by Phil Bildner
It was pretty cool seeing Red sit between two people in a classroom.
“That’s something mi abuela used to say,” Mr. Acevedo said. “Any of my Spanish speakers want to take a shot at what it means?”
“Your grandmother used to say that,” Bryan said.
“Something about not listening and not being able to hear,” Christine added.
“Very close,” Mr. Acevedo said, smiling.
“There’s no worse person than someone who doesn’t want to listen,” Zachary said.
“Excellent.” Mr. Acevedo gripped his ankles. “Anyone want to take a shot at what that means?” He motioned to Diego.
“People need to listen,” Diego said. “If you don’t listen, it’s worse than not being able to hear.”
“Exactly, Diego. We don’t listen anymore, and by we, I mean people in general. We talk and yell over one another, but we don’t listen.”
“What?” Grace said, smiling.
“Yeah, I can’t hear you, Teach,” Declan added, grinning.
Mr. Acevedo pointed playfully. “Funny stuff, you two.”
“Two ears, one mouth,” Trinity said, moving her fingers from her ears to her lips. “My dad says God gave us two ears and one mouth, so we should listen twice as much as we speak.”
“I like that,” Mr. Acevedo said. He grabbed his ankles again and rocked back and forth. “We’re all going to become better listeners in here. Listening leads to learning.” He nodded to Miles.
“So what is ‘That’s Nasty’?” Miles asked.
“A perfectly timed question.” Mr. Acevedo popped to his feet and turned toward his desk. “Let’s head back to our tables. Take out those lists you made over the weekend.”
* * *
Mr. Acevedo grabbed the remote from the binder shelf and powered up the ceiling projector.
“Let’s hear what you got,” he said. “I want to be dazzled and disgusted.” He grabbed the green pen. “Throw out—or throw up—the grossest, most offensive, nastiest things you came up with.”
“Picking your teeth with your toenails!” Melissa shouted.
“OHHH!”
“I got one,” Danny said. “The yellow tiles by the urinals in the boys’ bathroom.”
“EWWW!”
“Cotton candy ice cream puke!” I said.
“OHHH!”
As everyone called out examples, Mr. Acevedo wrote them down. Fifteen minutes later, the board was covered with the names of all sorts of disgusting stuff, from crusty earwax globs to poop-filled diapers.
“Outstanding work, everyone.” Mr. Acevedo patted the board. “I am dazzled and disgusted. This is going to be a brilliant book.”
“Book?” at least five or six of us said at the same time.
“That’s right,” Mr. Acevedo said. “We’re writing a book.”
He drew a circle in the air with his finger. “That’s our class project. We’re writing a book together. It’s going to be called That’s Nasty!”
He punched up a presentation on the board.
“Here’s an overview of the project,” he said. “I’ll play it for you in a sec. Everything you need to know about the project is in here—the steps, the rubrics, the conferencing calendar. I’ve also uploaded this to the webpage.” He laser-pointed the wall by the door. “Starting tomorrow, all the project due dates will be posted here.”
Several hands shot up.
He air-pressed them down.
“Let me try to answer some of these before I even hear them,” Mr. Acevedo said. “First, yes, you will work with a partner.”
Behind my back, Red gave me a pound.
“However,” he added, “I’m choosing your partner. Check the webpage this evening.”
Slammed Again
I blinked hard. This had to be a mistake.
How can you do this to me?
I refreshed the page again.
Again.
What are you thinking, Mr. Acevedo?
I grabbed the locks above my neck.
Fine, you don’t want Red and me working together all the time. So then put me with Danny or Zachary or Hunter. You put Red with X.
I shut the laptop, fell back on my bed, and covered my face with a pillow.
How can you do this to me?
My project partner: Avery Goodman.
Avery
“You think I’m happy about this?” Avery asked.
I didn’t say anything back.
We were by the entrance to the playground, near where Red and I leave our bags when we run the obstacle course on the way to school.
When we arrived this morning, Mr. Acevedo told us we needed to interview our partners. He handed out a sheet with a list of suggested questions.
“I got these questions from a creative writing class I took in college,” he explained. “By answering these questions, we were able to get to know our characters better. I’m hoping these same questions will help you get to know your partners better.”
Then he took us out to the playground and went into this whole thing about how he chose our partners and why it was important for us to work with other people.
I scanned the handout on top of my journal:
• What’s on your bed?
• Where did you go on your favorite vacation?
• If you could have a superpower, what would it be?
• What is your favorite genre/type of book?
• Who is your favorite singer?
• What would your parents say is your most annoying habit?
I checked Avery. Her open notebook was blank.
“You didn’t write anything,” I said.
“What?”
“When you climbed the ladder the other day.” I motioned to her journal. “You didn’t write anything.”
She slammed it shut. “Why are you looking in my notebook?”
I turned away. Hunter and Attie stood on the balance beam, talking and laughing. Danny and Diego leaned against the climbing wall, talking and laughing. Lana and Noah, Trinity and Melissa, Gavin and Mariam—all sat on the steps in the amphitheater, talking and laughing.
I checked Red. He and Xander were on a bench diagonally down the walkway. Ms. Yvonne was between them with an open folder in her lap. It was the first time Ms. Yvonne had pushed in to ELA this year. Red and Xander were writing on notecards.
All three were smiling.
I shook out my hair. “Did your wheelchair come with those?” I asked.
“Come with what?”
I pointed to the front of her chair. “Those small tires.”
“Dude, they’re called casters.”
One caster was bright blue, the other bright red. Both had three spokes.
“So did it come with those casters?” I asked.
“No.”
I let out a puff. “We’re supposed to answer these questions.” I held up the sheet. “We need—”
“I heard the assignment. I’m not deaf.”
“No one said you were.”
“Dude, I know what I need to know about you.” She curled her lip. “You’re the black kid with the twists who lives and breathes basketball.”
“Shut up.”
“No. It’s the truth.”
“I don’t live and breathe basketball,” I said. “And just because I’m black—”
“Whatever, dude.”
“No, not whatever, Avery.” I pointed to my head. “These are not called twists. They’re called locks, dude.”
“Like I care.”
“I care.”
“You want something to write down?” She motioned to the handout. “Write this: I’m a wheeler.”
I didn’t.
“I’m a wheeler,” she said again.
“I heard you the first time. I’m not deaf.”
“But don’t you call me that.”
“Call you what?”
“A wheeler.”
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t.”
She squeezed her brakes. “Dude, face reality. Around here, you’re the black kid who plays basketball, Lana and Ana are the Russian twins, X is the Beatles freak, Red is the autistic kid—”
“Don’t say anything about Red.”
“Whatever.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s autistic, right?”
I glared. Yeah, Red was on the spectrum, not that I really knew what that meant. Both my mom and Suzanne have tried explaining it to me a gazillion times, but to be perfectly honest, I don’t think Lesley, Suzanne, or any other grown-up gets Red like I do.
“Trinity is the girl who runs track,” Avery went on, “Noah is the kid who still drools, and Diego is the only kid in the whole friggin’ school who gets to wear a hat. Around here, that’s who we are.”
“You’re wrong,” I said.
She pointed to her palm. “Mr. Hipster Know-It-All has got you right here.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Dude, you breathe his words.”
“No.”
She imitated the way Mr. Acevedo played with his hair and earrings. “‘We read every day in Room 208,’” she said, mockingly. “‘I read to you every day, I challenge you to write in your journals, I hate testing, we are—’”
“You’re wrong, Avery,” I said.
“Dude, you’re wrong. Mr. Hipster Know-It-All thinks he knows kids better than anyone, but he doesn’t. He gives kids way too much credit.” She curled her lip. “You’re the black kid who lives and breathes basketball. I’m the wheeler. That’s who we are. Deal with it.”
All Ball
For the rest of the school day, all I could think about was Avery and the project, and let me tell you, the last thing I wanted to think about was Avery and the project. A few times, I almost went to Mr. Acevedo, but I was too mad.
Thankfully, once I stepped into the gym for Clifton United’s first official practice, I shifted into basketball mode.
I love that I can do that.
For the next ninety-five minutes, I was all hoops.
* * *
At the start of practice, we got right down to business.
“Real teams play defense and rebound,” Coach Acevedo said. “Teams with heart play defense and rebound. So today, it’s all about defense. Let’s form two lines between the baseline and foul line.”
Tweet! Tweet!
Forming those two lines proved a little challenging for Emily, Mikey, Mehdi, Leslie, Khalil, Jason, Jeffrey, Maya, Alex, Wil, Keith, Red, and me. So Coach Acevedo settled for us standing in the general area.
I checked Red. He was hopping from foot to foot and smiling.
“In order to play defense,” Coach Acevedo said, “you have to be in the proper defensive position. That’s all about getting in your chairs.”
“Chairs?” Red looked around. “What chairs?”
“It’s an expression, Red,” I said.
“Got it. Thanks, Mason Irving.”
“On defense,” Coach Acevedo said, “you’re sitting in a chair: head up, knees bent, feet shoulder-width apart, heels off the ground.” He demonstrated the stance. “When I blow my whistle, everyone get in your chairs.”
Tweet!
Everyone did.
“Excellent,” Coach Acevedo said. “Now we need to learn how to move on defense. That’s all about sliding your feet.” He slid back and forth while sitting in his chair. “So here’s the drill: First whistle, get in your chairs. Second whistle, slide in that direction.” He pointed to the windows. “Next whistle, slide that way.” He pointed to the cafeteria wall. “Next whistle, reverse direction. And so on. Here we go.”
Tweet!
“In your chairs!” Coach Acevedo called.
Tweet!
“To the right! Other right, Khalil. Other right, Alex. Toward the windows.”
Tweet!
“To the left. Toward the wall. Stay in your chairs.”
Tweet!
“Windows! Don’t cross your legs. Slide! Slide!”
Tweet!
“Wall! Heads up, hands up! Heads up, hands up!”
Tweet!
“Careful, Leslie. Watch where you’re going.”
Tweet!
Leslie wasn’t the only one who needed to be careful. Wil knocked into Jason, who bowled over Maya and Mehdi. Then Emily stumbled into Jeffrey, who tackled Keith.
That’s pretty much how it went for all the drills—running in the wrong direction, tripping over one another, and knocking into things. During full-court pivots and slides—the zigzag drill that no one could figure out—the orange cones were like booby traps. First, Mikey stumbled twice before reaching the first cone. Then Alex slid straight up the sideline instead of toward the cone at the top of the key. Then Emily knocked over the first cone and the second cone.
“This doesn’t look like proper defense,” Red said, cupping his hand over his mouth.
“This doesn’t look like basketball.”
I shook my head.
* * *
“Good job today,” Coach Acevedo said at the end of practice. “I like what I saw.”
Good job? You liked what you saw?
“Everyone gave it their all today.” He twirled his whistle. “That’s what I want to see. We played with heart.”
“Teams with heart play defense and rebound,” Red said, smiling. “Real teams play defense and rebound.”
“Exactly.” Coach Acevedo gave him a pound. “Once the season starts, we’re not going to have a lot of practice time, so it’s important we focus on the foundations now. Our next practice will be all about rebounding.” He snatched the whistle. “Now I’m not going to sugarcoat things. Some of the teams we face this season—like Edgemont and Millwood—are pretty stacked, and we have to play Millwood twice. But if we play with heart and we play as a team, we will win this season. I guarantee it.”
Soup’s On
After school the next day, while I was getting my butt kicked at Horse, all Red wanted to talk about was the project.
“Hairy, smelly, bacteria armpits!” He laughed. “My topic is armpits. How cool is that, Mason Irving? Hairy, smelly—”
“Quit trying to make me miss,” I said.
I took the behind-the-back bounce shot from the corner.
Air ball.
“That’s H-O-R-S to H-O.” He rolled off his chair onto his back. “Time to finish you off, Mason Irving. Hairy, smelly, bacteria armpits!”
Lying upside down, he swished an under-the-leg, three-quarter-court shot.
“Bam!” He kicked his feet. “Blake Daniels is unstoppable!”
“Knock, knock.”
I checked the stairs. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hey, Rip’s Mom.”
“Let’s go, you two.” She rapped the railing. “Soup’s on.”
“Soup’s for dinner?” Red said. “We have barbecue chicken for dinner on Wednesday.”
“It’s an expression,” I said. “It means it’s time to eat.”
“Got it. Time to eat.”
When Red stayed over for dinner on weekdays, Mom always served barbecue chicken, salad (with extra cucumbers and no tomatoes), and chips with guacamole.
“We’re almost done, Mom,” I said. “Give us like—”
“Dinner’s on the table,” she said. “You’re done now.”
“I’m ahead H-O-R-S to H-O.” Red hit Quit. “I win.”
Whoever was ahead when it was time to stop was the winner. That was our rule.
“I’m the king of Horse.” Red put his controller on the center orange square of the Rubix Cube table and spun it around. “Game over, Mason Irving.”
* * *
At dinner, all Red and Mom wanted to talk about was the project.
“How are things going with Avery?” she asked.
“Do you mind?” I said. “I’m eating.”
“That’s not very nice, Rip.”
“She’s not nice.”
We were sitting on the stools around the island counter. I was closest to the c
abinets, Red was on my right, and Mom was across from us.
“I’m working with Xander McDonald,” Red said.
“I like that you’re working with Avery,” Mom said, tapping my plate with her fork. “It’s important to work with other people.” She turned to Red. “That goes for both of you. You need—”
“Do all you teacher types have a secret society or something?” I interrupted. “You sound exactly like Mr. Acevedo.”
“Great minds think alike. Now if only some of the parents would give him a little breathing room.”
“The parents don’t like Mr. Acevedo?” I said.
“The barbecue chicken is delicious, Rip’s Mom,” Red said.
“Thank you, Red.”
He held up a chip and dipped it. “The guacamole is delicious, too.”
“When are you going to start calling me something other than Rip’s Mom?”
He swiveled his stool. “You are Rip’s mom.”
“Yes, I am. But call me Ms. Irving. Or call me Lesley.”
“Can I call you Lesley?” I asked.
“Not if you know what’s good for you.”
“Xander McDonald loves the Beatles,” Red said. “That’s why he always wears Beatles shirts. He keeps comic books under his bed. His favorite comic is Batman. His favorite fruits are mango and banana. His favorite—”
I cut him off. “Mr. Acevedo had us interview our partners.”
“What did you learn about Avery?” Mom asked.
“That she has a bad attitude.”
“Worse than yours?”
“Whatever.”
Whatever.
Avery said whatever. The last thing I wanted was to sound like Avery.
“Why don’t the parents like Mr. Acevedo?” I asked.
“They do like him.” Mom tilted her head. “They’re just concerned about the lack of test prep.” She laughed. “It’s gone from one extreme to another. I’ve already gotten e-mails.”
All the parents know my mom’s a principal. Whenever an issue or question comes up at RJE, parents hit her up.
“Mr. Acevedo said he’s in charge in Room 208,” Red said. “Mr. Acevedo said he gets to teach the class his way.”
“We’ll see how that goes,” Mom said. “Some of these parents are … some of the parents are objecting to some of his practices.” She nodded to Red. “So how’s basketball?”
