by Phil Bildner
“I wonder if that nut-job coach of theirs has something to do with this.”
“We play them the last game of the season,” I said.
“Coach Acevedo’s going to love that.”
“I guess we’ll have to whup their butts again.” I thumped my chest. “Just like we did at the end of last season.”
Plots and Plans
To start the new week in Room 208, Mr. Acevedo kicked off a mini project called Where I Read. For the next three weeks, he wanted us to keep track of where we read. Then, in three weeks, we would conference.
“If you have any questions about this mini project,” he said, “check the class page. I’ve posted all the expectations. I’ve also created a sample entry. You can use my template, or make a similar one on your own. Please keep track of your reading in your notebook. It’s your responsibility to use our class page, especially if you don’t understand something. I shouldn’t have to tell you that anymore. We’re in fifth grade now. I am not holding your hands.”
I smacked my forehead. I couldn’t stand it when Mr. Acevedo sounded exactly like Mom.
* * *
All week, lunch and recess turned into Operation Food Fight planning time. Diego took command. Like, seriously took command.
“We’re running a professional operation here,” he said while giving us copies of the lunch menu for every day in November. “We’re thinking through every phase, we’re planning out every phase, and we’re not getting caught.”
We decided to run three missions. The first two would be before Thanksgiving, and the third one would be right after the break. We were going to run a mission on a pizza day, but we decided we didn’t need to since other kids were following Mr. Acevedo’s suggestion. Miles was keeping track of how many kids bought pizza and how many kids brought lunch, and the OMG girls were standing at the garbage cans recording what was being thrown away—trays with full slices of pizza, trays with half-eaten pizza slices, trays with only pizza crust, trays with bread but no cheese, and trays with just cheese.
Not only did Diego make copies of the menus, but he also made full-color, detailed maps of the cafeteria. When I say detailed, I mean really detailed, right down to where the fire extinguishers were located and the fruit-and-vegetable nutrition charts were posted.
We all learned our roles, too. Since Avery had the camera, she was the team general. On mission days, she would go through the lunch line twice—once with me, once with Diego. Red and Tiki were lookouts. Red would watch from the booth. Tiki would watch from one of three spots—seated at the second-grade tables, standing by the door to the gym, or waiting by the exit of the service area. It all depended on where the lunch-duty teachers were.
Then we practiced with the camera by the jungle gym. No lie, the whole time we did, I kept hearing Mom’s voice in my head.
I feel bad for the next kids who pull a stunt like that. And I feel even worse for their parents. That’s not going to be a pleasant situation.
But the thing is, no one noticed us. Even in plain sight on the playground, no one noticed the camera clamped to the back of Avery’s chair.
Finally, we decided what we were going to do with the video evidence.
“We’re not posting it online,” I said jokingly, even though I wasn’t joking.
“No kidding,” Diego said.
Avery was going to edit the raw footage. After she did, we were all going to make a presentation like the one Avery and I made for our class project last month.
“We could take it to the news,” Tiki said. “That would really blow the lid off this joint.”
“Whatever, dude,” Avery said. “We’ll figure out who to share it with after it’s all done, but not until. Agreed?”
We all agreed.
“Ooh, I love it when a plan comes together,” Tiki said.
* * *
At basketball, Coach Acevedo kept on running us, and let me tell you, the conditioning was paying off. Yeah, we’d only been at it a week, but Clifton United was already in much better shape.
More stamina, more speed.
But since the first game was only a week away, Coach Acevedo was no longer all about running us until we dropped. We also focused on the basics—passing, rebounding, and setting picks. We worked on defense, too—learning the full-court press, practicing the trap, guarding the inbounds pass (under the basket and sideline), and switching. Coach Acevedo made sure everyone learned every position.
The more we practiced, the clearer it became how Coach Acevedo planned on using us in games. Well, at least it was clear to me. Keith and Dylan were definitely going to see the floor at the same time. Dylan was great at deflecting passes, forcing turnovers, and getting the rock to Keith where he could use it. Chris and Jeffrey were going to see a lot of time together, too. Chris brought out the best in Jeffrey, and when Maya played with them, the three held their own against any other three on the team.
I was going to be running the offense, bringing up the ball alongside Tiki.
Of course, at the end of every practice, Coach Acevedo had us shoot free throws.
“Clifton United takes free throws with tired arms and tired legs,” he said over and over. “Winning teams make their free throws with tired arms and tired legs.”
Starting
At the end of the last practice before the start of the season, Coach Acevedo gave out the uniforms. Just like he did last season. And just like last season, he gave them out when we were shooting our free throws.
“Rip and Red,” he said, walking over with the large duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “Let me see that magic,” he said to Red, who was at the line.
“Sure thing, Coach Acevedo,” Red said.
He dropped the ball and trapped it underfoot soccer-style. He placed a finger over each ear and took several breaths. Then he picked up the ball with both hands, squared his shoulders, and stared at the front rim. He dribbled three quick times low to the ground, stood back up, and then rotated the ball until his fingers gripped it around the word SPALDING. He looked at the rim again, extended his arms, and shot the ball.
Swish!
“Our free-throw-shooting machine!” Coach Acevedo said. “You two want your uniforms?”
“Oh, yeah, Coach Acevedo.” Red scooted over.
“They’re the same ones as last season,” Coach Acevedo said, reaching into his bag, “but I promise you, they’re all clean.” He handed Red his shirt.
Red hopped from foot to foot as he stared at the words CLIFTON UNITED written in gold cursive across the front. When he turned the shirt over, his mega-basketball smile widened. He ran his fingers over DANIELS written in block letters across the top and the number twenty-four beneath it.
I held out my fist. He gave me a pound.
“But wait, there’s more,” Coach Acevedo said, dipping his arm back into the duffel. “We have socks this season.” He handed them to Red.
“Thanks, Coach Acevedo,” he said. “Can I put them on now?”
Coach Acevedo laughed. “Absolutely.” He reached back into the bag and flipped me my shirt.
Number thirty-two. Like last season. Like Rip Hamilton.
Then Coach Acevedo tossed me my matching navy socks.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Take a walk with me, Rip.” Coach Acevedo pointed with his chin toward the corner of the gym. “Let’s have a conversation.”
“You’re naming me assistant coach?”
“Not yet.” He chuckled. “But I am very impressed with your leadership. You’ve set the example at every practice. Your energy and intensity are what we need from everyone this season.”
“You know it.”
“So let’s talk strategy.” He lifeguard-twirled his whistle. “We go thirteen deep, but that includes Red, so we really only go twelve.” He glanced back at the court. “Emily and Max aren’t going to get much playing time, so that brings us down to ten.”
I leaned against the wall. “I figured that.”
“I like it.”
“We’re going to balance those two units so that we maintain the same level of pressure no matter who’s on the court. Our second unit is going to run circles around every other team’s bench.” He snatched his whistle. “You’re going to lead our second unit.”
“The second unit?”
“Tiki’s going to run the floor with the first unit, you’re—”
“Tiki’s starting?”
“Tiki’s going to run the floor with the first unit,” he said again. “You’re going to run the floor with the second.”
“So I’m … I’m not starting?”
“Tiki, Keith, Jason, Dylan, and Mehdi are the first five.”
“How come—”
“We need you leading that second unit.” He placed his hand on my shoulder.
I slid out from under it. “How can I not be starting?”
“Rip, I don’t think you’re hearing what I’m saying.”
“Tiki just—”
“You’re with Wil, Maya, Chris, and Jeffrey. I think that gives us our best shot at winning.”
I gripped the socks with both hands. “Not playing me gives us our best shot at winning?”
“Who says you’re not playing? You’re leading our second unit.”
“This is so not fair.”
Coach Acevedo pulled back his hair. “I was hoping—”
“This is so not fair!” I threw down the socks and pointed to the court. “At every practice—”
“Rip,” he said with an edge, “calm down.”
“Does Tiki know?”
“I’m letting you know first because I wanted you to hear it from me. I wanted you—”
“Whatever, Coach.” I kicked the floor. “I need to shoot my free throws.” I walked away.
Benched and Floored
I sat on my bedroom floor and stared at my writer’s notebook.
Where I Read Saturday November 16
So far, I hadn’t written a thing. I wasn’t going to either.
I picked up the notebook and frisbeed it across my room. The open pages smacked the closet door. Then I grabbed the pen out of the pouch pocket of my hoodie and backhand-flung it in the same direction.
With both hands, I grabbed the locks above my neck and pulled.
How can I not be starting? How can I not be starting?
I tightened my lips and squinted. Then I squinted harder. Tears filled the corners of my eyes. The last time I cried was over the summer when Mom and I had a huge fight.
I looked up at the laptop on my workstation. It was still open to Clifton United’s site. This morning before practice, I’d been going over the diagrams and plays Coach had asked us to review.
How can Tiki be starting? How can Tiki be starting?
I let go of my hair and placed my hand atop the Sixers’ logo on the throwback Iverson shirt sitting on the floor. I stared at my fingers, spread across the circle of small stars on the logo. The shirt was worn so thin I could see the blue number three on the back.
I never saw Iverson play live. I’ve only seen highlights of his crossover dribble. Right to left, left to right, breaking ankles, beating everyone.
Tiki had the killer crossover. She could beat everyone with her right to left. No one our age around here could guard that.
Tiki.
A tear slid from my eye. I rammed my elbow into the side of my mattress. Then I rammed it again.
Again, again, again …
Mission #1
Team Operation Food Fight stood in the alcove under the basket in the gym. In a moment, we’d head into the cafeteria for the first mission.
“We’re bringing back the Lunch Bunch!” Avery said. She leaned back, popped a wheelie, and did a three-sixty.
“Oh, yeah.” Red hopped.
“You sure you remember how to turn the camera on?” Diego asked Avery.
“Ask me that one more time, and I’m going to rip that penguin hat off your head and—”
“No need for violence.” He held up his hands. “Just making sure.”
“You know where to be?” Avery asked Tiki.
“Yeppers,” she said. “I’m sitting with Mr. Noble’s second graders.”
Avery turned to Red. “You know what to do?”
“I know what to do, Avery Goodman.”
She picked her book bag off the floor and held it out to me.
“Hook this to my chair. I would, but I don’t want to accidentally touch the camera. Diego might explode.”
Diego made an exploding sound and stumbled backward all the way to the foul line. Then he charged back over and rested his arm on my shoulder. “It’s time to make some noise at RJE!”
“It is,” I said.
“Are you nervous, Rip?” Tiki asked.
“No, Tiki, I’m not.”
“You haven’t said a word. I thought you—”
“I’m not nervous.”
Furious was more like it.
For the rest of the weekend, I hadn’t done much of anything. I’d spent most of yesterday by myself in my basement. This morning, when Red and I got to school, instead of going to Room 208, I waited in the bathroom until the other kids were allowed in.
“I’m so glad Ramadan is earlier this year,” Tiki said.
“Where did that come from?” Diego asked.
“When I was little, Ramadan seemed to always fall in August.” Tiki pressed her hands to her cheeks and shook her face. “That was the worst-ist-ist. You couldn’t eat or drink during the day, and it was so hot.”
“You fasted for Ramadan?” Diego asked.
“Kinda sorta.” She snort-laughed. “Not like other people in my family. My pop says that not drinking water while fasting is the most essential part, but—”
“Why are we talking about this?” I asked.
“Why does Ramadan move?” Diego asked.
“It doesn’t,” Tiki said. “It’s based on the lunar calendar, not the January-February-March-April calendar.”
“How do you go a whole month without eating or drinking?” Diego asked. He checked the camera clamp on Avery’s chair. “The only time I ever had to fast was before surgery. Now the only time I can go more than a few hours without food is when I’m sleeping!”
“You’re allowed to eat and drink after sundown,” Tiki said. “Do you know what everyone says at the end of Ramadan?”
I rolled my eyes. “I bet you’re going to tell us.”
“Eid Muburak,” Tiki said. “That means ‘blessed festival.’”
“Eid,” Red said. “Like your last name, Takara Eid.”
“Ding, ding, ding.” She pointed her index fingers at Red and shifted her arms back and forth. “Everyone says my name. How awesome-sauce is that?”
“Why are we still talking about this?” I asked.
“Because this is just like an old baseball movie my pop loves,” Tiki said. “In this one scene, all the players are standing around the pitcher’s mound talking about jammed eyelids, live roosters, cursed gloves, and what to get someone for a wedding gift. Then the manager comes up and says candlesticks always make a nice gift.”
We all stared.
“Okilee-dokilee.” Tiki snort-laughed again. “I’m just trying to keep the team loose.” She dropped her arms to her sides and shook them. “Like on the basketball court.”
I chomped on my lip. If she said anything else about basketball, I was going to erupt like a volcano.
“When we’re loose and relaxed,” Tiki said, “we’re more focused. We’re on our game.” She looked at me. “No one on Team Operation Food Fight should be scared or—”
“I’m not scared!” I snapped.
“I’m just—”
“Stop!” Avery interrupted. “You two are ridiculous.” She pointed to the cafeteria. “Diego and I are going. Then me and Rip.” She looked around the group. “Let’s do this.”
I checked Red. “You ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be, Mason Irving.”
* * *
“Someone’s in a mood,” Avery said. “What did Tiki do this time?”
“Nothing,” I said.
We were on the lunch line approaching the entrance to the service area. As part of the plan, we were supposed to be in the middle of a conversation when we walked in, but Tiki was the last thing I wanted to be talking about.
I checked the cafeteria. The new first-grade teacher, Ms. Dunwoody, was eating lunch with her class and not paying much mind to the other students. Mr. Noble was standing near the exit to the service area grading papers. No, it wasn’t exactly the best place for him to be, but I knew the only time he looked up was when someone came over.
I glanced at Tiki, sitting at the end of a second-grade table and facing the service area. The little kid next to her was practically in her lap. I so wanted that little booger to dump his beans and fruit all over her.
Red and Diego were at our booth. Diego had already gone through the line. I stared at his penguin hat. The eyes were too close together. They weren’t just looking at me; they were looking through me. Were other eyes watching? All of a sudden, my thoughts jumped to Mom and Suzanne (Red’s mom) and Principal Darling and …
“Stop!” Avery said.
I flinched. “What am I doing?”
“That freak-out face of yours,” she said. “It’s making me nervous.” She rammed her chair into my leg.
“Ow,” I said. “I can’t stand when you do that.”
“I can’t stand when you do your freak-out face.” She pointed. “Now focus, fart boy.”
“Not funny.”
She laughed. “I thought it was. Relax, dude.” She motioned for me to go in. “Let’s do this.”
I entered the service area and grabbed a tray.
All four lunch ladies were there: one was serving the food, one was working the register, and the other two were in the back—one by the refrigerators, the other by the sinks.
I stepped to the counter. The lunch lady grabbed my tray and looked up. She motioned to the food with her gloved hand.
