A Whole New Ballgame--A Rip and Red Book

by Phil Bildner

  She pointed to me.

  “What’s your topic?”

  “Our topic … our topic is my wheelchair.”

  My wheelchair.

  Everyone knew that was our topic, but I don’t think anyone had ever heard Avery say those two words before.

  “What about your wheelchair?”

  Avery curled her lip. “The nasty stuff that gets stuck to my wheels.”

  “Noah,” Mr. Acevedo said, “let’s hear about your topic.”

  “I’m working with Lana.” Noah wiped his chin with his sleeve. “Our topic is my brother’s booger wall.”

  “Your what?” Trinity asked.

  “My brother’s booger wall.”

  “Sick!” Danny said. “My cousin has one of those.”

  “What’s a booger wall?” Grace asked.

  “My little brother picks his nose.” Noah wiped his chin again. “Then he puts the boogers on the wall behind my parents’ bedroom door. My mother found the wall over the summer and flipped out.”

  “Dude, that’s friggin’ foul,” Avery said.

  Noah nodded. “He still walks around with his finger up his nose, but we have no idea where he’s putting the boogers.”

  “He’s eating them!” Zachary said.

  Everyone laughed.

  “On that appetizing note,” Mr. Acevedo said, “that’s a wrap for CC.” He strummed the carpet. “Next week, I need to make a few changes to the project.”

  “What kind of changes?” Piper asked.

  “You’ll find out Monday.”

  In the Amp

  To end the week, Mr. Acevedo held T3 outside in the amphitheater.

  He read us a short story about this kid who had the same first and last name, Murphy Murphy. The kid had the worst luck in the world. He also had really bad stage fright, but he agreed to be in a skit for the drama club because he really liked a girl.

  I sat in the first row on the end between Red and Mr. Goldberg. When we arrived, Mr. Goldberg was emptying the garbage cans next to the playground. He decided to join us.

  As Mr. Acevedo read, he walked up and down the steps and back and forth along the rows. He hopped onto the benches and tiptoed around us, twisting and turning and dipping like a dancer.

  When there were only a couple pages left—when he got to the scene where Murphy Murphy was bumbling through the skit—he walked over to the jungle gym and read from the deck at the top of the climbing wall. Then when he finished, he closed the book and bowed like a conductor in front of an orchestra.

  Everyone applauded.

  Some of the kids stood and cheered.

  I did.

  Double-Teamed

  “This turkey burger is delicious, Rip’s Mom,” Red said.

  I bumped his shoulder. “You say everything she makes is delicious.”

  “Everything is.”

  “I agree.” Mom burger-pounded him across the island.

  “Quit playing with your food, you two,” I said.

  We were on the stools in the kitchen having dinner: turkey burgers on challah bread with sweet potato fries. Just like always when Red stayed for dinner on Saturdays.

  Red was also sleeping over because Suzanne had to work the night shift at the hospital. Up until a few months ago, Red never slept over. He only slept in his own bed. But back in June, he said he wanted to stay over one night, and it went fine … though it definitely didn’t hurt that we played Xbox until the sun came through the basement window.

  “I’m looking forward to finally meeting Mr. Acevedo,” Mom said.

  “That’s not until next Saturday,” I said. “You’re looking forward to it already?” I half smiled. “I think someone needs to add a little excitement to her life.”

  “We have a game next Saturday,” Red said. “A home game against O’Malley at nine o’clock. We have to be there at eight-thirty.”

  “That’s when I’m meeting him,” Mom said. “Same with Suzanne.”

  “You’ll get to see his tattoos,” Red said, swiveling. “The butterfly one on his leg is so cool. It’s all different colors—red, green, yellow, blue, black. He has this other tattoo that says—”

  “We play Millwood on Wednesday,” I interrupted.

  “An away game at Millwood on Wednesday,” Red added. “Millwood’s the best team in the league.”

  I popped a couple fries into my mouth. “It could get ugly.”

  “Still with the attitude?” Mom said.

  “I’m just being realistic. Coach Acevedo keeps guaranteeing we’re going to win, but I don’t know. We only have five games left and two of them are against Millwood.”

  “An away game at Millwood on Wednesday, October second,” Red said, swiveling faster. “A home game against Voigt on Saturday, October fifth, an away game against Rolling Hills on Monday, October fourteenth, an away game at Lockport on Tuesday, October fifteenth, a home game against Millwood on Saturday, October nineteenth.”

  Mom tapped my plate. “You up-to-date with the project?”

  I nodded.

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “You checked the webpage?” She looked at both of us.

  We didn’t reply.

  “You need to,” she said. “Your outline is due, and you have another conference coming up. Mr. Acevedo posted a checklist for it.”

  “This is where you say you wished all your teachers were this organized.”

  “Don’t be so fresh.” She pointed a fry.

  I leaned across the island and tried to bite it, but she pulled it back.

  “You’re writing your page next week, right after the conference,” Mom said. “This project is moving quickly. You don’t want to fall behind.”

  “You’ve told me a gazillion times,” I said.

  “Xander McDonald and I finished our outline,” Red said. “Xander and I had fourteen notecards. Ms. Yvonne helped us.”

  “Ms. Yvonne’s coming into the class again?” Mom said. “She started doing push-in?”

  Red shook his head. “I see her out of class.”

  “We had ELA on the playground the other day,” I said. “She worked with Red and X then.”

  “Mr. Acevedo’s making changes to the project,” Red said. “He’s telling us what they are on Monday.”

  “I’m sure that has something to do with Back-to-School Night. I heard some of the parents were relentless.” She motioned to my plate. “You done?”

  I piled mine on top of hers.

  Red popped a last fry into his mouth and then added his to the stack.

  “As soon as we’re done cleaning up from dinner,” Mom said, heading for the compost, “we’re going over your folder.”

  “Why?” I half whined.

  “Because I said so. I don’t need to give you a reason.”

  I let out a puff. Sometimes my teacher-mom needed to be a little less hands-on.

  “I want to look at your project folder, too, Red,” she said.

  “Thanks, Rip’s Mom.”

  I bumped his shoulder again. “You really aren’t normal.”

  He bumped me back and then started swiveling again.

  “After we check your folder,” Mom said as she scraped a plate, “we’re going to do something about all those clothes on your floor.”

  “What are we going to do about them?”

  “Stop showing off in front of Red.” She shot me a look. “You’re being fresh again.”

  I brushed my locks off my forehead and let out another puff.

  “I know your room doesn’t have clothes all over it,” she said to Red. “Maybe you can help Rip clean his room.”

  “No, thanks, Rip’s Mom.”

  Shaking Things Up

  Back on Friday, we ended the week in the Amp. Today, we started the week in the Amp.

  “We interrupt Room 208 for a special bulletin!” Mr. Acevedo said. He stood with a leg on the front bench and his iPad on his knee. “I need to make a couple changes to the pro
ject. I have to shake things up a little bit.”

  “I don’t understand,” Piper said.

  “That’s because I haven’t explained it yet, Piper. This week, you and your partner will be writing a persuasive essay. It’s an additional writing assignment, a short one. You’ll need to follow a particular format.” He paused. “Hopefully, this will please some of your parents.” He nodded to Avery, whose hand was up.

  “Can I say something?” she said.

  “Is it about this writing assignment?”

  “Yes and no.”

  Mr. Acevedo looked at her sideways. “Then I’ll say maybe.”

  “I’m not the only one who thinks this,” she said. “Can I use the T-word?”

  “If you must.” Mr. Acevedo placed the iPad on the bench.

  I checked Red. He sat at the end of the second row next to Mr. Goldberg, who’d joined us again, even though we weren’t having T3. Red was already hunched forward and pinky-thumbing his legs.

  “What’s on your mind, Ms. Goodman?” Mr. Acevedo said, stepping to the front of the Amp.

  “We do test prep every day in math.”

  “You do.”

  “The third and fourth graders do test prep every day in ELA.”

  “They do.”

  She rolled her eyes. “The fifth graders at all the other schools do test prep. How are we going to do well on the tests if we don’t know how to take them?”

  “We’re learning.” Mr. Acevedo toed the sand with his sneaker.

  “We’re not learning the questions on the test.”

  “We’re learning,” he said. “We’re learning more than just the answers to some questions on a test. We’re learning…” He stopped midsentence and pulled back his hair. “Show of hands—how many of you feel the same way as Ms. Goodman? Be honest.”

  A few hands went up.

  Then a few more.

  And a few more.

  Then mine.

  “We’re learning,” Mr. Acevedo said. He drew a circle in the air with his finger. “But we’re learning in a way that doesn’t stifle creativity, and if you don’t know what stifle means, look it up.”

  I didn’t know what stifle meant, but from the sound of it, I didn’t want it happening to me.

  Down the row, Red swayed from side to side.

  “I understand I need to make adjustments,” Mr. Acevedo said, kicking at the sand. “Your parents have made that perfectly clear. But I’m not turning Room 208 into a test-prep mill, no matter how much noise anyone makes. I guarantee that.”

  It was the first time I’d ever heard Mr. Acevedo speak with an edge.

  I checked Red again—hunched over, swaying, and wearing his old-man face.

  “We learn best when we’re having fun,” Mr. Acevedo said, keeping the tone. “We learn best when we’re doing. That’s how we learn how to think. Learning how to answer specific questions for a test—that’s not learning. That’s … I don’t know what that is.”

  Mr. Acevedo pulled back his hair again and looked around. He made eye contact with a few of us.

  “When you teach to a test,” he said, softening his words, “you program the test taker to respond to a question in a narrow way. When you teach a real skill—when you learn a real skill—the person learning the skill is able to apply that skill in all different contexts.” He stepped to Avery. “Did that answer your question, Ms. Goodman?”

  “Whatever,” she said.

  “For what it’s worth,” he said, tapping her armrest, “that was a healthy interruption. I’m glad you brought that up. Now let’s get back to where we were—the new persuasive essay. That’s the first change to the project. The second change takes place in two weeks. Each group will now be presenting to the class. We’re going to have oral presen—”

  “No!” Red shouted. He stood up and shook his head violently. “No, I can’t. I can’t. It’s too much. It’s too much.” He covered his head with his arms. “No!”

  He took off.

  I Survived

  I tore out of the playground and headed for the gym door where Red ran into the school. I darted across the gym and through the cafeteria, but there was no sign of him.

  I charged down the main hall.

  “Slow down, Mr. Irving,” Ms. Waldon called from her desk by the announcement monitor.

  “Did Red come by?” I asked, speed-walking up.

  “Is everything all right?” She pointed down the K-1 hallway. “He just went upstairs.”

  I bolted past without answering and headed for the staircase. I pulled open the door, two-at-a-timed the steps, and then bounded into the second floor hall.

  No Red.

  I headed straight for Room 208.

  That’s where I found him. He stood by the back table in front of Bryan’s seat. He had taken down the silver toolbox with the I Survived books from atop the cubbies.

  “I Survived the Attacks of September 11, 2001,” he said, removing the book from the toolbox and putting it on the desk. He then lifted out a second book. “I Survived the Nazi Invasion, 1944.” He placed it on top of the first.

  “Red.” I walked up. “Red.”

  “I Survived Hurricane Katrina, 2005.” He kept stacking books. “I Survived the Battle of Gettysburg, 1863.”

  “Red,” I said again. I moved next to him.

  “I Survived the Japanese Tsunami, 2011.”

  “Red, what’s up?”

  “I can’t,” he said without looking up. “I can’t. It’s too much, too much. I Survived the San Francisco Earthquake, 1906.”

  “What is?” I placed my hand on his back. “What’s too much?”

  “It’s too much.” He shook his head faster. “It’s too much. I can’t … I can’t get up in front of the class. It’s too much, too much.”

  I let out a puff. “I’m sure … Red, Mr. Acevedo’s cool. He won’t make you get…”

  Mr. Acevedo and Ms. Yvonne rushed in.

  “I Survived the Sinking of the Titanic, 1912,” Red continued. “I Survived the Bombing of Pearl Harbor, 1941.”

  “Honey, what’s wrong?” Ms. Yvonne asked. She stepped up to Red like only she could.

  “It’s too much,” he said, squinching his face. He started restacking the books. “I Survived the Bombing of Pearl Harbor, 1941. I Survived the San Francisco Earthquake, 1906.”

  “Honey, look at me,” Ms. Yvonne said softly. She placed a hand on the table next to the books. “Everything’s okay. Look at me.”

  “I Survived the Japanese Tsunami, 2011.” He slowly looked up.

  “Honey, everything’s okay. I want you to come with me.”

  I checked Mr. Acevedo. He stood off to the side with his hands gripping his hair.

  “Come with me to my office, okay?” Ms. Yvonne placed her hand on the stack of books. “Come with me.”

  “Am I kicked off Clifton United?” Red asked, still shaking his head and squinting. “Am I kicked off Clifton United? Am I kicked off Clifton United?”

  “Honey, no, of course not,” she answered.

  “Am I kicked off Clifton United?”

  “No one’s kicking you off anything, Red.” Mr. Acevedo still held his hair. “Every team needs a Blake Daniels, remember?”

  “You hear that, Red?” I touched his back again. “We need you on Clifton United. You’re our free-throw-shooting machine.”

  “I can’t get up in front of the class,” Red said. “I can’t get up in front of the class. Please don’t kick me off the team.”

  “No one’s making you get up in front of the class, Red.” Ms. Yvonne glanced at Mr. Acevedo again.

  “No one’s making you do anything you don’t want to,” he said. “I guarantee it.”

  The H-Word

  “Do you want to look at the instructions?” I said, tilting the iPad to Avery.

  “Not really,” she said. “I hate getting up in front of the class.”

  I flinched.

  “Ooh.” She wiggled her fingers. “I said t
he H-word at RJE. Calm down, dude. It’s not like I shouted it across the cafeteria.”

  We were back in Room 208. I was in Melissa’s seat across from Avery. After Red’s episode, Mr. Acevedo decided to have the rest of class inside. Back in the room, he explained that he’d be holding conferences while we worked on our persuasive pieces and prepared for the presentations.

  “They’re not for another two weeks,” I said. “And we only have to be in front of the class for a few minutes.”

  “I don’t care if it’s for a few seconds. It’s getting up in front of the class. I hate getting up in front of the friggin’ class.”

  “I’m beginning to sense that.” I slid over a blank notecard and started darkening a corner. “I’ll do the writing assignment, Avery,” I said without looking up.

  “Huh?”

  “The persuasive essay. I’ll do it.” I still didn’t look up. “It’s an olive branch.”

  “A what?”

  Even though I couldn’t see her face, I knew she was curling her lip.

  “It’s an olive branch,” I said again.

  “Whatever, dude.”

  Massacre at Millwood

  I knew we were in for it against Millwood, but I didn’t realize just how much we were in for it until I pulled open the gym door.

  No lie, Millwood’s gym looked like one of those high school gyms you see in the movies. Fifteen rows of bleachers on both sides, baseline to baseline, and those bleachers were packed. Seriously packed. As the Millwood players warmed up, the fans waved orange and black towels and bobbed to the dubstep pumping out of the speakers on the walls behind the baskets. Championship banners hung from all the rafters. The only thing missing was a Jumbotron!

  As we entered the gym …

  “Boo!”

  “Go back to Clifton!”

  “Boo!”

  “I’ve never been booed and heckled before,” Keith said, cringing.

  “Me neither,” I said.

  I ducked back into the hall and went over to Red. He was with Mehdi and Mikey and hadn’t reached the door.