Captain Nobody

by Dean Pitchford

  “Thanks to you.”

  He extended his palm.

  I slapped him five.

  And at that moment, all the hurting stopped.

  24

  IN WHICH A LITTLE OLD LADY MAKES ME LAUGH

  The parade took place two days later on a crisp, sunny November Sunday. Because it wasn’t just a victory celebration for the Ferrets anymore, the Fillmore High School marching band was joined by Merrimac’s band, and together, they made an awesome sound as they strutted through the heart of town.

  I was propped up on a dozen pillows in the back of an open convertible. On a little cushion in my lap sat Ferocious the Ferret, tilting his head in constant surprise as throngs of people lining the streets cheered and tossed confetti.

  JJ and Cecil rode along with Ferocious and me. Because my ribs were still tender, they did most of the waving.

  Right behind us, another convertible carried Chris and some of his teammates, including Darryl Peeps. Nobody blamed Darryl for knocking out my brother, nor did they continue to blame Reggie Ratner. “It’s all a part of the game,” my brother said in an interview for the Appleton Sentinel, and after that, it seemed like everybody shrugged and forgave everybody else.

  I had started using crutches to get around (JJ warned me that if I kept it up, I’d be in danger of developing biceps). When we got to City Hall and I hobbled out onto the stage that had been built over the front steps, the crowd roared and Cecil did an air-drum solo. Then the speeches and presentations began.

  First, Fillmore High School got their championship trophy, and the Ferrets all pushed my brother up front to accept the big, gold statue. Next, Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan gave JJ a pair of diamond solitaire earrings to show their appreciation for her part in stopping the robbery.

  “From now on, m’dear,” Mr. Sullivan announced to JJ, “you are always welcome to correct any sign in our window.”

  The pilot and the passengers of the plane that made the emergency landing all decided that, if Cecil hadn’t volunteered me to take Ferocious home for the night, none of us would ever have been on the highway that day. So they chipped in to buy Cecil a set of drums and a year of lessons.

  Plus, they gave Cecil’s mom and dad each a pair of earplugs.

  Finally, Mr. Clay the locksmith cut a special gold key that he hung on a purple ribbon and laid in a velvet box. As the mayor handed it to me, he declared, “The citizens of Appleton are proud to present the Key to the City to Newton Newman, who has saved many lives and enriched many more.”

  The crowd clapped and whistled and started whooping, “Newt! Newt! Newt! Newt!”

  Looking out over the sea of smiling faces, I saw neighbors and friends of my parents, classmates of mine and teammates of Chris. I spotted Mr. Toomey and Mrs. Young and Mr. Brockman and the nurses and doctors from the hospital. Reggie Ratner was there with his cousin Ricky and the rest of the Merrimac football team. And there were hundreds and hundreds of people I’d never even met, all chanting, “Newt! Newt! Newt!”

  How amazing is this? I thought. They know my name.

  Afterward, on the grounds of City Hall, the bands kept playing as everyone danced and ate and celebrated through the afternoon and into the autumn evening. I hobbled on my crutches from crowd to crowd, meeting new people, shaking hands and posing for pictures. By the time the sun was setting, I was pretty sore and very tired.

  “Why don’t we get you home?” Dad finally said.

  JJ hugged me good-bye and pushed the hair back over her ears to model her diamond earrings. “Imagine, Newt,” she whispered as her eyes teared up. “Diamonds like Splendida would wear.”

  Cecil gave me one of his complicated handshakes. “Do you believe it, man?” he asked. “I’m gonna be a drummer!”

  “You always have been,” I told him.

  When we got home, my parents returned to doing all the things that they would ordinarily do on a November evening. Dad switched his phone back on, and it immediately started ringing, while his beeper vibrated itself right off the kitchen counter.

  “Newt, honey,” Mom asked, “have you seen the mortgage papers for that house on Hummingbird Lane?”

  “Look between the Frosted Flakes and the Cheerios,” I answered.

  “Of course, of course,” she said (as if that made all the sense in the world to file “contracts” with “cereal”), and she headed for the pantry.

  In the silence that followed, Chris turned to me and smiled.

  “Tired?” he asked.

  “Down to the bone.”

  He took my crutches and put a hand under my arm to help me thump-thump-thump up the stairs to my room. As I got ready for bed, he busied himself by flipping through my sketchbook of mutant crimefighters.

  “Wow, Newt. I had no idea,” he finally said, looking up. “You’re good.”

  “Thanks,” I said quietly. Nothing that had happened that day—not the cheering crowds or the key to the city or even the mayor’s speech—nothing made me feel as good as those words.

  “So how does it feel to be a hero?” Chris asked as I swung my cast up into bed and eased back onto my pillows.

  “I’m not really a hero,” I shrugged. “I’m just a kid who happened to be in the right place at the right time, that’s all.”

  He chuckled. “Add a ball to that equation, and you’ve just described my sports career.”

  “But you’re a . . .” I tried to find the right word, “. . . a legend.”

  “A legend?” He doubled over with laughter as he sat down on the edge of my bed.

  “I have to tell you one story,” he said, still chuckling. “Today, at City Hall, when we were shaking all those hands and taking all those photographs, y’know, I met this sweet old couple who had read all about your amazing feats. They had driven in from out of state just to be there. I was introduced to them as Chris Newman, and this little, gray-haired lady looks up at me and says, ‘Who?’”

  “She did not!” I exclaimed.

  “She did,” Chris insisted. “And so I said, ‘Chris Newman? I’m Newt Newman’s older brother.’ And this lady looks me in the face and says, ‘Hmm. I didn’t know Newt Newman had an older brother.’”

  We both laughed so hard that I had to grab my ribs. “Stop! Stop! It hurts!” I said, which only made us laugh some more.

  We talked until Mom and Dad popped in to kiss us both good night. After they left, when the whole house got so quiet that we could hear the first winds of winter outside my window, Chris finally sighed and stood up.

  “It was a good day,” he said, smiling down at me.

  “It was,” I nodded.

  We high-fived each other, and he headed out. But then he stopped at the door of my bedroom with his hand on the light switch.

  “Oh, and by the way, bro,” he said with a wink, “there’s a monster under your bed.”

  CLICK!

  DEAN PITCHFORD writes: “In my first-grade Christmas pageant I played St. Joseph. I wore a drab, floor-length brown cloak draped over my school uniform, but the moment I saw myself in a mirror, I was transformed. I suddenly felt six feet tall! And bearded! Even after our little show was over, I pleaded to wear the cape until lunchtime . . . and then until final bell. I’d probably still be wearing it today if my teacher hadn’t put her foot down. That’s when I first suspected that in the right clothes—magic clothes—I could be anybody I ever imagined.”

  Dean Pitchford, author of The Big One-Oh, starred on Broadway in Pippin and Godspell before turning to songwriting and screenwriting. His multimillionselling songs include the Oscar-winning “Fame,” “Footloose,” “Holding Out for a Hero” and “After All.” He has been nominated for four Academy Awards, five Grammys and two Tonys. His stage musical adaptation of Footloose played over 700 performances on Broadway and is now being produced around the world.

  Visit Dean at www.deanpitchford.com

  Learn more about Captain Nobody at www.captainnobody.com

  nbsp; Dean Pitchford, Captain Nobody