It was a robot that sort of looked like a football player in a suit of steel armor. Beneath the enormous football helmet on its head was a pair of red, unblinking eyes staring back at me. A screen on its chest read, “Happy birthday, Alex!” It had arms and hands covered with yellow gardening gloves. I looked down at its feet to see the same kind of treads as a tank.
“I know it’s been rough moving and leaving your friends behind, and I know I don’t have any athletic skill, so I made you this. Tell it to throw you a pass,” Dad said.
I held out my hands as if ready to catch. “Throw it here.” Nothing happened. I tried something different—calling out in a cadence as if I was a quarterback. “Red 80 … set-HUT!”
The robot’s screen shut off and its chest opened up—and a football shot straight at me. The speed surprised me as it went right through my hands and knocked me down. Mom and Dad laughed. “Try throwing it a pass.”
I walked back a few yards and pretended a center snapped me the ball. I took a three-step drop and threw a wobbly pass that sailed a bit high. Instantly, its arms reached out and caught it. “You need more velocity, kid. Don’t throw so much off your back foot,” the robot reported in a familiar voice. I immediately knew who it was—Dad had programmed it to sound like legendary quarterback Peyton Manning, my favorite player.
Before I could respond, it tossed the ball right back to me, only this time I was ready. I started to laugh along with my dad. I gave him a hug. “Thanks, Dad. This is great.”
“Let me know if it attacks you,” he said. He wasn’t joking. He’d created all sorts of gadgets over the years for birthday and holiday presents, but most of them either didn’t work or ended up dive-bombing my head. Or, like Morimoto, they did things a little backwards.
I stayed outside for the next two hours, throwing pass after pass at the robot, which wheeled around on its treads and caught everything I tossed.
Back in my hometown, which I thought of as my real home, my friends and I used to watch football every Sunday at someone’s house and play Madden until we couldn’t move our thumbs anymore. We’d play touch football at the local park until sunset and talk about which players we were like. My parents were always worried about me getting injured, so I wasn’t allowed to try out for the local Pop Warner team. But like every kid, I still dreamed of being Peyton in the fourth quarter, throwing a laser beam pass to my star receiver for the Super Bowl-winning score.
My arm felt sore as I threw my final pass of the night. The robot caught it on the run and called out, “You’re on your way, champ.”
For the first time since we moved, I smiled.
Chapter Three
“Mis-ter P-P-P-P-tuiac!”
A few days later, I was late for math. After my little skirmish, I spent a lot of time between classes looking around and stopping to make sure no one was following me as I walked quickly between buildings. I hadn’t seen much of Flab and his friends since Fresh Meet Friday, thank goodness.
I made it to class just in time for a dirty look from Mr. Crowley, an old guy with a graying moustache and a closet full of identical tweed jackets who probably spent fifty years inhaling chalk dust before blackboards were replaced with electronic versions. I looked around and saw one empty seat in the corner of the room. I’d spent most of my classroom time angling for the seat closest to the door, conveniently half-concealed by a column, so I hadn’t paid much attention to the rest of the kids. When I awkwardly zigzagged between desks to take the only vacant chair, the occupant of the desk next to me made me stop in my tracks.
It was a girl. A pretty girl. A pretty girl who smirked at me for being late. Everyone’s a critic.
That girls were worth my attention was a recent revelation. Back in my old school, I was friends with a few girls and knew of one kid who was more “advanced” than the rest of us. He already had a faint moustache and had taken one of my female friends to the movies a few times. He would brag about what they did there, but I didn’t believe him and didn’t have any interest. But lately, the idea didn’t seem so foreign to me. Most of the girls at Strange were good-looking, though they all blended into one type: shiny, just-washed long hair, lip-gloss, diamond stud earrings, and purses worth the price of a Super Bowl ticket. They were stuck with uniforms, too: white collared shirts, blazers, and skirts.
She was different. Out of the corner of my eye, I got a clear look at her: her long, blond hair had streaks of red mixed in, and her big earrings dangled beads and metal pieces. That’s when I noticed she had two different-colored eyes, one blue and the other green. It was … so cool. Her white shirt was undone just one button more than it was supposed to be, which meant if I turned my head just another inch, I could see—
“Mis-ter P-P-P-P-tuiac!”
I looked up. The entire class was staring at me. Mr. Crowley was tapping the board with his digital pen. “I asked you what y equals. The answer, please.”
The feeling of panic was replaced almost immediately by the delicious smell of toasted marshmallows. The sound of a few of the kids giggling at me was overtaken by a screeching, ringing sound.
Squeeeeeeeee
The same thing happened last Friday. Only this time, after my vision cleared, I saw a flash of what was written on the board in front of me, like a photograph: 2(2y + 16) = 48.
“Four.”
Mr. Crowley looked crushed. “That is correct.”
I sat back and let out a sigh. I hadn’t even so much as glanced at the problem. Maybe I just inherited my dad’s math genes.
While contemplating what had just gone down, I heard a scratching noise. A hand was writing something on the edge of the paper in my notebook. The hand wore a silver bracelet with something punched out of leather around it, and it was attached to the green-blue-eyed girl.
So you do talk.
I looked at her out of the corner of my eye and nodded slightly.
Yeah. What’s your name? I wrote on my page, pretending to take down another equation as Crowley droned on.
Sophi.
Alex, I scrawled. I really wished I had better handwriting. It looked like a four-year-old wrote it.
I saw her eyebrows rise slightly as she wrote.
As in the guy who beat up a bunch of ninth graders on Fresh Meet Friday?
Ninth graders, plural? Great. Now the rumors were getting out of hand.
Self-defense. And it was one ninth grader.
Not bad.
Then I probably shouldn’t be talking to you.
Good response, Sophi With Just an “I.”
I promise, I’m not dangerous, I wrote.
I swear she smiled at me, but I couldn’t tell because we saw Old Man Crowley glare at us.
I spent the rest of the period trying to learn, but I was mostly in a daze. In what felt like seconds later, the bell rang.
We both got up at the same time. She looked at me with her head cocked slightly. “Nice to meet you on paper, Alex.”
“Yeah.” My mouth was completely dry.
I was rooted to the spot as I watched her walk away, her earrings jangling as she ran a hand through her hair. Wow.
Another classroom door opened further down the hall and out lumbered Flab. Instinctually, I flung myself back into Crowley’s classroom and peeked out. He spotted Sophi and, to my dismay, slung his beefy arm around her and laid a sloppy kiss on her cheek.
I turned away. I didn’t have time to think about it as the first bell rang. I had another class to run to or I’d be late again.
Chapter Four
I spent the rest of the day thinking about Sophi. I had no experience with girls, and now I was sitting next to one who kind of flirted with me. Did she just think I was a dork who could help her get good grades? And what was with Flab?
Gym was my final class and it was run by the school’s head football coach, Marcellus Schmick.
Schmick was famous at Strange, a no-nonsense Southerner recently paid a hef
ty sum to turn the football team into a world-class squad. It was also in his contract to supervise gym, but he didn’t pay much attention. While we played soccer or dodgeball on the football field, all he did was sit in his personal golf cart with his initials on the canopy, his feet up, diagramming in a giant playbook.
“Gentlemen, today I’m gonna have you play flag football. Y’all know the rules: no extra points, no tacklin’, and no flag guardin’. No kickin’ off, just throw to the other team. I’ll be right here with my playbook. When the whistle blows, game over.” He stared at us through mirrored sunglasses and pointed at the two most athletic-looking kids in the group. “You. You. Captains. Choose ‘em up.”
Football! Finally, something that didn’t involve projectiles being thrown at my head. I hoped no one wanted to play quarterback so I could show off the skills I’d been practicing in the backyard with my robot. Of course, everyone always wants to play quarterback.
The captains began choosing teams. I figured I’d get picked last, so I began spacing out and running through the route tree in my head. Fly is the one where you run straight ahead. Post is five or ten steps and a cut diagonally in the middle of the field toward the goalposts. “The skinny kid.” I snapped out of it and saw one of them point at me. I looked at Coach Schmick, but he was lost in his playbook. As I made my way behind the blond kid who’d chosen me, I looked over my shoulder to see who was left. And there was Dex.
I hadn’t even seen him at the beginning of class. In fact, I didn’t think he was in my gym class at all. Dressed in a shirt that was a size too big, he shrugged at me. I responded with a small wave. It was good to see one familiar face. I watched as the captains picked everyone but Dex. The blond kid ended up having the final pick. “Shoot. Come on, shorty,” he said disappointedly to Dex, who happily bounded over to my side as we attached our blue flags around our waists.
The game started as our captain threw off to the other team.
I spent the next forty-five minutes trying my hardest to prove myself. Just something to get me noticed if Coach would look up from his book. And I did get noticed, but for all the wrong reasons.
Every time a bigger kid got a handoff, he’d plow over me before I could reach his flag. I was taller than most of the opposing receivers but didn’t have the speed to match. The opposing quarterback began picking me apart wherever I was on the field. And that was in addition to the embarrassment of trying to grab a flag and having your hand grab something else. I found myself apologizing for one gaffe or another on nearly every play.
Offense wasn’t much better. I tried telling Blondie to put me in at quarterback, but he waved me off and said, “Just try not to mess up every play.” Great, thanks.
Dex was, surprisingly, pretty good. He was running circles around everyone with amazing speed, but no one threw him the ball. I spent most of my time on offense trying to get open, but nothing worked. I kept looking over at Coach Schmick to see if he was watching me get destroyed, but he never looked up. Thank goodness.
Not one ball was thrown my way, even in goal line situations where I knew all anyone had to do was toss up a ball over the head of my defender. Given my height advantage, I could have come down with it easily. Play after play, I was ignored. So was Dex. I could feel this anger building up inside me bit by bit.
With my team down by a few touchdowns (no thanks to blown coverage by yours truly) and with about two minutes left in class, I had hit the tipping point. “I’m QB!” I announced to whoever would listen. Everyone groaned and protested, but I told them, “Just one play, okay?” Eyes rolled in unison.
I turned to Dex and mouthed, “Go. Long.” He nodded. We lined up, with most of the kids on both sides looking apathetic. No one cared since it was the end of class, the end of the school day, and the game was already decided. But this was my chance. I felt myself get nervous as I began the play. That’s when I noticed Coach Schmick strolling over with a whistle in his mouth. All that nervousness turned into total fear. The football coach was watching me. He hadn’t looked at us once all game long and now here he was, staring at me.
That’s when it hit me. For the second time that day. Marshmallows. Blurriness. Water running through my veins.
Squeeeeeeeee
I stumbled back and heard myself yell, “Set-HUT!”
My eyes re-focused, and I could see that nobody was doing anything, except for Dex. He was darting down the field as fast as I’ve ever seen anyone run. I felt myself automatically go through the motions. Right hand with football by my ear. Follow through with hips on the release. Let go.
I heard Coach’s whistle start to blow to signal the end of class, but he stopped mid-tweet as the pass sliced through the air. It was a perfect spiral. I couldn’t believe it myself as I watched it fly. To my horror, I had thrown it at least twenty yards past Dex. But he streaked toward the little orange cones that delineated our endzone. The ball was definitely headed way over his head and out of bounds.
That’s when Dex did something shocking. Still in stride, he crouched down and leapt up. He looked like a much smaller version of Michael Jordan, going higher and higher for what seemed like forever. At the top of his jump, which must have been at least ten feet in the air, he reached out and the ball landed right in his hands. As if he had wings to help him, he floated down and hit the ground nimbly on two feet, just inside the back of the endzone.
No one moved. I turned to see Coach Schmick’s reaction. The whistle had dropped out of his mouth, which remained open. I heard someone scoff, “Lucky.” That’s when Coach snapped into action. “Game over. Hit the showers! You!” He pointed at me. “And you!” Then at Dex. “Come here!”
I walked up to him slowly as Dex, looking smug, bounded over.
He peered down through those opaque shades, and what came out of his mouth next blew me away.
“Gentlemen,” he began in the quietest voice I’d heard out of him yet. “Let’s talk football.”
Chapter Five
WHAP!
That’s the sound of a twenty-three-pound object as it hit the floor of the locker room. Assistant Head Coach Jerry Carson had just handed me the team’s playbook, and I dropped it on the clammy concrete in my shock at its heaviness. Carson was tasked with teaching me the ins and outs of quarterbacking. He had a haircut and a build that made him look like he’d just retired from the Marines. He gave me a dirty look and pointed at me to pick it up. “Ptuiac, I don’t ever want to see you treat the playbook like that again. You have to respect it. It’s your baby. And I expect you to have it memorized by next Friday.”
I quickly changed into my pads and uniform in front of a gleaming locker. Everyone else had a nameplate on top of his locker (So that’s where all the donor money goes, I thought); I figured I would get one if I worked my way from being “on trial” to a place on the team.
I took a deep breath, grabbed my helmet, and walked out. Right before the exit, there was a bathroom with a row of mirrors. I stepped inside, turned, and stared at myself. Sure, I was swimming in my pads and uniform, but I was Peyton Manning. Actually, more like Peyton’s backup’s backup. Or a member of the practice squad. But all those years playing in my friends’ backyards after school had paid off. I wonder what they’d say if they could see me now.
The last few days had been stressful for a myriad of reasons. After my miraculous throw and Dex’s even more amazing catch, Coach Schmick marched Dex and me to his spacious, trophy-filled office in the athletic center and informed us we both had serious potential. Because we were seventh graders and he didn’t know much about us beyond the throw and catch we completed, he invited us to work with the team for a couple of weeks, and then he’d see if there was a place for us. Under his guidance and coaching, he said, if we measured up, we’d be molded into All-State players with the potential of being recruited by a college. It seemed a little weird to think of Dex or me playing college ball, but who says no to that? We told him we’d talk to our parents to
get permission, to which he responded, “I’ll come to your houses to chat if necessary.”
Convincing my parents was a different story.
“ … And now he wants me to join the football team, possibly for good!”
This had easily been the most amazing day of my life. A girl had acknowledged my presence, even though she was dating a jerk who wanted me permanently bruised, I’d thrown a long touchdown pass to someone who could be my new friend, and now the school’s million-dollar football coach personally invited me to play for him. I was really excited.
My parents didn’t show even a little bit of excitement. Nothing.
“I don’t know,” Dad said, glancing over at Mom. “You could get hurt.”
My mom sat there, thinking it over.
I couldn’t believe this was happening. They wanted me to make friends, to fit in, to do well in school.
“Here’s our deal, Alex,” Mom said. “The first time we see an unsatisfactory grade from you, you’re off the team.” I was thrilled, but I noticed Dad frowning, as if she was going against his wishes. “And you must be careful,” she added.
“Thank you thank you thank you! I will! I mean, Coach said I’d be their third quarterback, so I’m going to be working hard to develop in practice, but it’s still amazing. I get a jersey and a helmet, and he says he’s going to mold me into an amazing quarterback, and Dex is joining too … ”
“Who’s Dex?” Dad asked.
“Remember, I told you I threw that pass and this really short kid jumped up really, really high to catch it, even though I overthrew it? That’s him,” I replied.
“How high would you say he jumped?”
The Accidental Quarterback Page 2
