Strikeout of the Bleacher Weenies

by David Lubar

  Still too dazed to make sense of everything, Ricky looked toward the top of the canyon, where he could vaguely hear Buster Grogan greeting a kid who had just arrived.

  “Hey—7:30. Right on time. Let’s get you started.” He held out a jacket and hat. “Here—put this on.”

  Halfway down the cliff, a woman was setting the cone up, right at the spot by the small tree where Ricky had lost his footing and made the uncinematic transition from action hero to accident victim. He realized he was only one in a series of stunt kids that Buster Grogan had hired.

  As Ricky got into the car, he winced in pain. But then he smiled. He was going to be in a movie. How awesome was that?

  URBAN GIRL

  The flowers are nice, even if I don’t get to keep them for very long. The dress is pretty, but no matter how beautiful it might be, it’s always the same blue, cotton, knee-length dress, with the same two pockets, and the same frills at the cuffs. A girl likes variety in her wardrobe. I guess I’d like variety in any part of my life. And I guess “life” isn’t exactly right.

  There’s a lot of variety in who comes by, at least. It might be a car, or a van, or even a truck. But it won’t be a really big truck, since they aren’t supposed to be on this road. The driver can be alone, or have a passenger. In that case, I get in the backseat. It doesn’t matter to me. It’s not a long ride.

  Some things have changed a lot over the years. Cars have changed. So have people. Long ago, the driver would just lean over to roll down the passenger-side window, cranking it by hand, and ask, “Are you lost, little girl?”

  I’d lift the bouquet and say, “I picked these for my mom. I was walking home. But I got tired.”

  The driver would say, “Hop in.”

  And I would.

  But people are a bit more careful these days. I understand that. Sometimes, they’ll have the radio on, and I’ll hear news stories. So I know what’s happening in the world. Or they’ll give me a lecture about how dangerous it is to be walking alone along a lonely country road after dark. Especially a road that runs right along the train tracks.

  If you’ve ever swapped scary stories at a campout or a sleepover, you probably know how the rest of it goes. They bring me home. I ask them to make sure my mom isn’t angry.

  So they get out of the car and walk up the porch.

  They knock on the door.

  When they mention me, my mom looks shocked and tells them I’ve been dead for years. Hit by a train while picking flowers. They run to the car. But I’m gone. There’s nothing left except for the flowers. They’re on the seat.

  I guess I’d feel bad if my real, living mom had to go through this. But it’s not my real mom answering the door. It’s not even a real person. I can see that. The people who pick me up can’t.

  I guess I serve some kind of purpose. I have to believe that. Otherwise, it would be unbearable to go through this every night. But don’t ask me what that purpose is. I don’t know.

  As I said, nothing much ever really changes.

  Until tonight.

  It was an old car, and a young driver. That’s not an unusual combination. But the car was very old, and the driver was very young.

  “Lost?” he asked.

  I said what I always say, telling him about picking flowers and getting tired.

  “Hop in,” he said.

  “Are you old enough to drive?” I asked. Not that it mattered. He was the one who stopped. I’d get in the car no matter what. That’s how it worked.

  He laughed. “Almost. Well, sort of…”

  I liked the way he laughed. That was the best part of this. I got to meet all kinds of people. “What are you doing out here?” I asked as I took a seat.

  “It’s my mom’s birthday. I got her a present.” He pointed to the backseat, where there was a rabbit in a cage.

  “Well, that’s different,” I said. My head lurched as he pulled back onto the road.

  “Sorry,” he said. Then he nodded. “She loves animals.”

  We were halfway to where I had lived when he pointed to his left and said, “That’s my house. I’ll take you home, and then come back. She’ll never know I borrowed her car.”

  “I hope she likes the bunny,” I said.

  “She will.” He glanced over his shoulder, again.

  “Look out!” I screamed. He’d turned the wheel when he looked back. We were heading off the road. He swung the car hard in the other direction. He didn’t seem to know how to steer very well. Tires screamed. So did I. We skidded. Then, we were rolling.

  And then we weren’t.

  We stopped hard, with a loud crash. I wasn’t hurt. I can’t get hurt. He looked shaken up.

  “My leg…” he gasped.

  I looked down, then looked away.

  “Call for help,” he said.

  I didn’t have a phone. I had to go to his house. That was the closest place. “I’ll be right back, with help,” I said. I forced the door open. As I walked toward the road, something white caught my eye.

  The rabbit cage had been flung from the car. I picked it up. The rabbit looked stunned, but otherwise okay.

  I reached the house and knocked on the door. As soon as the woman opened it, I said, “There’s been an accident.… Your son…”

  And I stopped cold. The rest of the words froze in my throat. I didn’t know the woman. I’d never seen her before. But I knew her expression. That look of fear and confusion, mixed with the slightest pinch of hope.

  I saw that look every night when whoever was chosen to drive me home walked up my porch, knocked on my door, and told my mother they’d brought me home.

  “Thomas died years ago,” the woman said. “He’d taken my car. He didn’t know how to drive.”

  I put the cage down. Then, I turned and ran, heading back to where the car had crashed.

  There was no car. No sign of Thomas. One of the trees, an older one, bore scars, as if it had been badly damaged ages ago.

  I headed toward the tracks. It was a long walk, but time meant little to me, and fatigue meant nothing.

  “That was strange,” I whispered. And it was. But it was also good, in a way I’m not sure I can explain. I needed to think about all of this.

  But I did know one thing beyond any doubt. For the first time in forever, I felt alive.

  THE PRINCIPLE OF DISCIPLINE

  My first week at Santini Middle School, I almost got beaten up by a bully. The kid—I don’t even know his name—knocked my books from under my arm when I was on my way to my third-period math class.

  “Hey!” I shouted as I spun around to face him. I swallowed whatever else I was going to say, because the kid was big. The way a truck is big next to a car. Or next to a tricycle.

  “Be careful.” He pushed my shoulder real hard. “Watch where you’re going.”

  This was totally unfair. He’d knocked down my books on purpose, and now he was trying to pick a fight. I figured there was no way I was escaping without getting hurt. I just hoped I could limit the damage to my body so I didn’t have to walk around for the next week with a face that looked like uncooked steak. There’s nothing better for attracting unwanted attention from bullies than a black eye or a puffed lip. When he started throwing punches, I planned to curl up and cover my head with my arms.

  That turned out not to be necessary.

  As the bully grabbed my shirt, the principal, Mr. Verger, walked up behind him, put a hand on his shoulder, and said, “Come with me.”

  Mr. Verger was really big, even compared to the bully. The two of them walked off, like a semi and a dump truck heading down the highway.

  “Man, that was close.”

  I looked over at my friend, Troy, who was standing behind me, about six feet away. “Too close,” I said. “I figured I was dead meat.”

  “I doubt I would have been much help once he started pounding you with his fists,” Troy said. “But at least I stuck around.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” I did appreciate tha
t. I liked to believe I would have done the same thing for him.

  “I’m getting sick of these bullies,” Troy said.

  “Me, too. But I don’t think anyone’s ever going to do something about them, so we might as well get used to it.” I’d sat through dozens of stop-the-bullying assemblies and three or four antibullying movies. It never seemed to make a difference. The bullies just laughed at the assemblies and got new ideas from the movies.

  I headed off to class and tried to forget how close I’d come to getting pummeled.

  I kept an eye out for that bully the next day, figuring he might be in an even nastier mood after he was punished. He’d probably want to take his anger out on me. But I never saw him again. I didn’t think much about it until a month later when I happened to see Principal Verger snag another bully in the hall.

  This time, I knew the bully. I knew him way too well. It was Farley Gormwall. He was pretty mean, but also pretty sneaky. He’d never get in a fight. He’d punch you when nobody was looking, or steal stuff from your backpack when he knew he wouldn’t get caught.

  I watched Principal Verger lead Farley away after Farley tripped a kid in the hall. That was the last time I saw Farley.

  After that, I started to pay more attention to the bully population at Santini. The next time I saw a bully snagged in the hall, it was right before lunch. I followed Principal Verger and the kid. They went into his office. I stopped outside the door. There was no way I could go inside. The secretary would see me. But Principal Verger’s office was on the ground floor, and it had a couple windows.

  I slipped outside and peeked through his office window. Principal Verger was at his desk, with his back to me. Farley was in a chair on the other side, looking scared and angry.

  I couldn’t hear what they were saying. But I guess I didn’t need to hear anything, because I could see everything. Principal Verger pushed a button that was next to his leg under his desk.

  Farley’s chair tipped forward. Farley slid off. But he didn’t land on the floor. I could see just enough of the floor past the desk to know he’d dropped into some sort of hole. I realized there was a trapdoor in the floor of the principal’s office.

  I gasped. I guess I was sort of loud, because Principal Verger turned toward the window. I ducked down, then crawled away.

  Man. Talk about mixed feelings. I was glad he was getting rid of bullies. But I wasn’t sure I liked the way he did it. My feelings didn’t stay mixed for long. A week later, when Mike Thamswacker started picking on me, I decided I was totally in favor of Principal Verger’s approach to bullying.

  Mike was a freak of nature. He was short, but he was frighteningly strong. I’d seen him rip a textbook in half like it was a napkin. And he was the sort of bully who liked to specialize. He’d pick on one person, and torment him until he broke. Somehow, I had become Mike’s victim of choice. I guess he’d broken whoever was unlucky enough to have been his previous victim. The school was large enough that I didn’t have any idea who it had been.

  Now that I was his target, Mike poured motor oil into my locker, stole my pants during gym class and left them in a toilet, poked me in the ribs every chance he got, and put glue on my bicycle seat.

  I had to get rid of him. And I knew the perfect way. Principal Verger always walked from his office to the cafeteria at the start of the first lunch period, so he could keep an eye on the kids in the hall. I knew his route. I checked Mike’s route. He would be passing right by the corner near room 107 about six seconds before the principal.

  I tested this for a whole week. Mike always got there just ahead of the principal. Meanwhile, the torment was getting unbearable. I knew I had to try my plan. The worst that would happen would be that I’d get smacked around. But if things went the way I hoped, Mike would be gone forever.

  When the bell rang for lunch period, I ran to room 105, which was empty, and waited inside. When Mike went past, walking toward the corner by room 107, I rushed out and ran right into him from behind. As I bumped him, I saw principal Verger coming the other way.

  Perfect.

  Except Mike didn’t spin around and start tossing out bully threats. He tumbled forward and hit the ground.

  “Oowwwww!” He let out a loud cry. Then he rolled over and looked up at me. “Don’t hit me again!” he screamed. He put his hands out, as if to hold me off.

  “But…” Anyone could see he was faking.

  A hand clamped down on my shoulder.

  “Come with me,” Principal Verger said.

  “I didn’t do anything!” I shouted.

  The principal didn’t say a word. As he dragged me off, I glanced back. Mike was laughing.

  “He’s the bully,” I said. “You should take Mike to the office.”

  The principal still ignored me.

  “He’s been torturing me for weeks.” I kept talking, but it was no use. The principal dragged me into his office and tossed me onto the chair that faced his desk.

  I popped right out.

  “Sit,” he said, pointing to the chair.

  I looked at the floor in front of the chair. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d never spot the outline of the trapdoor. But it was definitely there. “I’d rather stand.” I stepped behind the chair.

  “Have it your way,” he said as he sat at his desk.

  “It was an accident,” I said. “I was late for class, so I was running.”

  “I hate bullies,” he said.

  “I’m not a bully.”

  “But you know what I hate worse than bullies?” he asked.

  I gripped the edge of the chair. “What?”

  “Spies,” he said. “Sneaky, meddling, prying spies who stick their noses in other people’s business.” He reached under his desk and pressed something.

  The floor behind the chair dropped from beneath my feet. I guess there was a second trapdoor. I lost my grip on the chair and plunged through the opening. It was a long drop, and it ended with a bad landing. I looked up at the square of light high above my head. Principal Verger stood at the edge of the opening.

  “You can’t leave me here to die!” I shouted.

  “I’m not,” he said. “There’s food and water. There’s just no escape.”

  Then he moved away, and the trapdoor closed.

  My relief that I could somehow survive and maybe find a way out, despite what he’d said, was replaced an instant later by the thought that if I could survive, so could all the others. All the real bullies.

  That’s when I heard footsteps coming at me from all directions, and realized that, as bad as things seemed right now, they were about to become a whole lot worse.

  FWOSTY

  “That’s a heavy head,” I said. I gripped it on both sides, and tried to lift it of off the ground. I could barely raise it at all.

  “Maybe we should just leave it where it is,” my friend Bobby said. “It looks pretty cool, lying there all decapitated.”

  “Nope. We have to get it up where it belongs,” I said. “We put a lot of work into this. We need to finish it.”

  “You’re right, Norm.” Jill, Bobby’s cousin, stepped next to me and grabbed the head. “On three,” she said.

  She counted, we lifted, and we managed to get the head in place. It sunk in slightly on the upper body. Good. It would stay in place. I stepped back to admire the results of our efforts.

  The timing was perfect.

  “Fwosty!” my little brother Ian shouted, pointing at the snowman. He came running over from the path that led down to the lake from the cabins.

  “Yeah, Frosty,” I said. All week, Ian had been bugging me to make a snowman. I hadn’t meant to keep him waiting, but there hadn’t been any good, fresh snow until last night, when a foot and a half or so had fallen. It was perfect snow for making a snowman—not too light, not too wet. And I was happy to do something for Ian. He could be a pest, but he was basically okay for a little brother. The pest part mostly happened because he was a huge fan of the whol
e Frosty thing, about the snowman that comes to life. He watched the video nearly every day, even in the summer, and he sang the song in the car all the way to the lake last week. We come up here every year, during winter break, to ice skate, ski, and ride snowmobiles.

  “Make it Fwosty!” Ian shouted. “I got stuff.” He ran back to our cabin.

  “Fwosty?” Bobby asked.

  “From that old video,” I said. “You know, the one where the snowman magically comes to life.”

  “I love that movie,” Jill said.

  “It would have been better with flame throwers,” Bobby said.

  I had to agree. “Or zombies,” I said. “Reanimated snowmen.”

  “You can’t reanimate something that was never alive,” Bobby said.

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  “Scoff!” Ian yelled as he skittered and slid back down the path. A scarf trailed from his raised hand like a poorly designed kite on a dead-calm day.

  I grabbed Ian by the waist and lifted him up, so he could wrap the scarf around Fwosty’s neck.

  We didn’t have coal, so I hunted around for stones under the snow. I didn’t find any.

  “I got this covered,” Bobby said. He went to his cabin and came back with a small sack. He pulled out some Oreos, which we used for buttons and broke into pieces to make teeth for a smiling mouth.

  “You didn’t bring enough for the eyes,” I said.

  “No problem.” He reached back into the sack and extracted two blue tortilla chips that made sort of spooky triangular eyes, like on a jack-o-lantern.

  Jill brought a carrot. Her folks were big on salads. Bobby took it and jammed it pointed-end-first into the snowman’s face.

  “Wrong way,” Jill said.

  “I like it better,” Bobby said. “Speaking of which…” He redid some of the cookies, turning the smile into a frown. I glanced over at Ian to make sure he wasn’t spooked by the creepy face. He seemed fine with it.

  I broke a couple branches off a dead tree that had fallen by the lake, and jammed them into the top of the middle snow boulder for arms.