by Phil Bildner
I opened my hand and dropped the spork. “I was fighting this war to protect us,” I said, speaking in my warrior voice. “To prevent her from coming over here. As soon as she sees us, she’s going to join us. This war would’ve prevented that. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
At that very moment, Tiki bounded out of the lunch line.
“Shields!” I reached for my spork.
Avery smacked my hand again.
Tiki headed our way.
“I warned you,” I said.
“I knew you’d be here.” She skip-walked up. “You look like booth people.”
“All the fifth graders sit in the booths,” Avery said.
“Check this out.” Tiki slid next to Diego and plopped her tray on the table. “I bet none of you can tell me what this is.” She pointed to the top corner of her tray. “Name that food.”
Red’s hand shot up. “Crunchy baby carrots!” he blurted.
“Ha!” Tiki snort-laughed. “That’s exactly what they are!”
Diego thumbed Red. “This one can recite the school menu word for word.”
“Cool-a-rino,” Tiki said. She picked up her applesauce container, bit the end of the foil tab, and pulled it open. Then she turned to Avery. “Why are you in a wheelchair?”
“Because I can’t walk.”
“Can any of you do this?” Tiki asked, looking around the table.
She stuck her tongue straight out, bent in the ends, and hooked it back. Then she curled her upper lip so that her tongue touched the tip of her nose.
“What are you doing?” I said.
She tilted her head. “Touching my nose with my tongue.”
“Why?”
“Because I can.”
I looked at Diego. He was swinging his hat’s braided strings, rocking them back and forth. Diego’s the only kid at RJE who’s allowed to wear a hat. He started wearing hats when he got really sick a couple years ago. He’s worn one ever since.
Tiki picked up my spork and pointed to the middle of her tray. “Try naming this food.” She wagged the spork at Red. “You can’t guess. Not right away.”
Red covered his mouth with both hands.
“Something that came out of a dog’s butt,” Diego said.
Tiki looked at Avery.
“Some type of meat?”
She faced me.
I shrugged.
“Tasty fish taco!” Red burst out.
“Ding, ding, ding!” Tiki said.
“Whatever it is,” Diego said, “it’s still not as nasty as restaurant mints.”
“Dude, you and Danny scarred me for life with your presentation,” Avery said.
Last month, the whole class did a project called That’s Nasty. Everyone had to work with a partner and do a report on something super gross. Diego and Danny did theirs on restaurant mints, which get touched by so many dirty fingers and have disgusting germs all over them.
“I was named after a whale,” Tiki said, dropping my spork back on my lunch tray.
“A whale?” I said.
“Yeppers. Everyone thinks my name is Egyptian, but it’s not.”
“Dude, how are you named after a whale?” Avery asked.
“My pop is a big animal rights activist. He—”
“Pop?” Avery interrupted.
“That’s what she calls her father,” I said.
“My pop loves whales. The week I was born, he was reading about this one whale named Takara. Takara means ‘treasure’ in Japanese. That’s how I got my name. My parents say I’m a treasure, too.” She blew the hair off her forehead and hand-brushed it to the side. “BTW, I always know when we’re about to move.”
“Move?” I said.
“Yeppers. I always know when we’re about to move again.”
Avery curled her lip. “Dude, what are you talking about?”
“Pop shaves. Whenever we’re about to move again, Pop shaves.”
“Why does he shave?” Diego asked.
“It makes things less stressful when we travel. Some people act weird around him when he has his beard. Especially in airports. Shaving days are—”
“You’re Muslim?” Avery asked.
“Yeppers,” Tiki said. “My mom used to wear a hijab all the time, but not so much anymore.”
“What’s a hijab?” I asked.
“A head scarf,” Diego and Avery said at the same time.
I was surprised they both knew.
“My aunt still wears one,” Tiki said. She opened her hands and ran her fingertips over her hair. “She has this one hijab that’s navy blue with white circles. That’s my favorite. She doesn’t shake people’s hands, anyone’s hands, because—”
“How many schools have you gone to?” I cut her off.
“Eight.”
“Eight?” Diego said. “Yo, that’s a lot of schools.”
Tiki pointed to her lunch. “Why does this school still use foam trays?”
“Because the new food service is the friggin’ worst,” Avery said.
“Ms. Eunice, Ms. Carmen, Ms. Joan, Ms. Audrey, and Ms. Liz no longer work here,” Red said.
“Who are they?”
“The Lunch Bunch,” Diego said.
“I miss the Lunch Bunch,” Red said. “How are we going to have School Lunch Hero Day without the Lunch Bunch?”
Each spring, RJE celebrates School Lunch Hero Day. The Lunch Bunch come dressed as superheroes, and there’s an all-day celebration in the cafeteria. One year, every kid made an apron in art class, and another year, a group of parents formed a band called the Punk Farm Five. The school chorus sang with them.
But now only the little kids get to have art, there’s no longer a chorus, and the Lunch Bunch is gone.
“These new lunch ladies are so rude,” Avery said.
“I say we blow the lid off this joint!” Tiki smacked the table.
Red flinched.
“The food’s unrecognizable,” she said, “the trays aren’t biodegradable, and the lunch ladies are attitudinal.”
“Blow the lid off this joint?” I said. “Who says that?”
“I says that.” Tiki looked around the table. “We should do an undercover operation.”
“An undercover operation?” Diego scratched his ear under his hat.
“People need to know what’s going on,” Tiki said. “We need to expose this. We can shoot vids—”
“Dude, no way,” Avery said. “Not at RJE.”
Red hunched his shoulders and turtled his neck.
“Kids aren’t allowed to have cell phones,” I said.
“Why not?” Tiki asked.
“It’s a long story,” I said.
“I like long stories.”
I checked Red. By the way his arms were pressing against his sides, I could tell he was tapping his legs—pinky-thumb-pinky-thumb-pinky-thumb—under the table.
“RJE used to be Bring Your Own Device,” I said, “but it’s not a BYOD school anymore.”
“Why not?” Tiki asked.
“Because it’s not.” I let out a puff. “Can we not talk about this?”
“Zwibble,” Tiki said.
“What?” Avery and I said at the same time.
“Out of all my words, that’s my fave-a-fave. Zwibble.”
“What does it mean?”
“Whatever I want it to.” Tiki pumped her eyebrows at me. “I still think we should blow the lid off this joint.”
“It’s okay,” I said to Red, who was swaying. “We’re not doing this. No one’s getting in trouble.”
“We’ll do an undercover operation that will bring back the Lunch Bunch,” Tiki went on. “Because it stinky-stink-stinks when the people you care about don’t stick around. You don’t appreciate them until they’re gone.”
“Who says we didn’t appreciate the Lunch Bunch?” I shot her a look and then looked back at Red. “No one’s getting in trouble,” I said again.
I grabbed the back of my neck and squeezed. I’d known
Tiki for less than a day—less than half a day—and I already couldn’t stand her.
Just a few hours to go, I told myself. I only had to put up with her a few more hours this afternoon and then it was time for basketball.
I could do this. In a few hours, basketball.
Practice Unexpected
I stepped through the gym doorway with Red and stopped dead in my tracks.
Tiki stood at the foul line directly in front of me.
She was talking with Coach Acevedo, but she wasn’t just talking. She was talking and dribbling. Coach Acevedo never lets anyone dribble a basketball during a conversation.
Never.
“Takara Eid!” Red pointed. “Takara Eid is here.”
Tiki was dribbling with both hands. Not with both hands at the same time, but with her right hand and her left hand.
A bunch of kids were shooting around at the hoop in front of the stage, but none were paying attention to the new girl and the coach.
“Rip and Red!” Tiki said, waving with her right hand while still dribbling with her left. She headed our way.
“You didn’t say you played basketball,” I said.
“You didn’t ask.”
“What are you doing here, Takara Eid?” Red hopped from foot to foot.
“What does it look like?” She popped a bubble.
Tiki was chewing gum. Coach Acevedo never lets anyone chew gum at basketball practice.
Never.
“I don’t think there’s room for you on the team this season,” I said.
“Of course there is,” Coach Acevedo said. He twirled his whistle in one hand and clutched his iPad in the other as he made his way over. “On Clifton United, there’s always room for a baller like Tiki.”
Baller like Tiki?
“Won’t the other teams think you’re bending the rules and bringing in a ringer?” I asked.
“Absolutely!” Coach Acevedo bumped Tiki’s shoulder. “Do you see the way she handles the rock?” He snatched his whistle. “Let them think what they want.”
“On this one team I played for,” Tiki said, “I had to bring a copy of my birth certificate to all the games.”
She began dribbling behind her back. Left to right, back and forth. Knees bent, shifting her hips, blowing bubbles. Then without stopping, she brought the ball around front and started dribbling between her legs. Left to right, back and forth. Like she was walking in place.
“How’d you learn to dribble like that, Takara Eid?” Red asked.
“Practice, Blake Daniels.” She picked up her dribble and smiled. “Practice.”
I looked down at her sneakers. She was still wearing the canvas low-tops with the different-colored laces.
“They may not be three-hundred-dollar Air Super Dupers,” she said, still smiling, “but they work a-okay-a-roozy for me. They’re my good-luck kicks.”
“We now have a bunch of ball-handlers on Clifton United,” Coach Acevedo said. “Possibilities and opportunities.” He nodded to Red. “Go show Tiki what you can do from the foul line.”
“I shoot free throws underhanded, Takara Eid,” Red said, hopping faster and smiling his super-happy basketball smile.
“Like that old-time basketball player?” she asked.
“Yes!” Red patted the Golden State Warriors logo on the front of his jersey and then spun around and tapped the name across his shoulders. “Rick Barry wore number twenty-four. That’s why I wear number twenty-four.”
“Red is Clifton United’s free-throw-shooting machine,” Coach Acevedo said.
“Amaze-balls!” Tiki said. “This I got to see.”
Just like that, my best friend and Tiki headed off.
A Whole New Ballgame
Tweet! Tweet!
“Let’s circle up!” Coach Acevedo said, waving everyone to center court.
I sprinted over and arrived first. As soon as that whistle blew, my brain shifted into basketball mode. When I’m playing ball, I’m all about hoops. That’s all my brain focuses on.
Red raced up next to me. We fist-bumped.
“Circle up,” Coach Acevedo said. “That’s my new phrase for this season. I just finished a book by my favorite coach. It’s an expression she used. Circle up.”
“Circle up,” Red repeated.
“Welcome to Fall Ball Season II,” Coach Acevedo said. “We’re going to be running things a little bit differently this season. Make that, we’re going to be running things a lot bit differently.” He twirled his whistle. “For all you new faces here, that won’t mean much. But for all you old faces, we don’t want anyone getting complacent, and if you don’t know what complacent means, look it up when you get home.”
I was pretty sure I knew what complacent meant. It’s when you don’t practice hard because you think you don’t have to.
“This season has a whole new set of rules.” Coach Acevedo picked up his iPad and checked the screen. “Once again, for all you newcomers, that won’t make a difference. But for my returnees, there are some big changes. For instance, we’re no longer playing eight-minute quarters. We’re playing twenty-minute halves this season.”
I looked around. We were a bigger team than last season. Much bigger. Chris Collins, who attended the tryouts last season but wasn’t able to play, was tall and solid. He was definitely going to play down low. So was Dylan Silver. He was even taller than Chris. He reminded me of Shaggy from Scooby-Doo.
“Clifton United has four new players,” Coach Acevedo said, “but as far as we’re concerned, everyone’s starting fresh. Tabula rasa.”
“A Latin phrase meaning ‘clean slate,’” Tiki said.
“Exactly,” Coach Acevedo said.
Tiki held up her arms and pushed out her hip. “At one of my old schools, we learned a Latin phrase a day. Carpe diem means ‘seize the day.’”
Coach Acevedo nodded. “It does.”
“And the Latin phrase—”
“I’m going to seize this moment and keep things moving, Tiki,” Coach Acevedo interrupted. “When we played back in September and October, we weren’t concerned with wins and losses. Our focus was on growing as a team, which we did. But for this second fall season, we’re shifting that focus.” He drew a circle in the air with his finger. “Clifton United goes thirteen deep, and we’re going to need all thirteen of us in order to win. Yes, win. That’s how we’re shifting our focus. This league is competitive, and we’re not just competing. We’re winning.”
We’re winning.
My brain, which was already in basketball mode, shifted into fast-and-furious basketball mode.
When it comes to basketball, I get a little bit competitive. Or to borrow Coach Acevedo’s expression, I get a lot bit competitive.
Last season, I was able to keep my crazed competitiveness in check because of Red. It was the first time we’d been able to run ball together, and that was all that really mattered (that and the fact that our team was awful, and we pretty much knew we were going to get our butts kicked every time we took the court).
But last season was the exception.
When I played on select teams in third and fourth grade, I had to win every time, and let me tell you, Mom didn’t exactly appreciate how seriously I took things. After one game, I had a Fukushima moment, as she called it (I had to look up what that meant). I started crying like a two-year-old, crawled under the bleachers, and refused to move. A parent from the team we’d lost to had to drag me out.
* * *
As soon as drills began, I went into even faster-and-more-furious basketball mode.
Coach Acevedo started us off with a full-court layup drill. Half the team lined up along one baseline, half the team lined up along the other. The first person in each line dribbled the length of the floor full speed and took a layup.
“We’re counting on a lot of layup opportunities this season,” Coach Acevedo said. “We need to hit those layups every time. Every time starts now.”
All thirteen of us had to make o
ur layups. First, we had to make them righty. Then we had to make them lefty. No stopping until we made twenty-six layups in a row.
We were able to make it through the righty layups. But the lefty layups …
Tweet! Tweet!
“Looks like we’re going to be here awhile,” Coach Acevedo said when Wil, the first person to take one, didn’t even hit the rim.
Tweet! Tweet!
“Take it from the top,” Coach Acevedo said when Mehdi’s lefty layup banged off the bottom of the rim and hit him in the forehead.
I can’t say Wil and Mehdi were our weak links because everyone was responsible for the restarts.
Well, almost everyone.
I didn’t miss a single layup. I was never the reason we had to take it from the top.
Neither was Tiki.
Tiki was a lefty. That was why she could dribble so well with her left and didn’t miss a lefty layup. I’d never been on a team with a lefty.
Tweet! Tweet!
“Time to switch things up,” Coach Acevedo said, even though we hadn’t made the twenty-six straight. “Let’s everyone get a partner.”
I slid next to Red.
“Since we have an odd number,” Coach Acevedo said, “Max, you’re with me.”
Max was another new player. During lefty layups, he was the one who had missed when we got the closest. When he did, Red was the first to give him a pound. Red was the first to give everyone a pound or high five and say “Good try” or “Shake it off” when they missed their layups.
That’s Red.
The next drill was another full-court layup drill, but this drill involved passing. Each pair had to pass the ball back and forth while running down the court. The ball wasn’t allowed to hit the floor, and we weren’t allowed to travel.
Red and I went first.
“You ready?” I asked.
“Ready as I’ll ever be, Mason Irving.”
Tweet! Tweet!
“Here come Rip and Red,” I play-by-played. “Rip sends it across to Red, Red passes it back. Slide-stepping from the foul line to half-court—that’s some good-looking footwork from this duo. Rip passes to Red, Red to Rip. Rip leads Red inside the foul line … He shoots … It’s good!”
