by Phil Bildner
“I’ll have the hamburger, please.”
“Beans?” she grumbled.
Before I could say “No, thanks,” she dumped a spoonful onto the tray. Then she grabbed some sweet potato fries, which looked like soggy shoelaces, and dropped them next to the beans.
I glanced back at Avery. The tiny red light behind her ear was on. The camera was recording everything.
Everything.
“Fresh fruit?” the lunch lady asked.
“Yes, please,” I said.
She dunked her ladle into the metal basin, scooped out some syrup-soaked pears, and poured them onto my tray. Then she placed the tray on top of the counter and looked to Avery.
“Didn’t you just come through a minute ago?” she growled.
I swallowed.
“Yeah,” Avery said. “I didn’t get anything, remember? I said I—”
“Hamburger or ham-and-cheese wrap?” the lunch lady interrupted.
“I’ll take the wrap,” Avery said. “And everything that comes with it. Thanks.”
The lunch lady dropped the food-like substances onto her tray.
We worked our way down the line. When we reached the register, the lunch lady there motioned for me to swipe my card. Like the other lunch lady, she didn’t greet me or say a word. Same with Avery. She just pointed her to the card reader and moved on to the next kid.
“Told you it would go fine, dude,” Avery said as we exited the service area. She bumped the back of my leg with her chair. “Piece of cake.”
“Piece of cake,” I said, smiling and not minding the chair-knock.
* * *
“That was tight,” Diego said, strumming the table and swinging his hat strings.
“It’s all on video,” Avery said. “The way they looked at us, the way they treated us, the food—everything.”
The Operation Food Fight team was back at the booth.
“Sweet,” Diego said. “Well done, crew.”
Tiki shook her fingers like a cheerleader. “I just love it when a plan comes together.”
Avery flicked the orange mush in the corner of her tray. “What is this?” she asked.
“I think that’s the pineapple push-up,” I said.
“No friggin’ way,” she said. “There’s no way that’s pineapple.”
“I think it’s a pear,” I said.
“I think it’s baby barf,” Diego said.
“That’s nasty,” Red said, spinning his spork on the table. “If we do another That’s Nasty project in Room 208, you have your topic, Avery Goodman.”
I laughed. “Nice one, Red.” I held out my fist.
He tapped it with his.
It was the first time I ever heard Red try to be funny or make a joke in front of anyone other than me.
“Yo, when we went through the line,” Diego said, “the other lunch lady came up and dumped the corn out of this huge bucket into the serving tray. It looked like one giant yellow glob of alien boogers.”
“Puke city!” Tiki said, sticking a finger into her mouth and making a throw-up face.
“Dude, you call this a wrap?” Avery swatted her ham-and-cheese.
“It looks like an unwrap!” Tiki snort-laughed.
“A flame-broiled hamburger on a whole wheat bun?” I said, jabbing my finger at my tray. “No way. That’s a boiled burger on bread.” I turned to Red again. “How did things go for you, Lookout?”
“Spindiddly,” Tiki answered first.
I shot her a glare. “I was talking to Red.”
“It went great, Mason Irving,” Red said. “Ms. Dunwoody didn’t notice a thing. Mr. Noble didn’t notice a thing. Ms.—”
“BTW,” Tiki interrupted, “spindiddly isn’t my word. It’s a word from a book I really, really like.” She raised her fist. “I hereby declare our first mission a boom-boom-booming success!”
“I second that,” Diego said, whipping around his hat strings.
“You know what would be amaze-balls?” Tiki said. “If Clifton United’s first game of the season tomorrow was a boom-boom-booming success, too!”
“Oh, yeah, Takara Eid,” Red said.
“Don’t you think so?” Tiki patted my shoulder.
I shrugged off her hand.
The Opener
“Everyone should have a few butterflies this afternoon,” Coach Acevedo said. “That’s how it should be before a season opener.” He knelt in front of the five Clifton United starters, who sat on the chairs along the sidelines.
The rest of us stood around Coach Acevedo. I was directly behind him, standing next to Red with my arms folded tightly across my chest. Ever since he’d benched me the other day, I’d made it a point to make as little eye contact with him as I could, in the classroom and on the court. I stared at his earrings—silver hoops ran all the way up one ear, silver studs dotted his other.
“When that whistle blows and that ball goes up,” he said, “we’re going to outhustle those Harrison Hawks. In fact, we’re going to run them out of our gym and right back onto their bus.”
“Since they’re Hawks, Coach,” Chris said, smiling, “wouldn’t the Harrison Hawks fly back to their bus?”
Coach Acevedo swatted him with his iPad. “That’s the loose attitude I want from everyone.”
“Wowz-o-wowzer!” Tiki said, patting her stomach. “My butterflies are going zooma-zooma-zoom!”
“I want you zooma-zooma-zooming on the court.” Coach Acevedo held out his fist to Tiki.
She gave him a pound.
Tiki wore number three. Of course she wore number three. Iverson wore number three. She probably found out I loved Iverson and chose his number for that very reason.
“Everyone contributes,” Coach Acevedo said, glancing around. He looked over his shoulder as if he was looking for me. “Whether you’re on or off the floor, everyone contributes. Everyone.”
I turned away. Across the gym, I spotted the kids from Room 208—Noah, Xander, Melissa, and the OMG girls, who were holding CLIFTON UNITED ROCKS signs.
“Before we take the floor,” Coach Acevedo said, “we’re starting a tradition.” He stood and faced Red. “Number Twenty-Four.”
“Yes, Coach Acevedo,” Red said.
Coach soccer-style kicked up a basketball and flipped it to Red. “Go take a free throw.”
“Right now?” Red pressed his earplugs, which softened the noise, and hopped from foot to foot.
“Right now. From now on, Blake Daniels takes a free throw before the start of every game. That’s the Clifton United tradition we’re starting today. Let’s go.”
Wearing his basketball smile, Red dribbled out to the far foul line.
I unwrapped my arms and lowered my clenched fists to my sides.
You got this, Red. You got this.
On the stage behind the basket, by the RESERVED FOR RJE FAMILY AND FRIENDS sign, the Clifton United parents stood and clapped. But only a few parents were here—Emily’s dad, Mehdi’s parents, and Dylan’s father. I’d never seen Dylan’s dad before, but I knew it was him because he also reminded me of Shaggy from Scooby-Doo.
Suzanne and Mom were here, too. I knew they were coming, but I hadn’t told Mom that I wasn’t starting and Tiki was. That was a mistake. She was going to make such a thing of it in the car ride home.
I checked the Hawks bench. All eyes on Red.
You got this, Red. You got this.
Red trapped the basketball under his left foot, pressed his earplugs, and took several breaths. Then he picked up the ball, squared his shoulders, and looked at the front rim. He dribbled three times—low, hard dribbles—and stood back up. Then he spun the ball until his fingers were right and looked at the rim again. He extended his arms and took the shot.
Underhanded.
Swish!
“Bam!” Red cheered.
He gobbled up the ball and charged back to the sideline. After everyone gave him high fives and pounds, Red and I started another tradition: our pregame, post-free-throw handsh
ake.
“Roll left, roll right,” we chanted. “Slap right, slap left.” We jumped, bumped hips, and then when we landed …
“Boo-yah!”
* * *
“Shot!” the bench shouted.
Mehdi leaped for the rebound and fed Tiki on the wing. She caught the pass and, in one motion, put the ball on the floor with her left. As soon as her man picked her up at half-court, she dribbled behind her back—left to right—and blew by. At the three-point circle, she whipped the ball to Keith, streaking down the right.
Dribble. Shot. Score.
8–0, Clifton United.
“Match up, match up, match up!” Coach Acevedo called.
“Match up!” Red stood on his chair and waved a towel. “Match up!”
Harrison had no clue how to break our press. The timeout they called two minutes ago hadn’t helped at all. We weren’t bigger or better than them, but just like Coach Acevedo had said in the huddle before the game, we were running them out of the gym.
“Hands up, hands up, hands up!” Coach Acevedo waved.
“Hands up!” Red cheered.
I was cheering, too. I had to be a good teammate. But I wasn’t going to stand on my chair and wave a towel.
Guarding the inbounds, Dylan waved his long arms and refused to allow the kid with the headband to get a good look. Finally, Headband threw an up-for-grabs pass between the foul line and the top of the key. Jason outjumped everyone and found Tiki by the elbow. She drove to the hoop and sank her second layup.
10–0.
* * *
“Let’s go, second unit,” Coach Acevedo said.
I checked the clock: 6:42 remained in the half. We led 16–5.
I always shift into basketball mode when I set foot on the court, but when I took the floor with Wil, Maya, Chris, and Jeffrey, I didn’t.
“Go get ’em, Mason Irving.” Red waved his towel.
We were on defense. The Hawks were inbounding the ball under our basket. The only times they’d managed to score all game were when they didn’t have to break the press.
Headband caught the inbound pass and drove past Wil for a bucket.
16–7.
“Let’s go, Rip,” Coach Acevedo said. “Be our floor leader.”
I brought the ball up the court and passed to Maya on the left. She dribbled toward the corner and then sent the ball back to me.
“Way to be patient, Rip,” Coach Acevedo said. “Reset our offense.”
With my basketball eyes, I spotted Tiki. She was standing beside Coach and clapping like a kindergartner trying to clap as hard as she could.
I dribbled toward Wil. His man was overplaying him, so I picked up my dribble and faked a pass. The defender bit like I knew he would. Wil cut backdoor. He had a clear lane to the hoop. I fed him a perfect pass.
He doinked the layup.
I jumped up and down and grunted.
“Sprint back, sprint back, sprint back!” Coach Acevedo shouted.
I didn’t. I pressed instead, and when Jeffrey and Wil saw me press, they pressed, too. Maya and Chris were the only ones back on defense. Harrison had a five-on-two fast break. Headband sank the layup.
16–9.
“Direct our team, Rip.” Coach Acevedo pounded the back of his iPad. “Be our floor leader.”
“Be our floor leader,” Tiki said, still clapping hard.
Suddenly, I clicked into basketball mode. As I brought the ball up, I shook out my hair and waved Wil away. I needed space. As I approached the three-point circle, I began dribbling back and forth—right-left-right-left. The second I saw my man’s knees buckle, I exploded by. At the elbow, I put up a jumper.
Front rim. Backboard. Basket.
18–9.
“Bam!” Red leaped off his chair.
“Press, press, press!” Coach Acevedo hopped up the sideline.
We pressed. Chris swarmed the man taking the ball out. The rest of us stuck to our men like flies on flypaper.
“Set picks! Set picks!” the Hawks coach shouted. “Move! Move without the ball!”
Tweet! Tweet!
“That’s a five-second violation.” The ref held up his hand. “Blue ball on the side.”
“Outstanding, Rip!” Coach Acevedo said. “That’s what we want to see.”
That’s what we want to see? Then play me more.
* * *
He didn’t play me more. He played me less.
In the second half, I stayed on the bench until the 6:17 mark. When I finally got in, we were already up 30–14.
“Close it out, Rip,” Coach Acevedo said as I trudged onto the floor.
I was playing garbage time. Yeah, we were going to win our first game, but I was playing garbage time.
This was garbage.
The Hot Seat
“Tiki is some ballplayer,” Mom said, sliding into the driver’s seat and pressing the ignition.
I leaned my head against the window and nodded once.
“How many points did she have? Ten? Fifteen?”
“I don’t know.”
Usually after my games, I’m nonstop talking—recapping hoops, passes, steals, moves, everything. And Mom listens, really listens. She even asks questions. But this afternoon, the last thing I wanted to do was talk about the game.
“I see you’ve been pulling on these.” She touched the locks above my neck. “I really wish you wouldn’t.”
“Okay.”
I didn’t say anything else. Neither did she, and to be perfectly honest, the silence freaked me out a little. Yeah, the ride from RJE to our house wasn’t much of a ride at all. If we made both lights, it was all of three minutes.
But it felt like three hours.
A block from our house, Mom stopped. Not pull-over stopped. She stopped in the middle of Key Place and put the car in Park.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“You mind telling me what’s going on?” She shifted in her seat and rested her elbow on the wheel.
“We’re in the middle of the street.” I pointed.
“Do you see any cars?” She clicked on the hazards. “That was the best I’ve ever seen any of your teams play, and you haven’t said word one about it.”
I pulled the old Nintendo DS from the door pocket.
“You’re not going to say anything? Fine. I’ll do the talking. Put the game away.”
I dropped it back in and looked out the window.
“Don’t you turn your back on me, Mason Irving!”
I flinched and faced her.
“You want to sit there and sulk or do whatever it is you’re doing? Be my guest. But your eyes will be on me.” She tapped the dashboard. “Watching Red out there today was such a joy. The way Coach Acevedo had him take that foul shot. That was wonderful. And seeing him on the sidelines cheering everyone. It’s a beautiful thing that he’s part of Clifton United.” She paused. “Nothing to say?”
No.
“Fine.” Mom shook her head. “I will tell you, I was a little surprised to see you press like that. I didn’t like it when Millwood pressed last season, but I think that may have had more to do with that coach of theirs.”
I still said nothing.
She leaned in. “Honey, why didn’t you tell me you weren’t starting?” she said in a softer tone.
I let out a puff.
“Obviously you have a problem with coming off the bench. Not exactly a team-first attitude, Rip.”
“My attitude is fine.” I finally spoke. “I played hard. I cheered on my teammates.”
“Honey, you’re right.” She shook her head again. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
She turned off the hazards and started to drive.
“Life is about playing the cards you’re dealt, Rip,” she said.
I leaned my head against the window again and closed my eyes.
The Bench Mob
In the layup lines before the start of our second game, Clifton United was looking good and looking
loose. So I tried to look good and loose, too.
“Go, Max!” everyone sang as he drove to the basket. “Go, Max!”
Then when the ball went through the rim …
“Whoosh!”
We chanted the same thing for everyone.
“Go, Red! Go, Red!”
Red dribbled to the hoop and put up his layup.
“Whoosh!”
As Red ran past on his way to the end of the rebound line, I reached out and rubbed his head. He ducked away, but I still got in a good rub. It was the first time I’d ever tried that.
Red mega-basketball smiled.
I looked back toward the stage. Only Mehdi’s dad and Chris Collins’s parents were here today. Suzanne had to work nights the rest of the week, and Mom had an afterschool meeting.
Not many kids from class showed either. Only Melissa and Xander.
Fine by me. I didn’t need all of Room 208 watching Tiki start and me sit.
* * *
Coach Acevedo gave his pregame talk, Red sank his traditional free throw, and the Clifton United first unit took the floor against the Bartlett Bulldogs.
On the sidelines, I decided to take a different approach. Instead of standing with Red and Max, who were on their chairs and waving towels even before the tip, I grabbed the seat next to Coach Acevedo. It would keep me on his radar. He’d put me in sooner.
Once again, we jumped out to an early lead. Like the Hawks, the Bulldogs had no idea what to make of our press. Six minutes in, we were already up 12–4, and when Coach Acevedo signaled for a time-out, I thought for sure he was bringing in the second unit.
“Outstanding!” he said to the first unit. “I love to be dazzled, and you are dazzling me.” He turned to Tiki. “Way to be the floor leader out there. Keep it going.” He motioned to the court. “That’s all I wanted to say. Same five, let the dazzling continue.”
So much for being on his radar.
I walked to the end of the bench and stopped in front of Max and Red, who were back on their chairs and twirling their towels. I would cheer for my teammates. Of course I would, but I wasn’t about to go wild like they were.
I didn’t see the floor until there were five minutes left in the half. By then, the game was a done deal. We were already up by sixteen. First-half garbage time.
