Toby Wheeler

by Thatcher Heldring

  “It’s noon,” I said. I started to act out a game of one-on-one before remembering how well my trick-or-treating performance had gone over on Halloween. Instead I got right to the point. “I thought we were playing ball.”

  “We’re sort of in the middle of practicing,” JJ explained.

  In the middle of practicing? Personal foul for blowing off hoops!

  “You want to hear us play?” Stephen asked. “We could use an audience.”

  Valerie plopped herself on the couch. “What about me?”

  “You’re just a groupie,” Stephen replied. “You have to like us.”

  “Don’t call me a groupie or I’ll tell Mark you’ve been skipping class to hang out behind the school.”

  Stephen flicked a guitar pick at Valerie. “Stop calling him Mark.”

  “Sorry,” Valerie answered. “I mean your dad.”

  “Anyway,” Stephen added, “does Sheila know you flunked gym class?”

  Valerie crossed her arms dramatically and fell back against the couch. “It’s not my fault. Badminton is hard.”

  Just then, JJ strummed his guitar and a deep groan came from the banged-up amp in the corner. Stephen and Valerie fell quiet as JJ played a few more chords. He was focused on his fingers and the strings. I had played enough basketball with him to know that look—he was blocking out everything else. Only now, instead of focusing on dribbling and shooting, his mind was on guitar. Without a word, Stephen began rapping his sticks against the faces of the drums. As the slow, deep chords picked up pace and became high-pitched, the drumbeat accelerated too, until the rhythm sounded like a guard trying to shake his man with a crossover. That was as good as it got. Before long, Stephen was pounding his sticks to one beat while JJ’s fingers slid up and down the guitar until they sounded like someone playing the recorder for the first time. There were no words, either, just three minutes of ear-splitting jamming.

  “What do you think?” JJ asked when he was done.

  “What do I think?” I was stalling. The truth was they were terrible. If JJ had played basketball like he played guitar, we never would have won a game all year. But the smile in his voice told me JJ had no idea how bad he was, and I was not about to be the one to tell him they sounded like a bag of cats. If I did, we’d never get outside.

  “Awesome,” I said.

  “Awesome is right,” said Stephen.

  High five.

  Valerie sat on the couch. “I think you guys sound like a car accident.”

  “I thought groupies were supposed to like everything a band did,” said JJ, laying down the guitar.

  Valerie grabbed his hands and twisted them. “Who are you calling a groupie?” she said, laughing.

  “So, who else is in the band?” I asked.

  “Just us,” said Stephen. “JJ on guitar and yours truly on drums.” He twirled a drumstick in his fingers.

  “Who sings?”

  “We both do,” JJ answered.

  Yikes.

  Suddenly Stephen thrust the drumsticks at me. “You wanna try?” he asked, gesturing to the seat.

  “We should probably practice,” said JJ. “My dad will be home in an hour.”

  On the couch, Valerie sat up. “JJ, you shouldn’t be so afraid of him. Just tell him you like playing guitar and let him deal with it. What’s he gonna do, send you to military school?”

  JJ picked up a sheet of music. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  By then, Stephen had led me to the seat. “Don’t sweat it. It’ll just take a minute. Besides, what if I get injured?” he said, putting his arm around me. “We might need a backup.”

  JJ shrugged. Next to him, Valerie glanced down at her empty cup. “You guys can practice all you want,” she said. “I’m getting another Coke.”

  “Hold on,” JJ said. “I’ll go with you.”

  Holding the sticks, I started banging on the drums.

  Stephen stopped me.

  “Slide your hands back,” he said. “And hold the stick loosely between your thumb and two front fingers.”

  The sticks rapped against the drums, starting with a simple beat. After a minute of drumming, I finished with one last whack, then flipped the sticks into the air, meaning to catch them like batons. One stick went straight up in the air, then fell harmlessly to my lap. But the other stick flew sideways toward the stairs. If my finale had been a half second earlier, the stick would have hit the steps below Valerie’s feet and rolled to the ground. Instead, it caught the lip of her cup full force, spilling Coke on her pants and shoes.

  “Good thing it wasn’t hot chocolate,” I said.

  “Toby,” JJ said, embarrassed.

  “Maybe I should go,” I said, picking up my basketball. They all looked at me like I was from another planet. Stephen retrieved his drumsticks and coughed. Valerie bared her teeth. This was not good.

  JJ walked me to the door. I switched the ball from my right hand to my left, then back to my right. “Okay, um, well, just let me know when you want to play. Maybe when you’re done practicing, we can meet out front.”

  “We’re gonna be here for a while.”

  “But you said your dad was coming home.”

  “And then we’re going out for a while.”

  “Where?”

  “Just out,” JJ said impatiently. “Man, Toby. You sound like my dad.”

  “Sorry. I thought we were gonna play ball.”

  “We play ball every day.”

  “Maybe you do,” I said.

  “Nobody forced you to join the team, so don’t start complaining now just because you’re not playing.”

  I felt the basketball in my hands. I just wanted to get out of there. “You know you shouldn’t make plans with someone if you’re not going to keep them.”

  “Great,” JJ said. “First Valerie. Now you, too. Why is everyone telling me what to do?”

  I started to say that maybe Valerie was right. I knew I was. But JJ was getting annoyed and once someone was annoyed, that person wasn’t going to be convinced of anything.

  Later, I shot by myself, building steam with every jumper. I kept thinking about JJ inside with Valerie and Stephen. It was the second time in two weeks I had been left on the street. Ditched for a band. Stood up. Abandoned. And what had I done about it? Nothing. That was what. Just stood there and taken it like a chump. But why? I didn’t put up with any garbage from Vinny Pesto. Why should I take it from JJ? And that was when it hit me. I didn’t have to. As my last shot rattled in, I decided that starting Monday I wasn’t going to spend any more time wondering where JJ was or what he was doing. If JJ wanted to be friends, that was fine, but he would have to come to me.

  When the sun had gone behind the clouds and the rain began to fall again, I took my ball and went inside the house. Mom and Dad were having an unscheduled family meeting in the kitchen. They were standing on opposite sides of the island, Dad in jeans and a T-shirt, Mom in the clothes she wore to the gym.

  “Do you know what’s going to happen at Landover Lumber if the company can’t harvest those trees? A lot of people could lose their jobs, Maureen.”

  Mom was ready with an answer. “Phil, clearing those trees is going to devastate the salmon run across the entire watershed. Is that really worth saving a few jobs that aren’t going to be around much longer anyway?”

  “Cutting the south slope might not affect those rivers at all.”

  “Might not affect them at all?” Mom repeated. “Are you kidding me? Did you hear that from Warren?”

  “Maureen.”

  Mom stared at Dad. Dad stared back.

  “Are you going to lose your job, Dad?” I asked. He shook his head.

  “Will you still get the promotion?”

  He shook his head again. “I don’t know.” Sighing, he left the kitchen.

  I stayed downstairs and fixed myself a sandwich. I thought about Dad. He seemed worried, but I knew he would find a way to get that promotion. The question was, could I find a way to ge
t myself off the bench?

  12

  On Monday afternoon, Pilchuck was wrapped in thick layers of fog that rolled off the mountains and drenched everything it touched. If the weather was going to be this cold, I thought as I ran across the courtyard from the school to the gym, I wished it would just snow. That reminded me of Megan. The first day we met she had asked if it snowed in Pilchuck. For her sake, I hoped it would. Picturing her smiling made me do the same, which must have made me look like a lunatic as I walked into practice dripping wet, sneezing, and smiling stupidly.

  For once, I didn’t stand alone waiting for JJ to join me at the beginning of practice. Instead, while he warmed up alone in the corner, I stretched with Raj and McKlusky. They were talking about a banner that had appeared that morning across the front of the stage in the cafeteria. It was white with frosty blue writing and a picture of a cold wind blowing through a mountain pass. It said: WINTER BLAST—DANCE AND TALENT SHOW: JANUARY 21ST! The appearance of the banner had created some buzz around the school, even though the dance was in January and this was still mid-November. In a couple of days, I bet, the talk would die down and everyone would move on to something else. Well, almost everyone.

  Raj psyched himself up as he reached for his toes. “Tomorrow,” he said. “Tomorrow I will ask Cassandra Miller to the dance.”

  “Sure you will,” said McKlusky.

  “Are you calling me a chicken?”

  “It’s just like Risk,” McKlusky said. He did an imitation of Raj, which meant speaking very crisply—like a Spanish teacher introducing a new word. “Tomorrow I’m going to conquer South America. Tomorrow I’m going to move more armies to Madagascar. Tomorrow I’m going to ask Cassandra to the dance. But you never do. You never do.”

  I laughed as Raj and McKlusky went on and on about Risk. Behind them, I saw JJ knocking down jumpers on the court. Catch. Square up. Elevate. Release. Swish. Catch. Square up. Elevate. Release. Swish. He was automatic, all right, but what good was it if he wasn’t having any fun? At least Raj and McKlusky seemed to enjoy themselves, even when they were arguing.

  “Have you asked Melanie yet?” Raj asked, grabbing a ball from the rack.

  “I will as soon as you ask Cassandra.”

  Raj sniffed. “Why do I have to go first?”

  “Because Melanie might not want to go with me unless she knows Cassandra is going with you.”

  “Did it ever occur to you Cassandra might feel the same way?” Raj asked.

  That was when some of the other guys joined the conversation.

  “If you two are talking about the dance,” said Roy, “you better move quick. Girls don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Khalil added. “You gotta take your time. Make sure you ask right. Otherwise you’re gonna get…rejected!” Khalil brought his arm up, then waved it forward like he was swatting away a layup.

  “Man, you can’t even run a lap without wheezing,” Ruben joked. “How are you gonna dance for an hour?”

  “Like this,” said Khalil.

  We all watched and laughed as Khalil danced around the gym. It was the first time I felt like I was a part of the team. Nobody was mad at me for screwing up. I wasn’t standing in the corner. Was this what Dad thought he was missing by not playing sports?

  When Khalil was done dancing, Roy said, “So, when are you gonna pop the question to Coach’s daughter?”

  A second passed before I realized he was talking to me. “When am I going to ask Coach’s daughter? Me?”

  “You’re always with her,” Ruben said. “Eating lunch. Sitting on the end of the bench. You think we don’t notice this stuff? It’s obvious, man.”

  “What’s obvious?”

  “That she likes you,” said Roy.

  “I told you,” said Raj.

  “That’s not what you told me. You told me getting mixed up with the daughter of an authority figure was suicide.”

  “Actually, my cousin said that.”

  “Whatever!” I turned back to the team. “The point is, you can all relax because even if Megan does like me, which she doesn’t, there is no way I’m taking her to the Blast or anywhere else there might be dancing.”

  There was no response, so I went on, “I had a bad experience. In fifth grade. We had to learn ballroom dancing and since there were too many boys I had to dance with Lester the Bulge. He broke two of my toes with his boots and dropped me on the dip. The PE teacher said I was the first person he ever had to send to the nurse with a dancing injury.”

  They all stared at me.

  Finally Roy waved his hand. “Oh, please, you know you wanna ask her.”

  “You like her.” Khalil nodded.

  “No doubt about it, baby,” Malcolm said. “Megan’s your girlfriend.”

  Suddenly, from behind us, we heard shrieeeek as Coach forced every molecule of oxygen from his lungs into his whistle. “Wheeler,” he barked as he handed me a basketball. “On the line.”

  Red in the face, I skulked to the free-throw line. As far as I could tell, the three smacks of the ball against the gym floor before I shot were the sound of a dead man dribbling.

  13

  Our second game was that Friday against Cedar Crest. I had played better in practice that week, but it still seemed like I was always in the wrong place at the wrong time on the court or doing some little thing incorrectly—like using a chest pass when I should have used a bounce pass. And Coach never missed a chance to let me hear about it. For a benchwarmer, I sure was getting an awful lot of heat. I wished Malcolm had kept his mouth shut on Monday about Megan being my girlfriend. I was getting restless on the bench. I wanted to get in an actual game, but if Coach thought there was some funny business between me and his daughter, then Raj and his cousin were right: I had no hope of ever leaving the bench. Even worse, our game against Hamilton was a week away. One look at me on the bench and Vinny Pesto would humiliate me.

  The Cedar Crest game was close from the start. Both teams played physical basketball, and the refs were swallowing their whistles. The Cougars kept a hand in JJ’s face everywhere he went. He never saw a ray of daylight. He did his best to get off his shots, but with the slapping, the pulling, and the hand checks, most of them were off target. It didn’t help that Raj had four turnovers. “Where’s your head, Raj?” Coach shouted more than once.

  Luckily, Ruben was a monster in the paint, shaking off guys twice his size for second-chance points. Thanks to him, we were still in it with seven minutes left in the fourth quarter.

  “Coach,” said Roy during the next time-out, “they’re all over us. Can’t you say something to the refs?”

  Shaking his head, Coach shouted, “Nothing you or I say to the refs is going to change the way the game is called! Just play your game. Take what the refs give you. If the other team pushes, push back. Contest every shot. Fight for every loose ball.”

  “Their big men are too big. They’re like cedar trees,” Khalil gasped. “They’re shooting right over us.”

  Everybody began talking at once. Except me. Coach held up his hands for quiet.

  That was when I said, “They look tired.”

  Everybody stared at me.

  “Go on, Toby,” said Coach.

  “They look tired. They’ve got their hands on their knees.”

  “What are you saying?” Ruben asked.

  What was I saying? My brain raced to catch up with my mouth. What do you do to a tired team in a close game? “We should press,” I said. “We’ve been running all those wind sprints. We might as well use the stamina.”

  “He’s right,” said JJ. “We should press. Take them out of their half-court game. Force some turnovers.”

  “Good call,” said Ruben. Everyone else nodded. For the first time, I felt like I was more important to the team than the ball rack.

  Coach looked around the huddle. “Okay,” he said to everybody’s surprise, “let’s try a full-court press for three minutes. One-three-one. Raj at on
e point. Ruben, McKlusky, and Roy in the middle. Then JJ. Khalil, you take a breather.”

  Khalil covered his head with a towel. “Phew.”

  Who knows? I thought as the team took the court again. Maybe they would build enough of a lead to get me in the game. Sure enough, the pace of the game accelerated. Both teams were trapping, stealing, and scoring off fast breaks.

  We stayed ahead. With three minutes left, Cedar Crest inbounded the ball on the baseline to their center. He looked like a pair of stilts with arms and a head. As soon as Stilts caught the pass, Ruben and Raj raced over, yelling, “Trap, trap, trap!” Stilts panicked. Unable to dribble, he threw the ball up in the air like a hot brick. Ruben scooped it up and dashed to the hoop for two.

  Ruben hopped sideways down the sideline, flapping his arms and nodding his head. He wasn’t showboating, exactly. He was playing to the crowd—to get them into the game.

  We had the crowd. We had momentum.

  The only things not going our way were the whistles.

  “I think the ref must have a kid who goes to Cedar Crest,” I said to Megan after JJ was called for a touch foul, his fourth.

  “One more and JJ is out of the game,” Megan said.

  A minute later Raj was leading another fast break with JJ trailing. A step inside the free-throw line, he tossed the ball over his back into JJ’s hands, then stepped aside. That was when the Cedar Crest center moved into JJ’s path. There was a collision. The whistle blew. Then came the call: offensive foul.

  Outrageous.

  JJ was out of the game.

  “Open your eyes, ref. You’re missing a great game,” I called.

  Megan lowered her eyes. “Oh no, Toby.”

  Suddenly the ref ran up to our bench, blew his whistle, and said, “Technical foul on Pilchuck, number…” He looked at me. I was still wearing my warm-up shirt. “What’s your number, son?” he asked.

  “I…”

  Malcolm lifted my shirt up. “Thirty-two,” he said.

  “Two shots!” said the ref.

  I couldn’t believe it. The first time my number had been called during a game and it was for this! Suddenly, I went from the invisible man to the man everyone wanted to pound into pulp.