by Phil Bildner
She hadn’t been at her desk these first three mornings, and I was afraid to ask where she was. Ms. Waldon knew everything about RJE. Everything. Mom called people like Ms. Waldon indispensable.
I pushed my chair away from the table, reached back, and grabbed two notebooks. I placed one in front of Red, who still had his hands by his face. He was swaying, too.
Whenever we had writer’s workshop or a new writing assignment in ELA, Red always worked with Ms. Yvonne.
I wrote RIP in all caps on the cover of my notebook and then tapped Red on the shoulder. “Come on,” I said, standing up. “This could be fun.”
He continued to sway.
I shook out my hair. I was pretty sure Red would be fine once he was up. Everyone was doing the assignment, too. It wasn’t like he was being singled out.
“Come on,” I said again.
“Okay, Mason Irving,” he said softly.
We both climbed onto our table.
“Freeze!” Mr. Acevedo suddenly shouted.
Everyone froze.
“Without moving your feet,” he said, “turn and look my way.” Mr. Acevedo stood in the doorway with his arm around Mr. Goldberg.
Mr. Goldberg, the head custodian.
“If you don’t know who this man is,” Mr. Acevedo said, “you need to learn. This is Mr. Goldberg. After the twenty-six of you in Room 208, this gentleman right here is the most important person in the school. Not only does he know where everything is, he also has the key to every door. That means, he has access. That means, we’re always kind to this man.”
Mom called people like Mr. Goldberg indispensable, too.
“We’re doing a writing activity.” Mr. Acevedo turned to him. “Would it be possible to borrow a stepladder?”
“Coming right up.” Mr. Goldberg ducked into the hallway.
“Can we unfreeze?” Trinity asked. She was standing with one foot on her chair and one foot on her table.
“Not until the ladder arrives,” Mr. Acevedo said.
It arrived a few moments later.
“Here you go, Ms. Goodman,” Mr. Acevedo said, opening it next to her. “Do you need help getting—”
Avery was already lifting herself out of her chair. She began pulling herself up the ladder.
I’d never seen Avery out of her chair. I’m pretty sure most of the other kids hadn’t either.
Everyone stared.
“What are you looking at?” she said when she reached the top rung.
Mr. Acevedo handed Avery her journal and then sprang onto his desk. “This activity is about perspective,” he said. “Room 208 looks very different from up here. We’re looking at things from a new vantage point, a new point of view. That enables us to see the things we always see in a different way. It also allows us to discover new things right in front of us. I want you to write down what you see. How do things look different from up here? What new things have appeared?”
“Can we draw?” Sebi asked.
“Absolutely,” Mr. Acevedo answered. “Draw, write, whatever, and for this exercise, don’t worry about full sentences, capital letters, or spelling. Just get your ideas and observations down on the page. Use your senses. What do you see? What do you hear? What do you feel? Give me details. Lots of specific details. Details make our writing come to life.”
It sounded pretty cool. And I loved that he said don’t worry about full sentences, capital letters, or spelling!
I did my best:
Rip Thursday, September 5
STANDING ON TABLE ASSIGNMENT
The light bulbs are humming
There’s a dead wasp in the ficture, I can see it’s legs.
The top of the ficture has never been dusted.
The top of the cieling projector has never been dusted
It’s hot up here
Red isn’t writing
Mr. Acevedo has a tattoo on the back of his neck.
A ship is safe in harbor, but that’s not what ships are for. That’s what his tattoo on his arm says.
Out the window. the tops of the portables.
Out the window. the soccer field on the other side of the portables.
Out the window, part of the fence around the playground
Red still isn’t writing
At first I was nervous standing up here. Now I’m not.
The T-Word
Twenty-two hours and fifteen minutes later …
“We survived the first week!” Mr. Acevedo said, raising both arms. “Yeah, it was only a four-day week, but we made it. Next week we’re here Monday to Friday. That’s our first real test.” He gasped. “Test? Test!”
Suddenly, he clutched his chest and stumbled forward like a person pretending to have a heart attack on an old television show. He staggered across the carpet, fell onto a beanbag, and rolled next to the bathtub.
Then he bounced to his feet.
“That Oscar-worthy performance was brought to you by the T-word.” He formed the letter T with his hands. “Test is the T-word. Just like we’re not permitted to use the H-word at RJE, we’re not permitted to use the T-word in Room 208.” He spun to Attie, whose hand was up.
“But we have to take—”
“Don’t say it!” He cut her off. “Don’t say the T-word. Now I’m about to use it because I want to explain myself, but once I do, we’re not wasting our time discussing tests and testing in Room 208.”
He walked past our table to the front closet.
“You see these?” He opened the door. The closet was filled with test prep booklets. Like the ones from last year. And the year before. “These will not be seeing the light of day in here.” He shut the door. “I’m not about tests and test scores.” He motioned to Attie, whose hand was back up.
“But we still have to take … assessments.”
“We do.”
“Then how will we—”
“You’ll do fantastic. Everyone will.”
“But what if we don’t?” Attie said.
I was thinking the same things. How could we not do test prep? We had even more tests this year than in third and fourth grade. Some counted for middle-school placement. We needed to do test prep.
“Attie, if you don’t do well,” Mr. Acevedo said, “I’m one and done. They give me the boot at the end of the year.” He wagged his finger. “But that’s not going to happen. You will learn in here. Everyone will learn in here. I guarantee it.” He pointed to Diego’s raised hand.
“Are you giving us T-words?”
“Good question, Diego.” Mr. Acevedo leaned against his desk. “For the most part, no. I’ll be assessing you in other ways. I’m about real assessment that’s useful. I’ll be giving you feedback, so we understand purpose, because that’s how we learn to think.” He adjusted a hoop in the top of his ear. “You’ve only known me three days, but I think you can see I tend to do things a little differently.” He bongo-drummed the side of his desk. “Now let’s talk about your homework assignment for the weekend.”
“I thought you said you don’t believe in homework,” Jordan said.
“That’s not what I said, Jordan. I said I’m not a big fan of homework. And this homework assignment—the purpose of it—is to get everyone thinking about our class project.”
“What class project?” several kids asked at once.
“Another good question,” Mr. Acevedo said. “The answer to it will be posted on our class webpage this evening.” He jumped and smacked the URL written on the blue sentence strip above the board. “It’s your responsibility to check this. You’re in fifth grade now. I’m not holding your hands.”
My forehead fell to the table. Sometimes Mr. Acevedo sounded a little too much like my mom.
H-O-R-S-E
“We’re playing basketball,” Red sang, rocking in the gaming chair. “We love that basketball.”
“You’re going down today, Blake Daniels,” I said. I was on my stomach lying across the sectional couch.
“We’ll see about
that, Mason Irving.” Red’s eyes stayed on the flat screen.
Red and I play Xbox in my basement all the time, but Red can only play a few games, and he’s not very good at the games he does play. Except for Horse. That’s his game, and when Red’s locked in, I don’t stand a chance.
Red was locked in.
“Magic Johnson was the most valuable player of the NBA three times,” he said. He took the one-handed, over-the-shoulder shot from the top of the key. “Bam! Magic Johnson was the most valuable player in 1987, 1989, and 1990. He was also the most valuable player of the NBA finals three times. In 1980, 1982, and 1987.”
Whenever we play Horse, we play the “Legends” version. Red’s a different legend every time.
“Magic Johnson was an all-star twelve times,” he said. “He was the most valuable player of the All-Star Game two times. In 1990 and 1992.”
Any guesses who he was today?
I was Allen Iverson. I was always Iverson.
“Irving works the stick,” I slow-mo play-by-played, because that’s the only way to play-by-play Horse. “He slides Iverson into place, checks the arc, the one-handed, over-the-shoulder shot … it’s good! Yes! Oh, Irving is matching Daniels hoop-for-hoop this afternoon!”
“I’m still up H-O-R to H-O,” Red said. He rocked forward, grabbed his sweet tea off the Rubix Cube table, and took a drink. “Refresh the page,” he said. “See if the assignment’s up.”
“I just checked a minute ago.”
“Check again.”
I reached for the MacBook on the floor, paused the Let’s Play vid, and clicked back to the class page. There it was. The assignment. And to be perfectly honest, it sounded amazing.
“It’s up!” I said.
“What’s the assignment?” Red dove beside me. “What does it say?”
I read out loud:
“Explosive diarrhea!” I shouted.
“Explosive macaroni and cheese diarrhea!” Red said.
“Oh, nasty!” I clawed my hands against my cheeks. “Explosive macaroni and cheese and cotton candy ice cream diarrhea!”
“Cotton candy ice cream puke!”
“Hold on.” I minimized the page and pulled up a Sticky. “We need to get these down. Cotton candy ice cream puke,” I said as I typed. “Macaroni and cheese diarrhea. What else?”
“Wait.” Red pointed to Magic Johnson. “I haven’t finished beating you.”
“Beating me?”
“Beating you, Mason Irving.” He slid onto his chair.
“You’re buggin’, Red.”
At half-court, Magic held a ball in each hand. He tossed one into the air and as it came down, he punched it into the air with the other. The ball sailed across the court and through the hoop. “Bam!” Red waved his arms. “Take that, Mason Irving!”
“Rotten cucumbers,” I said. “Mushy rotten cucumbers growing alien-head white spots.”
“Bad chicken.” Red stuck out his tongue. “One time, we had bad chicken in the fridge. It stunk up the whole house.”
From half-court, Iverson batted the ball toward the hoop. It didn’t reach the foul line.
“Bam!” Red bounced. “H-O-R-S for Mason Irving, H-O for Blake Daniels.” He grabbed his bare foot. “Stinky feet!”
“Time for my comeback,” I said.
“Magic Johnson averaged 11.2 assists per game,” Red said, moving Magic around the screen. “In the playoffs, Magic Johnson had 2,346 assists, more than any other player in history.”
“Boogers,” I said. “Crusty brown-and-green boogers!”
“If you’re trying to distract me, it’s not working.”
“Not washing your hands after doing number two.” I grabbed the back of his chair and rocked it.
“Still not working, Mason Irving,” Red said. “In 1992, Magic Johnson was an Olympic gold medalist. In 1996, he was named one of the fifty greatest players in NBA history. In 2002, he was elected to the Basketball Hall of Fame.”
“Not washing your hands after explosive macaroni and cheese and cotton candy ice cream diarrhea!”
Red took a soccer shot from the parking lot outside the arena.
Swish!
“Bam!” He jumped up. “They’re playing basketball,” he sang. “We love that basketball.”
Clifton United
At the start of the second tryout, Coach Acevedo had us run five laps around the gym.
That didn’t go so well.
After the first lap, some kids needed to walk. After the second, some kids had to stop. And after the third, the line for the water fountain in the alcove behind the basket went all the way to the free-throw line.
Red and I ran our five laps with the lead group.
“Some of these kids aren’t in very good shape,” he said as we waited for everyone to finish.
“Not at all.”
I was in full basketball mode today. Red was hopping from foot to foot.
When everyone finished, Coach Acevedo broke us into groups and sent us to the six baskets for shooting drills.
Those didn’t go so well either.
Balls flew in every direction—banging off the backboards, sailing into the cafeteria, ricocheting off the front of the stage—and kids were running into one another trying to chase them down. No lie, at times the gym looked like human bumper cars!
“I don’t think some of these kids have played very much basketball before,” Red said.
We stood against the mat under our hoop. I had my arm up ready to block anything incoming.
“I know some of these kids haven’t played very much basketball before,” I said.
Tweet! Tweet!
“Before someone gets hurt out here,” Coach Acevedo said, jogging to midcourt and waving his arms, “let’s line up for some ball-handling drills.”
This wasn’t going to be pretty either.
I was right.
The first kid dribbled the ball off his foot, and when he ran after it, he tripped over the stack of mini orange cones.
Tweet! Tweet!
“Let’s watch where we’re going out there,” Coach Acevedo said.
The next kid took three steps before putting the ball on the floor.
Tweet! Tweet!
“Like I said on Tuesday,” Coach Acevedo said, “we can’t run with the ball.”
The next kid dribbled with both hands.
Tweet! Tweet!
“Like I said the other day,” Coach Acevedo said, “we can’t dribble with two hands.”
The next kid didn’t turn at the first cone. Instead, he kept going straight and dribbled right into the ball rack, knocking all the balls onto the court.
“Like I said,” Red whispered, “I don’t think some of these kids have played very much basketball before.”
“Like I said, I know some of these kids haven’t played very much basketball before.”
* * *
After the last drill, Coach Acevedo huddled us at midcourt.
“Thank you for trying out for Clifton United,” he said.
Clifton United.
All the Clifton schools coming together to form one team: Clifton United.
I liked it.
“Now here’s how this is going to work.” Coach Acevedo twirled his whistle. “To those of you in my class, this will sound a little familiar. Tomorrow evening, I’ll be posting the roster on our team webpage. It’s your responsibility to check—”
Several hands shot up.
“Hold on.” He motioned the hands down. “Yes, Clifton United has a webpage. When your parents signed you up, one of the questions on the application asked your parents whether they thought you were responsible enough to check the team webpage on your own.”
“My mother made me answer that question,” said one of the boys.
So did mine. But I didn’t say so.
“Clifton United will not be relying on texting as our primary means of communication,” Coach Acevedo said. “I know that’s how it’s done with other teams, but no
t every fifth grader has a phone. So for us, it’s our webpage.” He snatched his whistle. “I’ve already uploaded a bunch of items—the league rules, the taunting guidelines, the head-injury policy, the Code of Conduct contract. Everyone needs to sign that contract before the first game.”
Coach Acevedo looked around the huddle. He made eye contact with some of the kids.
“If you’re not selected for the team, try not to be too disappointed. There could be any number of reasons why you weren’t chosen this time. For some of you, your parents prefer that you play later in the year.”
He did the eye-contact thing again. He looked at Red last.
“Everyone in this gym brings value to Clifton United.”
Teammates!
The next night, Red and I were back in my basement playing Xbox. This time, Red had the MacBook and was refreshing the team page as often as the Internet would let him.
Yeah, we already knew we’d made the team, but we still wanted to see our names on the roster.
“It’s up!” he shouted. He grabbed the laptop, dove off his chair, and slid across the carpet.
I read the screen:
CONGRATULATIONS!
The following individuals have been selected to play for Clifton United, Fall Ball Season I.
I scrolled down.
1. Khalil Ahmed
2. Wilfredo Benítez
3. Blake Daniels
“Bam!” Red kicked the carpet.
4. Mikey Flynn
5. Leslie Holmes
6. Mason Irving
“Boo-yah!” I leaped onto the sofa.
Red jumped next to me. “We’re playing basketball,” he sang.
“We love that basketball!” we sang, and danced.
That’s Nasty!
On Monday morning, Mr. Acevedo started CC with a quote in Spanish.
“No hay peor sordo que aquel que no quiere oír,” he said.
Mr. Acevedo sat cross-legged on the rug in the same spot as the other day. I sat in the same spot, too. Red was on the couch between Christine and Zachary because when Xander saw that Red didn’t have a seat, he gave up his place.
