by David Lubar
“Beats me. Hey, I’d pick you up if I had a car.”
“Yeah. I know. Thanks.”
So, to make the day even more special, I had to hike into town to catch a metro bus. But I didn’t have to go by myself. Mouth joined me. As luck would have it, he was still eager to share the details of his appendix operation.
September 19
Hey, Smelly. Major advice—be careful what you wear. I realize this will be out of your control for a while, but you should start picking your own clothes as soon as possible.
Speaking of which, the bad news is that Mom loves Winnie-the-Pooh. So you’re going to be wearing tons of that stuff. Have you ever noticed that Piglet looks like some sort of larval grub with ears? And, if you ask me, Tigger belongs in rehab. But there’s something even worse. The Poohster himself. You might as well get used to having people point at you and say, “There’s Pooh on your shirt.”
That’s your problem. My problem is I’m the school paper’s sports reporter. The Zenger Gazette isn’t monthly. I’m going to be writing an article every single week.
And here’s another warning. Assuming you’re a guy, you’re going to do some extremely crazy things just for the chance of getting close to a girl who’s caught your attention. I could stand behind you all day and scream “DON’T DO IT!” at the top of my lungs. Wouldn’t matter. It’s the way we’re wired.
You see, guys have certain basic needs. Food, shelter, clothing, girlfriends. Guess which one isn’t provided by our parents or the local government? So, for reasons totally beyond my control, I’m Mandy’s sports slave. Look up the word Pavlovian when you have a chance. I guess you could also look up nincompoop. Might as well add fartbrain to the list, though I imagine it’s not in the dictionary. It would make a great title if I ever write an autobiography. My Life as a Fartbrain.
And if you turn out to be a girl, all I can say is take pity on us guys. Okay? But, as I said, I’m just going to assume you’re a guy.
I’ve learned my lesson. I’m never, ever going to try to get Julia to notice me again.
Oh—one final thing. Mom thinks there are butterflies on your new curtains. But I happen to know they’re a rare form of vampire moth. Sleep tight. Sweet dreams. Don’t let the dead bugs bite.
{nine}
greetings, sports fans. This is Scott Hudson, reporting live from the morning bus ride. Even at this early hour, I see a variety of events taking place.
A hearty game of Smack the Sheldon was going on right in front of me. I could just imagine judges holding up scorecards after each round. In the back, kids were aisle surfing, trying to stand and keep their balance while our driver swung around corners on two wheels and yelled at them to sit. Out the window, on the roads all around us, there was a combination auto race/demolition-derby going on.
Kyle and Patrick were chucking a football in the parking lot when we got to school.
“I’m open,” I shouted.
Patrick tossed me the ball. I jogged toward them and flipped a lateral to Kyle.
“Looks like I’m going to the game tomorrow,” I said.
“Change your mind?” Patrick asked.
“No choice. I’m covering it for the paper.”
“Get out of here.”
“Really. I am.”
“You serious?”
“Yup.”
Patrick grinned. “Pretty cool.”
Hey, maybe it was cool. I hadn’t said it out loud until now. But I sort of liked the sound of it. I’m covering it for the paper. Scott Hudson, sports reporter.
Bonk!
The ball bounced off my head.
“Nice catch,” Kyle said.
I picked up the ball, faked high, and nailed him in the gut. Not as satisfying as a head shot, but it would do.
The bell rang, robbing Kyle of an opportunity to retaliate.
The rest of the day passed without any major triumphs or disasters. Though Spanish grew even more perplexing. We’d been repeating sentences for two whole weeks. Today, Ms. de Gaulle passed out textbooks. They were all in Spanish. Nothing inside resembled anything we’d been doing. I glanced around the room. It was obvious that everyone else was just as lost.
When I got home, I found Bobby in his room, playing his guitar. “Guess what? I’m on the school paper.”
“Why’d you want to do that? The paper’s for geeks.”
“No way. You should see the editor. She’s hot.”
“What’s her name?”
“Mandy.”
“Oh yeah.” Bobby nodded. “I remember her. She wears these killer tops. I think we went out once, the year before last. She’s on the paper?”
“Yup.”
He patted me on the shoulder. “Way to go, little brother. You can take up where I left off.”
Before I could even think of a response, I heard a big-time rumbling sound from outside and felt the floor vibrate.
Bobby’s eyes opened wide. “Corvette,” he said.
“No way.” I refused to believe that anyone could identify a car just from the sound. Not even Bobby, who had a great ear.
“Sixty-three,” he added.
“Not a chance.”
“Bet you five dollars.”
“You’re on.”
We raced to his window. A Corvette was blowing oily smoke out the tailpipe as it crawled along the driveway.
“I wonder whose it is,” I said.
“Let’s find out.”
Bobby and I ran downstairs. The car wasn’t in the driveway. It was in the garage.
“Traded the Taurus,” Dad said when Mom, Bobby, and I joined him. “Got a deal on it. With a bit of work, she’ll be a gem.”
I can’t say for sure, but I think he looked at that Corvette the same way I looked at Julia. The main difference being Julia wasn’t going to come live in our garage. Or make the walls vibrate.
“Sweet,” Bobby said. “Sixty-three?”
Dad nodded. I sighed and dug out my wallet.
Mom snorted, shook her head, and walked back inside without saying a word. Dad and Bobby popped the hood and started discussing what to do first. Terms like compression, camshaft, and valve covers drifted through the air.
“Want to help?” Dad asked.
“Maybe later. I have homework.” It was a really cool car on the outside. But once the hood was lifted, I was lost. Looking at the engine was like looking at a page of Spanish.
Back inside, Mom was muttering something about men and their stupid toys. “If he goes near my Subaru, I’ll shoot him,” she said.
I glanced toward the garage. “Are you sure I’m not adopted?”
Mom smiled and put a hand on my shoulder. “Hon, I was there when you were born.”
“Maybe I got switched.”
She shook her head. “Your aunt Jill followed you all the way down to the nursery just to make sure nobody made any mistakes.” She put both hands on my shoulders and stared at my face for a moment. “You got your dad’s eyes and my dad’s chin. There’s no escaping it. You’re a Hudson.”
“But I’m so bad with tools.”
“That’s not what makes you who you are. You, Bobby, and your dad—as different as you are—you’ve got good hearts. That’s what matters.”
I brought my homework to the kitchen, pulled up a stool by the counter, and hung out with Mom while she made a pie crust. I didn’t know if I had a good heart, but by the time she was done, I definitely had a good and hearty appetite.
• • •
“I’m going to the football game,” I told the folks right after dinner.
“Have fun,” Mom said. “Wear a scarf. It’s chilly.”
“Want a ride?” Dad asked, giving me a little head shake that erased the scarf command. “I think the ‘vette can make it that far.”
“That would be cool. Thanks. But Patrick’s picking me up.”
After Patrick’s dad dropped us off, we met Kyle in the bleachers. I checked to see who else was there. No sign of Wesley Cobble, which mea
nt I’d probably make it to halftime with the snack money I’d brought.
As the teams lined up for the kickoff, I pulled out a notebook and got ready to describe the highlights. Within five minutes, we were behind by two touchdowns. At the end of the first quarter, the other team brought in their second-string players. By the end of the half, we were behind 31 to 0.
“We weren’t that bad last year, were we?” I asked Patrick.
He shook his head. “All the good players graduated. This is pretty sad.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Kyle said.
“I can’t.”
“Maybe you can’t,” he said. “But we can.”
“You mind if we split?” Patrick asked.
“Go ahead,” I told him. “I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t stay if I didn’t have to.”
He called his dad. Then he and Kyle took off. Which sucked. I’d have stayed if they’d been stuck here.
The second half was just as painful as the first. When the game ended, I walked home. It was about two and a half miles, but it was a nice break after sitting there for so long. And it was a nice way to delay getting to work. I guess I was supposed to write some sort of rah-rah article. What could I say? Only one thing came to mind. I wrote it down when I got home, but I knew I had to keep it to myself. If anyone from the team saw it, I’d get my butt whupped big-time.
Six Ways Our Team Could Score a Touchdown by Scott Hudson, Clueless Sports Reporter
Wait until the game is over and the other team has left the field.
Get one of our parents to drive the quarterback to the goal line.
Let the other team score so many points they feel sorry for us. (This appears to be our actual strategy, but we haven’t found the right number yet. It’s higher than sixty-three.)
Hide a catapult behind the offensive line.
Change the rules so you score points every time you get knocked back ten yards or throw the ball away.
Buy the points on eBay.
Block that kick.
Block that kick.
Block that writer.
So, this was writer’s block. I was completely stuck. Not a clue what to say. Nobody would want to read about the other team. But if I only listed our achievements, the article would be shorter than the headline.
I spent a long time staring at the blank screen on our computer, wishing I’d never written that list of Tom Swifties.
“I have no idea what to write,” Scott said thoughtlessly.
I typed a title, deleted it, typed another title, then deleted that.
“I can’t possibly write a football article,” Scott said unsportingly.
That’s when it hit me. The first sentence jumped into my mind. And from my mind to my fingers.
“They keep gaining yards,” we said defenselessly.
The next sentence was even easier.
“The first quarter is over and we haven’t scored,” the crowd yelled pointlessly.
Once I started, it just sort of rolled out.
“Throw the ball,” the coach shouted passively.
“We need to keep the ball on the ground,” the fullback said dashingly.
I kept it up for the whole article and managed to fit in all the details from the game. It came out pretty good.
{ten}
bam.
Thump.
Pause.
BAM!
Pause.
Thumpa WHUMP!
Crap.
I pulled the pillow over my head and tried to ignore the crashes and thumps coming from the spare room.
Knock, knock. “Scott?” Knock, knock, knock.
I peeked out from beneath the pillow. Mom peeked in from the hall.
“Are you up?” she asked.
“What …?”
“I’m sorry. Did I wake you?” she asked.
“No,” I lied, still half asleep. “What’s going on?”
“We’re clearing out the nursery. Can you take your books?”
“Now?” I looked at my clock. It was barely after eight.
Mom nodded. “Your dad and I have a lot of errands to run later. Please?”
I staggered out of bed and went to the spare room. I’d kept my extra books on some of the shelves made from boards and cinder blocks. It was the only thing I’d ever built. Now the books were piled on the floor and the shelves were disassembled.
“Can’t we leave them here?” I asked.
“Cinder blocks?” Mom said, pointing to the floor. “In a nursery?”
Sheesh. What was the baby going to do? Fly out of the crib and crash headfirst into the shelves? Swallow a cinder block? If he could do that, I’d definitely get him a job in a carnival. It would be amazing going in, and twice as amazing coming out. But I could tell it wasn’t an area open to discussion. I lugged the books to my room, then tried to go back to sleep, but it was no use. I got up and started on my homework. As I listened to the thumps and crashes coming through the wall, I realized that I was going to be hearing a lot more noise once the nursery got occupied.
Around noon, I knew if I didn’t take a break I’d rupture something in my skull. I grabbed the book I was reading for English and headed to the playground at the elementary school to see if the guys were around.
“Hey, it’s the lost boy,” Patrick said when I got there. He was shooting hoops with Kyle. “Want to play?”
“Sure. For a bit. Is Mitch coming? We could go two-on-two.”
“Forget him,” Kyle said. “He’s gone for good.”
“That’s just plain wrong,” Patrick said. He threw the ball hard against the backboard, then caught the rebound. “A guy should stick with his friends. No matter what. Right?”
“Right,” I said.
Kyle nodded.
“So if there are three of us,” Patrick asked, “does that make us the two Musketeers?”
“Something like that,” I said.
We played a couple games of H-O-R-S-E. Then I dropped out and let them play one-on-one. I sat on the side of the court and started reading. Right when I was really getting into the story, something whizzed past my face and smacked the book from my hands.
“Are you crazy?” I shouted at Kyle.
“It slipped,” he said, giving me a grin as he chased after the basketball.
“No, it didn’t,” I said.
He scooped up the ball and tossed it to Patrick. “Look, I’m doing you a favor. Trying to save your eyesight. You’re going to get all squinty if you keep reading.” He scrunched up his eyes and put his hands in front of him like he was trying to feel his way in the dark.
“Very funny.” I grabbed my book, moved farther from the court, and sat where I could keep an eye on him while I read.
Later, when they took a break, Patrick actually asked to see the book. He looked at it for a moment, then said, “Doesn’t look bad. Probably better than memorizing prepositions.”
I nodded. “There’s hope for you, after all. Want to read it when I’m done?”
“Nah. I’d rather waste my time on movies and video games.”
When Kyle and Patrick knocked off, I headed home. The sweet aroma of warm cake and fresh icing greeted me as I walked past the kitchen.
“What’s up?” I asked Mom.
“Bobby got a job,” she said.
“Great. Where?”
“The diner on Market Street. It’s close enough for him to walk. He starts on Friday.”
I guess she’d made the cake to celebrate Bobby’s job. Maybe he’d keep this one for a while. “My first article comes out in the school paper on Tuesday,” I said.
“That’s wonderful.”
“I’ll show it to you after school.”
“That would be nice.”
As I pictured her reading the paper, I started to get nervous about my article. Then, as I pictured the whole school reading it, I moved from nervous to terrified. I went upstairs and read it again. Suddenly it didn’t seem as hilarious as before. What if people d
idn’t get it? What if it was a truly stupid idea?
I thought about last year’s middle school talent show. This seventh grader played the trumpet. He was so bad, the notes could turn your guts to water. But he seemed to think he was great. He didn’t have a clue that he was beyond awful. What if that’s how it was with my article? Maybe it actually stunk.
I wondered whether I should chuck the whole thing and just write about the game. Something short and simple. We sucked. We lost. But I’d already tried, and I hadn’t been able to come up with anything else. And it was sort of cool. At least, I hoped it was.
Monday, before homeroom, when I handed in the article, I told Mandy, “It’s a little different.”
“Excellent.” She slipped it into her folder. “No point boring the readers with the same old stuff.” She was wearing a long skirt again. With a tight blue top.
“You want to check it to make sure it’s okay?”
“I’m sure it will be fine. Good job.” She tapped me on the shoulder with the folder, like she was granting me knighthood, then headed down the hall.
Good or bad, it was out of my hands. Nothing much happened in the morning. But then I learned something in the last place I expected. History class. Mr. Ferragamo was telling us about France. We were supposed to be studying ancient Rome, but Mr. Ferragamo tended to get distracted. The Romans had fought the Gauls. And the Gauls later became the French. Once Mr. Ferragamo started explaining this, we ended up smack in the middle of the 1900s. Which was fine, since I could doze as easily there as I could in ancient times. I wasn’t alone. Since history was right after lunch, pretty much everyone around me was nodding off, too. As heavy carbs invaded our bloodstreams, heads dropped down and snapped up like we were at some kind of weird prayer meeting. I was napping just fine until he said, “Their leader, during the war years, was Charles de Gaulle.”
My eyes opened all the way. De Gaulle? That was the same name as my Spanish teacher. Which might not mean anything. But also might explain a lot. I could swear I’d never heard her speak more than a word or two in English. If that much.
I thought about the way she sounded when she taught us. Hoola sheekoes eee sheekahs, coomo ezdas? It was almost like she filtered every syllable through her nose. Good grief—she did sound sort of French.
