I look at him.
“Hey, but you’re a celebrity now with the whole garbology thing. You have to admit it’s pretty awesome.”
He’s trying to make me feel better, which makes it a thousand times worse. Between what happened in the locker room and my total defeat on the dodgeball court, I lost any credit I’d just built up by being the Garbologist.
“Yeah, the infamous trashman,” I say with fake cheer. A dribble of ice water runs down the side of my face and into my ear.
