by Phil Bildner
“Bam!” Red cheered.
“Boo-yah!” I scooped up the ball. “We need a new handshake.”
“Oh, yeah!” Red said. “A new season, a new handshake.”
“Let’s come up with one this week.”
As we waited in line, I studied my teammates. Tiki and Chris fired crisp passes and looked like they’d been playing together for years. Maya and Dylan were in perfect sync, too. Dylan’s arms were so long that when he went up for his layup, his fingers brushed the bottom of the backboard. Jason and Wil made it the length of the court with the ball only touching the floor once. Jason sank the layup going up strong.
This Clifton United team had all the pieces: ball-handlers, rebounders, passers, inside scoring threats, shooters. It was just a matter of putting those pieces in place.
“Back come Rip and Red,” I announced as we stepped onto the court for our next turn. “These two really look sharp out there. Red across to Rip. Rip back to Red nearing the top of the key. Red to Rip … Rip to Red … Red back to Rip for the lefty layup … bang!”
* * *
“Let’s circle up,” Coach Acevedo said, standing at midcourt after the final drill. “Hustle on over.”
No one hustled on over. There was no hustling left to be had. We staggered to midcourt. Max and Maya lay down. Then Jeffrey lay down between them. Then the rest of the team dropped. Except for Red, but only because Red doesn’t sit on floors. We’d run more at this practice than we had at all the practices last season combined.
“Wow.” Coach Acevedo laughed. “So much for circling up in a huddle.” He clapped and pointed to the stage. “Let’s go have a seat up there.”
We zombie-walked to the end of the gym, but not everyone made it onto the stage. Max and Jeffrey dropped to the court again. Dylan and Chris sat down beside them.
I sat next to Red, who leaned over the front of the stage. Tiki was on his left.
“Clifton United is going to be in better shape than every other team,” Coach Acevedo said. “Conditioning is our key. We’re going to run our opponents off the court.”
I pounded the stage. “I like the way that sounds!”
“Conditioning takes time,” Coach Acevedo said. “Getting in shape is a process. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
“Rome wasn’t built in a day?” Red made a face. “What does building Rome have to do with conditioning?”
“It’s an expression.” I nudged his knee. “Things take time.”
“Got it.”
“On one of my old teams,” Tiki said, sliding off the stage, “we pressed the whole game.”
My mind flashed back to last season, the first time we played Millwood. They met us on defense in the backcourt and full-court pressed us all game. It was out of control. Their coach was out of control, too. He yelled the whole time; I called him Coach Crazy.
But the second time we played them, we showed them. Red sure did.
“We should have a pressing strategy,” Tiki said, still chewing her gum. She stepped next to Coach Acevedo. “Full-court, man-to-man coverage the whole game. We’ll be in shape for it.”
“It’s something to consider,” Coach Acevedo said. “Now, when—”
“On my old team,” Tiki interrupted, “my coach used this math strategy. That’s why we pressed the whole game. You see, there are two time limits in basketball.” She crossed her arms and held up her fingers like she was making peace signs. “You have five seconds to get the ball inbounds, and ten seconds to get the ball across midcourt.”
“I learned about that on a sports show!” Red leaped off the stage. “This man had to coach his daughter’s basketball team, but he didn’t know anything about basketball.” He hopped from foot to foot. “So the man used a math strategy and coached the team all the way to the championship!”
“Exacta-rino! That’s where my old coach got the idea.” Tiki pointed her index fingers at Red and moved her arms back and forth like she was dancing. “Forcing turnovers and making layups—that was his strategy. That was our strategy, too.”
“Did you win the championship, Takara Eid?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “We moved before the end of the season.”
I brushed the locks off my forehead and looked away. In a matter of hours, Tiki had taken over my table in class, taken over my booth in the cafeteria, and now she was taking over basketball.
CC and Tiki
“I’m starting Community Circle today with one of mi abuela’s sayings,” Mr. Acevedo said.
We were all seated in the meeting area. Red and I were on the green polka-dotted beanbag chairs next to the couch. Mr. Acevedo sat cross-legged on the carpet where he always did.
“Before I do,” he said, “will someone please bring Tiki up to speed? Explain to her what I’m talking about.” He pointed with his chin to Sebi.
“Mr. Acevedo likes to share his grandmother’s sayings,” Sebi said without looking up from the gargoyle he was doodling on his folder. “They’re pieces of advice or words to live by.”
“He visits her every summer in the Dominican Republic,” Hunter said.
“My family is from the DR,” Mr. Acevedo said. “So my grandmother, mi abuela, likes to—”
“How many tattoos do you have?” Tiki interrupted.
“Many.”
“At one of my old schools,” Tiki said, “the teachers weren’t allowed to have tattoos. If they did, they had to keep them covered.”
Mr. Acevedo nodded. “En boca cerrada no entran moscas.”
“One of my teachers had to wear gloves,” Tiki said, holding out her hands. “She had moons and stars on all her fingers.”
Mr. Acevedo nodded again. “En boca cerrada no entran moscas,” he repeated.
“A shut mouth doesn’t catch flies,” Diego said, swinging his hat strings.
“Pretty close,” Mr. Acevedo said.
“Flies don’t enter a shut mouth,” Christine said.
“Excellent.” Mr. Acevedo recrossed his legs and grabbed his ankles. “So what do you think that means?” He chin-pointed to Xander.
“If you don’t speak, you can’t say anything bad,” he said.
“That’s pretty close, too, X,” Mr. Acevedo said.
Tiki’s hand shot up. She waved it like a kindergartner.
Mr. Acevedo called on her.
“The school where my teacher had the moons and stars tattooed on her fingers also had a dress code,” she said.
“I’d be in trouble if RJE enforced the teacher dress code.” Mr. Acevedo chuckled.
Mr. Acevedo always wore the same pair of jeans. He told us that the first day. But he always changed his shirt, socks, and underwear. He told us that, too.
“You weren’t allowed to wear jackets, hats, or gloves during the school day.” Tiki snort-laughed. “So one rule said my teacher had to keep her tattoos covered, and another rule said she couldn’t wear gloves!”
“Thanks, Tiki.” Mr. Acevedo brushed the hair off his face. “My grandmother’s expression makes me think of the word discretion. If you don’t know what discretion means, look it up.”
I definitely knew what discretion meant. Mom used the word all the time. It means think before you do or say something.
“I have an aunt,” Mr. Acevedo said, “who has a habit of sticking her foot in her mouth.”
Red grabbed his ankle, lifted his leg, and smiled.
“She says the most inappropriate things,” Mr. Acevedo said. “It always makes everyone around her incredibly uncomfortable. Good judgment—discretion—is an important character trait. It’s one of—”
“So do you know what my teacher did?” Tiki interrupted again. “She—”
“One mic, Tiki,” Mr. Acevedo said, cutting her off. He spoke firmly. “We speak with one mic in Room 208.” He held up a finger. “We don’t interrupt others when they’re speaking.”
I covered my smirk. Tiki wasn’t taking over CC.
Operation Food Fight
; “She’s lying,” I said, picking the cheese off my pizza. “I don’t believe a word she says.”
“Why would she make things up?” Diego asked.
“Who cares?”
“She’s been to eight schools, Mason Irving,” Red said.
“No way.”
Diego, Red, and I were at lunch, sitting at the same booth as yesterday. Diego was across from me. Red was on my left.
“She always has a story,” I said. “About one of her old teachers, about one of her old schools, about one of her old teams.” I tilted back my head and dropped the cheese into my mouth. “Everything.”
“She cracks me up,” Diego said. “I like that she says whatever’s on her mind.”
I checked the kitchen area. In a matter of seconds, Tiki would be heading our way. At least today, she couldn’t …
Tiki burst off the lunch line.
“Here she comes,” I muttered.
“We’re becoming a thing,” she said, walking up. She slid next to me and tapped the fruit dish in the corner of her tray. “Name that food.”
“We’re not playing that today,” I said.
“Oh, okay.” She shrugged. “Not to be gross-hoppers, but check this out.”
She held up her thumb. She’d bitten off most of the nail and had chewed the cuticle until it was red and scabby.
“Sweet!” Diego said.
“Sweet!” Red repeated.
I looked over at the first and second graders seated at the long tables. The girl at the end of one table was so small her light-up sneakers didn’t reach the floor. The boy across from her wearing the Perry the Platypus shirt was even tinier. I didn’t think I was ever going to get used to eating with the little kids.
“So I started planning our operation,” Tiki said.
“What operation?” I said.
“Rip,” she whined. “The operation from yesterday, remember?” She swatted my arm. “We’re blowing the lid off this joint.”
“There is no operation.”
“It’s a mission, not an operation,” Diego said while chewing. “When I think of operations, I think of doctors cutting me open.” He spit the food back onto his tray.
“That was pretty,” I said.
“I can’t eat that.” He wiped his tongue with his fingers. “That’s supposed to be pizza, but that’s not pizza. That’s even worse than hospital pizza.”
“A mission it is,” Tiki said. “Now we need a name for our mission.” She took a bite of her slice.
Diego raised his spork. “The Undercover Lunch Ninjas.”
“Oh, yeah, Diego Vasquez!” Red said, his knees bouncing. “The Undercover Lunch Ninjas. I like that. I like that a lot.”
“The Undercover Lunch Ninjas are here to save RJE.” Diego jabbed his spork into the table. “Better food, better service, better days.”
“Ew,” Tiki said, spitting out her pizza and patting her tongue with a napkin. “That’s definitely not pizza.”
“I told you,” Diego said.
“It’s not that bad,” I said, even though all I was able to eat was the cheese.
“It’s not that bad,” Red said.
He was eating his pizza like he always ate pizza. First, he peeled off the crust. Then he ate the toppings, cheese, and sauce. In that order. Then he ate the bread. Except for the crust. Red never ate the crust.
“Here’s what I’m thinking for the mission,” Tiki said. She put her tray on the floor and clasped her hands on the table. “We’ll run it a few times. On different days, when they’re serving different foods.”
“Definitely on a pizza day,” Diego said.
“Yeppers, yeppers. We need at least four or five of us. We’ll each have a different role.”
“We’ll need lookouts,” Diego said.
“Ooh, I love it when a plan comes together.” Tiki unclasped her hands and rubbed them. “That’s what this guy always says on this old TV show my pop loves.” She pointed across the cafeteria. “Hey, there’s the girl in the wheelchair. What’s her name again?”
“Avery Goodman,” Red said.
“Avery!” Tiki shouted. She stood and waved her arms wildly, and for a second, she looked like one of those inflatable air dancers you see in front of a car dealership. “Avery!”
Avery wheeled over and hockey-stopped at our booth.
“I totally forgot your name,” Tiki said, smacking her cheeks. “Red had to tell me. I’m really, really sorry, but you know how it is. I meet so many kids and … Please don’t be mad.” She touched Avery’s armrest. “It’s the worst-o-worst when I can’t remember the names of the kids I’m friends with.”
Friends?
“Whatever, dude,” Avery said. She dropped her lunch bag onto the table. “It’s fine.”
“Groovalicious,” Tiki said.
I rolled my eyes.
I didn’t use to roll my eyes. I picked that up from Avery. It’s so weird that we’re friends now. If you’d told me at the beginning of school that Avery and I would be friends, I would’ve said not in a gazillion years. No friggin’ way.
Friggin’. That’s Avery’s word.
“BTW, I was in a wheelchair once,” Tiki said.
We all looked at her.
“One time, we were at the airport, and there was a volleyball team waiting at our gate. They all found wheelchairs and started playing right there. Bumping and setting and spiking. So I played, too.”
“They let you?” Avery took out her lunch.
“Yeppers. But I knocked into this guy wearing a suit and he spilled coffee all over himself.” She smacked her palm against her forehead. “Embarrassment city! My pop was not happy. No siree bob.”
“Since when did you start bringing lunch?” Diego asked Avery.
“Since they stopped serving pizza on pizza days.” She motioned to the trays. “That is not pizza.”
“Hot-to-trot!” Tiki touched Avery’s armrest again and then reached across the table and tapped Diego’s elbow. “That’s exactly what we said.”
I looked at Diego. He was wearing his black-and-white knit hat with the dog’s face on top. Whenever he tilted his head, it looked like the huge brown eyes were staring into your soul.
“This is my protest.” Avery held up her chicken salad sandwich. “I’m boycotting pizza days until they start serving pizza again. I want last year’s pizza again.”
“That was good pizza, Avery Goodman,” Red said.
“Operation Food Fight!” Tiki blurted. “That’s what we should call our mission.”
“Sweet!” Diego said. “I like that.”
“Wait a sec,” I said to Diego. “A minute ago you said operations made you think about doctors cutting you open.”
“They do,” Diego said. “But I like that name a lot. Operation Food Fight.”
“Operation Food Fight,” Red repeated. “I like that name a lot, too, Diego Vasquez.”
“What are you four talking about?” Avery peeled the crust off her sandwich.
“The operation we’re planning,” Tiki answered.
“What operation?”
“Our undercover operation,” Tiki said. “We’re going to run it on different days when they’re serving different foods. One of the days will be a pizza day. Some of us will be—”
“What’s the operation?” Avery said, cutting her off. “Just say it.”
“We’re going to blow the lid off this joint, remember? We’re going to show everyone what’s really happening in the cafeteria. We’re going to take vids of what’s—”
“Stop, Tiki!” I interrupted. “How many times do we have to say it to you? We’re not allowed to have cell phones. Don’t you listen?”
“I listen.” She snort-laughed. “If we get caught with a cell phone or shooting cell-phone vids, we get sent to the electric chair and the guillotine.”
“Not funny.”
I checked Red. His shoulders were hunched, and he was pinky-thumb-tapping his leg. I placed my hand on top of his.
“Anyway,” Tiki said, flexing her eyebrows, “who said anything about a cell phone?”
“I still don’t get it,” Avery said.
“What don’t you get?” Tiki asked.
“What do you hope to accomplish?”
“Rip?” Tiki pointed her index finger at me like she was aiming a gun. Then she lowered her thumb like she was pulling the trigger. “Tell her, Rip.”
“Don’t look at me,” I said.
“I’m looking at you.” She flexed her eyebrows again. “I can see that mind of yours working.”
I lifted my hand from Red’s, which was no longer tapping his leg. “No, you can’t,” I said.
“You’re the brains behind the mission.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Let’s pretend that you are.”
“Let’s not.”
“Let’s pretend that you are.” Tiki placed her elbows on the table and rested her cheeks in her hands. “What should be our goal?”
“We want the Lunch Bunch back,” Diego said.
“Excellent-a-mundo.” Tiki still looked at me. “Instead of a cell phone, we’ll use an action camera to shoot the vids. Like a GoPro.”
“Dude, where are we going to get one of those?” Avery asked.
“X’s brother,” Diego said. “He has, like, ten.”
“Seven,” Red said, relaxing his shoulders. “Xander McDonald’s older brother has seven action cameras. Last month, Xander McDonald’s older brother helped us with the video for our project.”
“I just love it when a plan comes together,” Tiki said.
“That’s what some guy says on some old TV show your pop loves.” I rolled my eyes. “Anyway, X’s brother isn’t going to just let us use one of his cameras.”
“Sure he will.” Diego patted his chest. “If I ask him.”
Diego’s family and Xander’s family were best friends.
“Fantabulous!” Tiki said. She turned to Avery. “You’re our secret weapon. Every mission needs a secret weapon.”
“Whatever, dude.”
“We’ll attach the camera to the back of your chair,” Tiki said. “No one will notice it.”
