Strikeout of the Bleacher Weenies

by David Lubar

  “You’ll see,” Cole said. “Wait until I fly.”

  “And how exactly will I see?” Benjie asked.

  Cole opened his mouth, frowned, closed his mouth, thought things over, then said, “Good point. You’ll never see it. But I will. And I’ll tell you all about it. And it will be amazing.”

  “I can’t wait,” Benjie said.

  That evening, Cole did all the things he’d read about in the article to prepare himself to have a lucid dream.

  “I will know when I’m dreaming,” he said, over and over, as he fell asleep.

  He didn’t. He only knew he’d had a dream after he woke the next morning. And all the dream had involved was trying to find a bathroom in a museum that didn’t seem to have any bathrooms. There was no flying.

  Before he got out of bed, Cole wrote down everything he could remember about his dream. That was part of the method, too.

  “Any luck?” Benjie asked him when they met up at school.

  “Not yet,” Cole said.

  But he kept trying. And he read more articles. One expert suggested setting a clock to wake yourself up after four or five hours of sleep, and then going back to sleep. The trick was to wake during the deep-sleep, rapid-eye-motion phase, when dreaming is most likely. Cole put his alarm clock under his pillow, so his parents wouldn’t hear it, and tried that.

  It didn’t work.

  He experimented with setting the alarm for different times, the way the article suggested. For a whole week, he interrupted his sleep at various points.

  “You look exhausted,” Benjie said to him that morning.

  “I’m a little tired,” Cole said. “I haven’t been getting a lot of sleep.”

  When Ms. Bednard went into the supply closet, Cole rested his head on his desk. He heard her shuffling boxes, deep inside the crammed storage area. It sounded like she’d be there for a while. Cole closed his eyes. It would be great to nap, even for just a second or two.

  Cole dozed.

  Cole woke.

  He lifted his head from his desk and looked around the room. Ms. Bednard was still out of sight, dragging boxes.

  He looked at his watch. It was blurry. Cole closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and checked again. The watch was still blurry.

  He looked over at Benjie, who had turned toward the other side of the room. Cole tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Am I awake?” he asked.

  Benjie turned toward him. “Sandwiches sing softly in the moonlight,” he said. His face was the face of a raccoon.

  Cole almost ruined things by screaming. He gulped down his shout. His mind yelled, This is a dream! This is a dream! You did it!

  “Careful,” Cole whispered to himself. The articles warned that you could lose your chance to stay in a lucid dream by getting too excited and waking up.

  Benjie opened his raccoon mouth and pulled out a colored handkerchief.

  This is it! Cole thought. He stood. I could fly around the room.

  But that wasn’t good enough. He wanted his first flight to be a memorable swoop across the sky, and not the frantic flapping of a trapped bird circling the classroom. No, he wanted it to be more than just memorable. He wanted it to be spectacular. He’d swoop under the crossbars of the football-field goalposts like a barnstorming pilot, and burst through the clouds like a superhero.

  The window was open.

  Cole ran to it. He leaped out. He spread his arms.

  Cole fell.

  His classroom was on the second floor.

  A terrible thought hit Cole as he plummeted. During his research, he’d read that if you dream about falling and actually hit the ground, you’ll die.

  “Fly!” Cole shouted, trying desperately to take control of his dream.

  Cole continued to fall.

  Cole did not hit the ground.

  Fortunately, there was a huge Dumpster directly below him.

  Unfortunately, it was overflowing with garbage.

  Fortunately, the garbage was in plastic bags, which broke his fall.

  Unfortunately, his fall broke the bags.

  More unfortunately, the bags contained the refuse from yesterday’s lunch of sloppy joes, fish sticks, and butterscotch pudding.

  Most unfortunately, the sun had beat down on the black plastic bags all of yesterday afternoon, baking the contents into a bacteria stew with a smell best left undescribed.

  Cole splatted into the rotting muck without breaking any bones, or bruising anything other than his ego. He stared at his hand. It was slimed with a mix of pudding and beef, but it wasn’t at all fuzzy.

  By the time he’d climbed out of the Dumpster, his entire class had spilled through the door and circled the impact zone.

  Ms. Bednard was simultaneously screaming at him for pulling such a stupid stunt, and asking him if he was hurt.

  Cole ignored her and stared at Benjie, who no longer looked like a raccoon.

  Benjie flashed him a grin and held up the rubber mask and red bandana. He mouthed the words, “Got you.”

  As the truth hit Cole, he touched his watch. It had been smeared with something to make the display look blurry.

  “Maple syrup,” Benjie said.

  “I didn’t get my dream,” Cole said.

  “I did,” Benjie said. “I always wanted to pull off the perfect joke. And this was even better than I’d dreamed it would be.” He laughed.

  “I’ll get you back,” Cole said. He tried to rub the syrup off his watch face, but it remained blurry.

  “Dream on,” Benjie said. He laughed even louder. Then he turned away from Cole and flew off into the air, swooping under the goalpost and zooming toward the clouds.

  BANGS IN YOUR EYES

  Marvin was staring at his calculator when it exploded.

  “Whoa!” he shouted as he leaped out of his chair and backed away from his desk. Had this been an Olympic event, he would have scored only about five points for his landing, but he did manage to remain on his feet. He looked around the bedroom, not sure what had happened. The window was closed, so nothing had come from outside. He checked the doorway, wondering whether one of his friends had somehow managed to sneak up the stairs and chuck a firecracker into the room.

  There was nobody in sight. Marvin turned his attention back to the desk. Smoldering pieces of the calculator lay scattered across the surface, giving off a smell like when truckers hit the brakes too hard on a steep hill. Other pieces had shot across his bedroom. One small shard of black plastic even made it as far as his bed.

  Marvin tentatively reached out and touched a metallic fragment. It was warm. That told him nothing.

  The battery?… he thought. He’d heard of defective batteries exploding. But this was a solar calculator. It ran off room light, even in a fairly dim room. He wasn’t even sure whether it had a battery until he spotted a tiny silvery disk on the floor.

  He scraped the pieces off his desk into his trash can, making sure there wasn’t any paper in there to catch fire. The smoldering had stopped, but he didn’t want to take any chances. The can was empty. The pieces clanked against the metal bottom.

  Three days later, Marvin’s wristwatch exploded while he was sitting on the floor of his living room, watching TV. That hurt. But not too badly. It was a small explosion, and most of the force went outward, leaving the back plate of the watch fairly intact but blowing the face and circuitry halfway across the room. Marvin found the intact watch battery under the couch.

  He looked for any connection between the watch and the calculator. I was staring at the watch. Did I stare at the calculator? He thought back three days, to the time of the first explosion. Yes, he’d been staring at the calculator, angry that his math teacher had given the class extra homework to punish them for talking. Actually, to punish all of them for Marvin talking.

  And a moment ago, when the watch exploded, he’d been angry that he was missing the movie all his friends had gone to see. His parents told him they didn’t have time to dr
ive him to the Cineplex at the mall. His friend Todd’s mom was taking all the other kids, but there wasn’t room for Marvin. From what he knew, there’d been room for everyone else. Just no room for him. Todd never seemed to have room for Marvin these days. Marvin got more and more angry as he watched the minutes click toward the starting time of the movie.

  He remembered something odd that had happened the instant before each explosion. There’d been a red glow. It wasn’t strong and bright, like the ones in a traffic light or on top of a police car. It was a tint, like sunlight would make on a wall if it passed through a red piece of glass. And there’d been a hum. No—not a hum. It was clicks. But they were so close together, they seemed like one steady sound.

  I wonder if I can make something else explode? That could be sort of fun. Or sort of amazing. He imagined making his math teacher’s watch blow up. Or Todd’s calculator, just when the nearsighted geek was squinting at it and holding it inches from his eyes. That would be perfect.

  Marvin went up to his bedroom to find something he wouldn’t miss. He had a small collection of old action figures in the bottom drawer of his desk. He grabbed the one he liked the least, stood it on the seat of his chair, knelt in front of it, clenched his fists, and stared.

  Nothing happened, except his hands got sweaty.

  Maybe it has to be electronics.

  He found another watch. His aunts and uncles didn’t have a lot of imagination when it came to presents.

  Marvin stared at the watch for a while. It remained as unexploded as the action figure. Then he remembered that he wasn’t just staring at the things that blew up. He was glaring.

  He tried glaring at the watch, but that just made his face hurt. Maybe I really have to be angry. He figured that would make a difference. Fake anger wasn’t very strong.

  He thought back to the other watch. He was angry with his parents for not driving him to the movie. But he was even angrier with Todd for not giving him one of the seats in the car.

  “You call yourself a friend. You stupid, nearsighted, squinting, loser, fake friend.”

  Marvin glared at the watch, making sure not to point it directly at his own eyes. A hum made of frantic clicks rose from his wrist, a slight red glow blossomed over the face, and the watch exploded.

  “Awesome,” Marvin whispered.

  He grabbed the action figure, worked up a gut full of anger, and blew the toy to pieces. He realized it wasn’t just electronics. He could blow up all sorts of things. He could blow up anything at all.

  The full meaning of this hit him. He’d discovered a superpower. He was always imagining what it would be like to lift a car over his head with super strength, or to knock people off their feet with the power of his mind. But this wasn’t a fantasy or a pretend power, like a kid running around with a cape or a plastic sword. This was real.

  His body tingled and his mind surged like someone had replaced his blood with electricity.

  “I have unbelievable power,” he whispered. He could become an authentic superhero. “Fear me.”

  He just had to figure out the best way to use his power. “Don’t be stupid with it,” he said. It would be easy to start fooling around, blowing things up. There had to be a smarter way. If he made the right choices, he knew he could become rich and powerful.

  I could work for the government! He could be an assassin. He pictured himself eliminating the bad guys. That was it. He could be a secret agent. Maybe, if sight was the key to his power, he could even blow things up through binoculars or a telescope. He’d be unstoppable, and uncatchable. He’d be the most feared assassin in the world.

  “I need a costume,” he said. “Maybe a cool mask. Or a fancy suit, like a superspy.”

  He crossed his room and looked at himself in the mirror. He could just picture himself in an expensive suit, like the spies in the movies, gliding elegantly through a party at an embassy, looking for his target.

  But I never get invited to parties.

  The thought interrupted his fantasy. The thought also led to another, and another, as he brooded about all the times his so-called friends had left him out of parties, movies, or games.

  “I hate all of you!” he shouted, glaring at the mirror. “And I’m going to make all of you suffer. I’m going to blow up everything you own.” Forget the stupid spy stuff. He was going to punish the rotten losers who pretended to be his friends, but never really liked him. All the kids who left him out of everything were in for a real surprise. Maybe he’d invite them to a surprise party.

  But they’d never come. They’d promise to come, lying right to his face. And then, they’d stand him up, and laugh about it behind his back. That thought fueled his rage. There’d be no party. He’d have to hunt them down one by one.

  “You’re all doomed!” he shouted, glaring into the mirror.

  He was so angry, he didn’t even notice the ticking at first. But he definitely saw the red tinge that washed over his face.

  “No!” Marvin screamed as he realized what he’d triggered.

  The faceplate of the calculator … the face of the watch … the face of the action figure. His anger, his power, worked on faces as he glared at them.

  Before Marvin could say anything more, his head exploded. It made a much larger mess than the watch had.

  THE TALK

  A bunch of different reactions ran through the class when the announcement was made. Behind me, I could hear Kenny Harcourt snickering. On my right, I saw Mary Beth Adderly whisper something to Kara Chen. Kara blushed. On my left, Tyler Horvath looked up at the speaker with no expression. Next to Tyler, Eddie Moldour was wearing a smug grin.

  I listened as the announcement was repeated. “All sixth-grade girls please report to the auditorium,” Principal Sestwick said.

  We knew what that meant. It was time for The Talk. Even though the guys were left out, it was no big secret to us what would happen. They’d get the girls together and explain stuff about puberty and growing up. It was also no big deal—for guys. We had it simple and easy.

  “All sixth-grade boys please report to the gym,” Principal Sestwick added.

  “Great,” I said, turning around toward Bobby Mussleman. “Maybe we’ll get to play dodgeball while they talk to the girls.”

  “That sounds good,” Bobby said. “Wouldn’t be fair if they made us sit here and work.”

  We got up and headed to the gym, while our teacher, Mr. Mercante, made a few halfhearted attempts to keep us from running, pushing, or talking too loudly. At the gym doors, we merged with the boys from the other three sixth-grade classes.

  I expected to see our gym teacher waiting for us. Instead, Principal Sestwick came in and went over to a microphone that had been set up at one end of the gym.

  “Sit down, boys,” he said.

  I grabbed a spot on the floor, next to Eddy. “What’s up?” I asked.

  “No idea,” he said.

  “In the next few years,” the principal said, “you’ll begin to notice some changes.”

  Next to me, Eddy squinted at his hand, then, in a fake scream, he whispered, “I’ve got hair on my knuckles. Oh no, save me! I’m changing!”

  I choked down the laugh that was threatening to explode out of my mouth. It was a good thing I wasn’t drinking milk—the spray would have shot three or four feet from my nose. “Cut it out,” I managed to say when I’d gotten back in control.

  The principal was still talking, even though Eddy and I weren’t the only ones who were horsing around. “In the beginning, some of this might frighten or confuse you,” he said, “but please keep in mind that everything that happens is perfectly natural.”

  He paused and looked across the crowd, then went on with The Talk. “The first signs might be very small. One day, you’ll find yourself reading the newspaper. And not just sports and comics, but also the news.”

  “What’s he talking about?” I asked Eddy.

  “No idea,” Eddy said.

  “I read the paper,”
Tyler said.

  Someone behind him said, “Who cares?” and smacked him on the head.

  “You’ll find yourself keeping track of your money,” Principal Sestwick said. “You might even make out a budget. Eventually, you’ll consider opening a checking account as a first step toward establishing credit.”

  Principal Sestwick took a deep breath, then went on. “As these changes occur, you’ll even find yourself looking at insurance policies, as well as…”

  He kept on talking. I was almost too shocked to listen. Around us, I could see kids staring at the principal with amazement. The stuff he was talking about …

  “These are things our parents do,” I said aloud as the realization struck me. “He’s saying we’re going to do them, too!”

  “Not me,” Eddie said. “I’m never doing any of that. No way.”

  A wave of revulsion rippled through me. “But our parents—”

  “Shut up.” Eddie cut me off. “Don’t talk about it.”

  I had to agree with him. Not me, I thought. Never.

  A few minutes later, The Talk was over. We all got up, rising like zombies, stiff and stunned and dazed. We’d been pelted with terms like annuities, compound interest, and comprehensive coverage. On the way back to class, we ran into the girls. They were mostly looking pretty giggly. A few of them looked embarrassed but, all in all, they looked a lot better than the boys around me.

  Kara caught my eye. She was more mature than the other girls, and she didn’t seem embarrassed to be coming back from the girl’s version of The Talk.

  “What did you boys do?” she asked.

  “Dodgeball,” I said before I even had a chance to think.

  “Lucky you,” Kara said.

  “Yeah. Lucky us.”

  SAME BIRD

  Isabel and Avi were hiking in the woods with their parents. Isabel and Avi’s parents thought hiking was a wonderful family activity. Isabel and Avi thought otherwise, but they didn’t dislike the great outdoors enough to complain about the situation. They were quite familiar with the phrase, “Pick your battles,” and quite expert at applying that wisdom.