by Phil Bildner
Because of the holiday, we were missing three key players, the twins and Dylan. Two out of our five starters weren’t here. Other members of Clifton United would need to step in and step up.
Like me.
* * *
“Let’s circle up,” Coach Acevedo said.
Red and I were already in front of our bench waiting for the pregame meeting.
“As you can see,” Coach Acevedo said, once everyone had jogged over, “we’re a little shorthanded. We can’t just swap the starters for the Bench Mob. So here’s what we’re going to do. Chris and Max, you’re with the first five today.”
“What?” I blurted.
Everyone looked my way, everyone except Coach Acevedo.
“Chris and Max,” he said, “you’re starting with Keith, Mehdi, and Tiki.”
“Max is starting?” I said.
“Max is starting,” Coach Acevedo repeated.
“After yesterday, how can you sit me?”
Coach Acevedo looked at me.
I looked away.
* * *
I didn’t play the first half. I sat and watched the whole time. I didn’t cheer. Not at all. A few times, Red tried to get me to stand up and join him, Wil, and Maya, but I wasn’t having it.
Chris led the way. He played even better than he had yesterday. On offense, he controlled the boards, grabbing four rebounds. On defense, he forced three turnovers. As for Max, I have to say, he did much better than I thought he would. Tiki made sure he knew where to be on offense. He didn’t score, but he did grab an offensive rebound. He also made a couple sweet passes.
* * *
“Let’s keep playing Clifton United basketball,” Coach Acevedo said as the starting five got set to take the floor for the second half. He motioned to the scoreboard. “We’ve got a nice twelve-point cushion. Let’s keep playing this one possession at a time.”
The first time Tiki brought the ball up the court, Thorton Ridge double-teamed Chris. So she passed to a wide-open Max, who drove to the hoop for his first basket of the season.
“Max Stevens!” Red, Maya, and Wil chanted and clapped. “Max Stevens!”
Then, believe it or not, Max stole the inbounds pass and drove to the hoop for another layup!
“MVP!” Red, Maya, and Wil pounded the floor. “MVP!”
Coach Acevedo finally put me in with seven minutes left, but only because Tiki had a cut on her arm. By that point, we were up by twenty.
I was done.
* * *
“Rip, a word, please,” Coach Acevedo said after the game.
He’d just finished speaking to the team and had sent everyone else to the bus.
“What’s our record?” he asked.
“What?”
“Clifton United.” He stepped closer. “What’s our record?”
With my thumb and index finger, I twisted a lock near my forehead at its root. “4–0.”
“4–0,” he said. “Pretty good, right?”
I shrugged.
“No?” Coach Acevedo made a face.
I let out a puff.
“We’ve found a formula that works,” he said. “We can’t argue with success.”
Happy Writing Day
“It’s a pretty sparse crowd here in Room 208 this morning,” Mr. Acevedo said at CC the next day. “I expected that the day before the long weekend.”
I checked the meeting area. There were only fifteen kids. The last time we had so few kids was in third grade, when the stomach bug that made you feel like you were going to explode from both ends was going around.
I wished that bug on Mr. Acevedo.
He sat on the floor, leaning against the couch with both arms stretched out on the cushions. Since there were only fifteen of us, everyone was on the carpet or a beanbag.
“A lot of districts are off today,” Mr. Acevedo said. He nodded to me. “Does your mom have school?”
I shook my head.
“I know some districts have off all week,” Mr. Acevedo said. “So here’s what we’re going to do today.” He patted the couch cushions. “Happy Writing Day!”
“We’re doing writing today?” Piper asked.
“We are,” Mr. Acevedo said. “Just because we’re missing a few people doesn’t mean we can’t be productive and creative. I’ll be writing, too.”
“What’s the topic, Mr. A.?” Zachary asked.
“A perfectly timed question.” Mr. Acevedo tightened an earring. “El aburrimiento se cura con curiosidad. La curiosidad no se cura con nada.”
“The cure for boredom is curiosity,” Zachary translated. “There is no cure for curiosity.”
“Exactly.” Mr. Acevedo strummed the carpet. “Mi abuela used to say that all the time. When it comes to curiosity, it’s my favorite expression, but mi abuela didn’t come up with that one. I believe Dorothy Parker did.”
“And if you don’t know who Dorothy Parker is,” Attie said jokingly, “look it up.”
“Not a bad suggestion.” Mr. Acevedo smiled. “So that’s our topic for today. Curiosity. What are you curious about? That’s what I want you to write about. Interpret that any way you wish.”
I grabbed the back of my neck and squeezed.
“Curiosity is permitted,” he said.
“Not everywhere,” Attie called out.
“Sadly, no, it isn’t.” Mr. Acevedo drew a circle in the air with his finger. “But in Room 208, it is. In here, curiosity is encouraged.”
“In some places,” Attie said, “they don’t like when you ask questions.”
“Why can’t you ask questions?” Piper asked.
“Questions deserve answers,” Mr. Acevedo said. “But sometimes the answers make people uncomfortable, and people don’t like being uncomfortable. I think people need to feel uncomfortable sometimes.” He looked my way. “It forces them to think, forces them to reflect.” He rapped his knees. “Let’s get poppin’.”
Journal Entry, 11/27
• I’m curious why some people say Thanksgivings late this year. Its not late. Its the forth Thursday of November likes every year. Its not the fifth Thursday of November because that would make it December.
• I’m curious why everyone is always afraid of the principal. They always say they your friend, but everyone is always still afraid of them a little bit not matter what. That’s how it is for me.
• I’m curious about why you asked me our record after the game?
• I’m curious why some boys are embbarrassed by their stuffed animals. That’s not how it is for me.
• I’m curious why everyone likes stuffing on Thanksgiving. Stuffing you’re face untill you want to puke your guts out. Stuffing you’re face until you need to explode out of your mouth and your butt!!
• I’m curious why you didn’t play me. I should’ve played. I should’ve started. I earned it. You were wrong.
Swooping and Hooping
“Bam!” Red shouted as his behind-the-back shot from atop the scoreboard sailed through the net.
He sprang out of his gaming chair, hopped in front of the television, and hammer-fisted the air like I do.
I laughed. “Are you mocking me, Blake Daniels?”
He pinched his thumb and index finger. “I crush you,” he said, speaking in a weird accent. “I crush you like an ant, Mason Irving.”
We were in my basement playing Horse on Xbox. We hadn’t been playing as much lately because of basketball, but we were more than making up for it today.
“H-O-R for Allen Iverson,” Red said, “and H for Walt ‘Clyde’ Frazier.”
I slid off the couch onto the floor. “I can read the scoreboard.”
“You’re boring me, Mason Irving.” Red fell back into his chair. “I’m slicing and dicing, and you’re bumbling and stumbling.”
“Keep talking, Red. Keep talking.”
Horse is the only video game Red can really play, but let me tell you, he can play. I used to be able to beat him, but not anymore.
&nb
sp; He knows it, too.
We only play the Legends version. I’m always Iverson, and Red’s a different player every time. Today, he was Walt “Clyde” Frazier, and he was not only telling me all about him, but also rhyming like Frazier does when he calls NBA games on TV.
“Walt ‘Clyde’ Frazier was a seven-time all-star,” Red said. “Walt ‘Clyde’ Frazier was a seven-time, first-team NBA defensive player. Spinning and winning.”
I moved Iverson to atop the scoreboard and took the behind-the-back shot. I sank it.
“Time for some bounding and astounding,” Red said.
“You hungry?” I sat up.
“After yesterday, I don’t think I’ll ever eat again.”
“You say that every year after Thanksgiving.”
“This year I mean it, Mason Irving.”
“I’m still full, too.” I lifted up the front of my hoodie, pushed out my belly, and patted my stomach. “But I can always eat. What was the best thing they served?”
“Everything.” Red rocked his chair.
Red and Suzanne always spent Thanksgiving with Suzanne’s coworkers. Some of the nurses who lived together by the hospital had an all-day open house. That way, everyone who had to work on Thanksgiving could still celebrate it.
“You have to pick one food,” I said.
“The macaroni and cheese!”
I grabbed the back of his chair and rocked it. “You’d better not get explosive macaroni-and-cheese trots in my basement!”
“If you’re trying to distract me, it’s not working, Mason Irving.” He positioned Frazier on top of the backboard at the far end of the court. “In game seven of the 1970 NBA Finals, Walt ‘Clyde’ Frazier scored thirty-six points and had nineteen rebounds as the New York Knicks defeated the Los Angeles Lakers 113–99. But most people remember that game because Willis Reed—”
“Take your shot!”
He took another behind-the-back shot. It went in.
“Bam!” Red said. “Take that!”
“That was so lucky!”
“All skill, Mason Irving! Swooping and hooping.” He turned around. “What was your favorite food?”
“Dana made this pepper dish that was off the hook, and Rhonda and Courtney made this turkey-sausage stuffing that was crazy.”
“Who are Rhonda and Courtney?”
“My mom’s friends. You’ve been to their house.”
“The ones with the dogs?” Red said. “Edith and Archie?”
“Only Edith now. I played with her the whole time.”
I set Iverson for a behind-the-back shot. It didn’t even come close to reaching the backboard.
“H-O-R-S for Iverson,” Red said. “H for Walt ‘Clyde’ Frazier. Looks like Mason Irving is losing again.”
“Keep it up.” I kicked at his chair. “You can go find another place to stay tonight.”
Suzanne was working the rest of the weekend so that she could have off Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Red was staying here. He always spent the Friday after Thanksgiving with me, but this was the first time he was staying over.
“Do you think Takara Eid’s family celebrated Thanksgiving?” Red asked.
“How should I know?” I said. “Why did you have to bring her up?”
Red walked Frazier to the top row of the arena at the far end of the court. “Takara Eid’s strategy for the Clifton United is working.”
“It’s not her strategy.”
“Clifton United is undefeated.” He peeked back. “Just like me.”
“Listen to you, talking trash.”
“Talking the truth, Mason Irving.”
He heaved the shot. It went in.
“Bam!” He jumped in front of the television and raised his arms. “H-O-R-S-E. Don’t even bother taking the shot. You have no shot. Game over. Shaking and baking, outmuscling and outhustling.”
I dropped my controller and threw a pillow at his legs.
He kneed it away. Then, suddenly, Red dove on top of me, grabbed the back of my shirt, and pulled it over my head.
To be perfectly honest, I didn’t know whether to laugh or fight back. Red and I never wrestled. Never. I play-fight and wrestle with Xander, Noah, and Declan all the time, but not Red.
This was the first time he’d ever done this.
“Who’s your daddy now, Mason Irving?” he said, sitting on my chest and holding my arms against the carpet.
“You’re going to pay for this.”
“Clifton United is a team,” Red said, basketball-smiling. “Everyone contributes.”
I tried to squirm out, but he had me pinned tight.
“Clifton United needs you, Mason Irving.”
I freed my arm. “I need a rematch.” I rolled out from under him.
“Oh, yeah, Mason Irving! Walt ‘Clyde’ Frazier will take down Allen Iverson one more time.”
Good
I walked into Room 208 and straight up to Mr. Acevedo.
“Welcome back, Rip,” he said. “How was the holiday?”
I held out my fist.
He gave me a pound. “We good?”
“We’re good.”
Mr. Acevedo smiled. “A few days away does a body good.”
I flung my bag onto my table. It slid off and onto the floor. I looked at Mr. Acevedo and shrugged.
Then Red and I headed for the cafeteria.
Pushing the Envelope
I stood on a table in the cafeteria and shot the tinfoil ball.
“Off,” I said the moment it left my fingers. “I’m rusty from the weekend.” I clapped to Red. “Send that back.”
Red glanced at the door to the service area and scampered after the tinfoil. “Last one, Mason Irving,” he said nervously. He scooped it up, tossed it my way, and raced back next to the garbage can.
Red was getting my misses. I was standing much closer than usual, but I’d still missed my first three. I never missed four in a row.
“We should go, Rip.” He held his fists next to his cheeks. “We’re pushing the envelope too far.”
“Pushing the envelope? Since when do you say that?”
“Mr. Acevedo said it.”
“I know he did.” I smiled. “I didn’t know you did.”
“We should go,” Red said again.
“Irving squares his shoulders,” I announced. “He fires from long distance…”
Once again, I knew it was off the second the tinfoil left my hand. I jumped off the table and charged after it.
“We should go,” Red said, turtling his neck and pressing his elbows to his sides.
“One last shot.” I gobbled up the ball, sidestepped to the kitchen entrance, and peeked in.
“Rip, no. What are you doing?”
“You know what Avery calls the lunch lady who moves her arms like this?” I shook my arms above my head and then waved them in different directions. “Tarantula.”
He slid his hands behind his neck and squeezed his head with his arms.
“You know what she calls the one who wears her hair up? Bunion.” I tossed the tinfoil behind my back with my right hand and caught it with my left. “On the last mission, she—”
“Stop.” Red squinched his face tight, wrinkling his eyes, nose, and forehead. “Stop.”
Old-man face. I didn’t like Red’s old-man face.
“Stop, stop, stop,” he said.
I stopped. I didn’t take the one last shot.
Mission #3
I looked over at Red sitting in the booth. He was supposed to be on lookout, but he had his head down, and his knees were bouncing against the underside of the table.
That’s why Diego was sitting across from him scoping out the cafeteria.
I’d pushed the envelope too far during tinfoil basketball. I’d thought after the way we’d joked around and hung out all weekend—and even wrestled for the first time ever—that he could handle it. But I was wrong. Seriously wrong. All morning in Room 208, Red pinky-thumb-tapped his legs and wouldn’t say a word.
When Ms. Yvonne pushed in to work with him, he stayed silent. At one point he was rocking back and forth so hard, she had to hold him by the shoulders. Finally, she took him to her room. I couldn’t remember the last time Red was pulled out of class.
I let out a puff. Avery and I were only a couple steps from the service area, and thinking about Red was going to make me shake and sweat and bug. I needed to focus on the mission. This was our last chance to get what we needed to help bring back the Lunch Bunch.
“Remember the time the Lunch Bunch came dressed as the Power Rangers for Halloween?” I said to Avery.
“Remember when Ms. Audrey sang the song from Aladdin at the talent show?”
“She wore the genie costume,” I said.
With my basketball eyes, I checked the lunch-duty teachers. Ms. Shore, whom we had in first grade, was talking with a group of boys. Ms. Harper, a new teacher whose name I just learned, was standing with Mr. Goldberg, the school custodian. They were right behind Tiki, who was on lookout near the garbage cans.
“When I get home this afternoon,” Avery said, “I’ll edit and label today’s footage. Then we’ll start making the presentation.”
“We’re going to get the Lunch Bunch back.”
“Dude, I’m pumped.” She pounded her armrests. “Bunion, Ratio, Tarantula, Donatella—your days are numbered. You’re about to get what you deserve. Today’s the day we seal the deal.”
I glanced at the menu scribbled on the board next to the door.
“Wait here,” Avery said.
“Where are you going?”
She wheeled into the service area, toward the opening that led to the back. “We need shots from angles—”
“Avery, no.”
“Dude, relax. We still don’t have any clean shots of the storage area and the sinks. It’ll take two seconds.”
“No, it won’t.” I glanced at Donatella and Tarantula standing by the refrigerator. “They’re right there.”
Avery smiled. “You can do your play-by-play.”
