The Water Fight Professional

by Angela Ruth Strong

  Chapter Eight:

  King of the Wheelie

  Gray, early-morning light made our living room look as if it belonged in an old black and white movie—the kind my mom always watched.

  I usually didn’t get up before the sun in the summertime, but I was dreading the day and just wanted to get it over with. My stomach twisted like one of the water slides at Roaring Springs. I sprawled on the couch and pulled my fleece Dallas Cowboys blanket over me.

  I’m not into NFL football, but I have this fantasy of riding a bucking bronco or a bull. Whenever anybody asks me my favorite team, I always say the Cowboys. Seriously, who wanted to be called a Cheesehead or a Brown?

  The blanket was a gift from Chance’s mom last Christmas. She was the kind of mom who wore sports jerseys and yelled at the television whenever a game was on. Really, come to think of it, what did my mom and Chance’s mom have to talk about?

  Unfortunately, our moms had been talking a lot lately.

  The front door thudded open and closed. Dad’s running shoes squeaked on the hardwood floor.

  Dad ran every morning—not because he cared about looking good, but because he thought it would keep him healthier and save him money on doctor’s bills when he got older. He also had a weight bench in his bedroom. He was buff but balding—kind of like actor and fellow Idahoan Bruce Willis.

  I popped my head up to talk to him over the back of the couch. “How could you let her do it, Dad?”

  Dad’s head swiveled my way. “What are you doing up, Joe?”

  “I’m planning to run away.”

  Dad unscrewed his water bottle and leaned his hip close to my head on the other side of the couch. He took a gulp. “I don’t think you have enough money to run away.”

  “I could join the circus.”

  “Not until you pay the fifty cents you still owe me.”

  “Argh.” I groaned and dropped back to the cushions. “Well, then I’m going to fake sick. Mom can’t send me to tennis lessons with Chance if I throw up.” The way my stomach churned, that would be easy enough to do.

  Dad turned to climb the stairs. “Joe, you’ll have to pay me back for every tennis lesson you don’t go to. That’s twelve dollars a week. You decide.”

  I kicked a throw pillow to the ground. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

  What in the world gave my mom the idea that I would enjoy tennis lessons? Tennis was a game of control. You had to keep a little ball within a few white lines. The sport should have died with the Pong video game.

  Chance couldn’t have agreed less. When Mom dropped me off at the tennis courts, he was bouncing back and forth, swinging his racket at an imaginary ball as zoned out as if he were wearing a virtual reality helmet.

  “Hey, Chance,” I mumbled.

  Chance whipped around. “Joey. I didn’t know you were coming.”

  I shrugged. “It wasn’t my idea.”

  Chance shifted from foot to foot. “Have you played tennis before?”

  “No.”

  Chance started to walk away. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to our coach.”

  I trailed behind, my new tennis racket banging against my legs.

  Other kids ran around. Most looked athletic like Chance. One scrawny kid stared back at me from behind bug-eyed glasses.

  I sighed in relief. At least I could beat him.

  “Joey, this is Coach Carpenter.”

  I expected a clone of our golf camp instructor, but looking up I saw no one. I looked down.

  Coach Carpenter sat in a wheelchair.

  My mouth opened, but no words came out.

  “Hi, Joey,” said Coach Carpenter.

  “You play tennis?” was all I could think to ask.

  Chance shoved me for being rude.

  But I was starting to feel better. If this guy could play tennis sitting down, then I could certainly do it.

  “Yeah, I play tennis.” He smiled. Spinning one of the wheels on his chair, he turned sideways. “This is a specially designed wheelchair. My regular one is over there.” He pointed toward the gate.

  The wheelchair he sat in was certainly different. The wheels were thicker and kind of angled out. They made me think of the difference between a road bike and a mountain bike.

  I rode a mountain bike, of course. “Cool.”

  “Come here.” Coach Carpenter rolled away.

  I followed at a much slower pace. It might be kind of fun to ride in a wheelchair. I pictured myself careening down a hill. It would be like a constant soapbox derby.

  Coach stopped at a short pole.

  A tennis ball hung from it, connected by two small ropes that attached to the top and the bottom of the pole.

  Coach had me pick up two plastic circle mats and place them on the ground where he pointed. “Stand with a foot on each circle.”

  I positioned myself at an angle to the pole.

  Coach swung the ball around the pole. “It is going to unravel. I will tell you when to swing.”

  I thought back to my golf lessons. Head down, one elbow bent, the other straight, swing like a pendulum on a clock.

  “Now.”

  My racket ripped through the air and hit the ball.

  The tennis ball circled the pole like a tetherball.

  Coach chuckled. “You’ve got energy.”

  I liked him.

  He called the rest of the class over and discussed swings. Blah, blah, blah.

  I just wanted to whack the ball again.

  Coach went over the game rules and assigned us to nets.

  I faced off with the scrawny kid.

  He told me he’d never played tennis before either. Ha.

  I hopped from one foot to the other, imitating Chance.

  Scrawny Kid served.

  I raced toward the ball and swung.

  The ball sailed back over the net. Woohoo!

  It went out of bounds. Boohoo.

  Scrawny Kid served again.

  I hit it.

  It flew over the fence.

  Over and over and over again I raced to the ball.

  Over and over and over again the ball shot off in all directions.

  Finally, when I got a good hit, Scrawny Kid gracefully slammed the ball just out of my reach.

  I wanted to smash my racket over his head. He must have lied about being new to tennis.

  A whistle split the air.

  We stepped forward and shook hands.

  Scrawny Kid had a strong grip. “I play racquetball a lot,” he said.

  “Good for you,” I said. I wanted to say: I do cool things, too. I’m a professional water fighter. But I didn’t think he would care. I’d lost to him, and that was all that mattered.

  Scrawny Kid moved up and I moved down. And that was as close as I got to being “king of the hill.” Next, I was beaten by a girl. I’d like to say that I let her win, but no, I’ve never worked so hard in my life. In my defense, I didn’t miss a single ball. In fact, I even hit a couple that I shouldn’t have because they would have been out of bounds had I let them go.

  Coach offered to help me at first but gave up when I didn’t improve with his advice.

  I’m sure my game was painful to watch—like when I beat Christine at air hockey because she constantly knocked the puck in on her own side. She scored almost all the points for me.

  Chance and I never played each other. No, he was king of the hill. And I was what? Tennis court jester?

  Coach whistled and rolled to a table with a water cooler.

  I dropped my racket on the ground and jogged after him to get a drink. What I wouldn’t do for a water gun filled with clear Kool-Aid. I gulped down the entire cup of water and wiped drops of sweat out of my eyes.

  Chance joined me. “Good idea,” he said and dumped his own cup of water on his head. He must have thought that I had dumped my cup on myself.

  I chose not to explain that I was drenched in sweat.

  “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “I have
n’t missed many balls,” I said, refusing to announce that I’d been beaten by a girl. “I’m exhausted, though.” I looked around for a bench or chair. The only chair I saw had wheels on it. Hmm …

  “Yeah.” Chance refilled his cup. “Just wait until we finish playing the second half.”

  I blinked. “We’re only halfway done?” My body suddenly felt twice as heavy. My Jell-O legs refused to hold me up any longer. “Do you think Coach will mind if I sit in his wheelchair for a moment?” Not waiting for a response I slumped into the seat.

  Chance didn’t answer, but he didn’t move either. He just stared at me. His blank expression made me laugh.

  “Oh, I wish I had one of these. It would be fun to roll down the stairs at home.”

  “Joey.” Chance sounded like my mom when she’s fed up.

  I ignored him. “It’s kind of like a bike without pedals. I wonder if I could pop a wheelie.” I looked over the side of the chair at the wheels. It would take some balance.

  “Get out, Joey.”

  “Hold on. I want to try this.” I leaned forward then slammed back.

  The wheelchair rocked a little.

  I tried it again. Close.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  What did Chance know? He enjoyed stupid things like golf and baseball and tennis. I thought about Parker’s mail jeep tipping sideways on two wheels when he turned a corner. Maybe I could do that. Holding the large right wheel in place, I leaned toward it and spun the left wheel.

  The wheelchair rose from the ground.

  “We have liftoff,” I announced, leaning farther out to keep the experiment from ending. Uh-oh, I leaned too far. Losing balance, the chair tipped more than I had intended.

  My muscles tensed and my heart pounded as if I were three thousand feet above the ground rather than just three.

  The wheelchair rocked backward with me still sitting in it.

  Tim-ber.

  I strained my neck to keep my head from hitting the cement, but nothing protected my back. I landed hard enough to put a dent in the tennis court—or so it felt. And then I couldn’t feel anything. I couldn’t even breathe. I heard a wheezing/croaking sound and realized it was me. “Eee … eee … eee … eee.” I couldn’t stop.

  It sounded like a dying cow.

  Was I dying?

  Floating heads surrounded me. Every eye focused on me.

  “Eee … eee … eee … eee.” If I didn’t die from a punctured lung, I would certainly die from embarrassment.

  Some of the heads disappeared and Coach’s wrinkled forehead filled the vacancy. “Joey? Can you move?” He sounded scared.

  I couldn’t even control my own voice box and he wanted me to move? Finally the wheezing stopped. I was so relieved that I just lay there for a moment, not sure if I could move my body or not. It was almost better not knowing. What if I actually did have to get my own wheelchair? It didn’t seem like such a cool idea anymore. It made me feel sorry for Coach. But it also gave me more respect for him.

  “Nobody touch him.” Coach grabbed Chance’s arm. “My phone is on the table. Call 911.”

  I felt like crying. At first because of Coach’s concern for me. Then because his fear scared me. I had no idea what consequences might come from my actions, but he did. That filled me with guilt.

  I was a big idiot. My own stupidity made me want to cry even more. Then the throbbing pain started. I was sure my insides were mangled. I wrapped my arms over my face to keep my audience from seeing any tears that might slip out.

  “He moved,” shouted Scrawny Kid.

  I moved? I hadn’t even realized it until Scrawny Kid announced it. I wasn’t paralyzed. Then suddenly I didn’t care if he was scrawny anymore. He had a body that worked. And it was okay to be a “Fat Chance” or a “Baby Clairmont.” They were healthy. They were whole. And maybe it wasn’t that big a deal if I couldn’t play sports as well as Chance. The important thing was that I could play.

  Coach looked mad now. His eyes squinted at me from above. He was probably thinking about how I took all these things for granted. Who was I to gamble with my well-being and survive intact?

  Why was Coach in the wheelchair? There was nothing fair about who was paralyzed and who was not.

  “Get up,” said Coach.

  And though my chest hurt worse than a rumpload of bee stings, I got up.