by Brian Bakos
“Quit drooling, Tommy,” Quentin joked. “It isn’t yours yet.”
I took a place at the far end of the blackboard. Quentin stood beside me, then the others lined up. I felt good. Maybe I’m not the world’s greatest ball player, but I could beat Quentin at this. I knew it!
Nikki Lee, school newspaper photographer, sat at her desk with her big, official-looking camera. She’d photograph the winner, and my picture would be in the final issue of the Journal!
Then the door at the back of the room opened and another ten kids entered from the hall, including Melissa Jordanek.
“I’ve invited my other English class to participate as well,” Miss Greene said.
I eyed the new group suspiciously, and some of my confidence drained away. Well, with more people in the contest, the greater the achievement for the winner. For me.
“In the opening round, contestants will be eliminated after missing a single word,” Miss Greene said. “The final three contestants will get two chances each.”
I held my breath. Please, don’t let me mess up, I thought.
The air seemed thick enough to cut with a hacksaw. Would Miss Greene pick me first, or would she begin at the other end of the line? She reached her hand into a big fishbowl. Her long, slender fingers with the perfect nails pulled out a slip of paper. With agonizing slowness, she unfolded the paper and studied it.
“Tommy, what is the correct spelling of correspondence?” she said.
I felt a sharp spot light flick on and pinpoint me like a bug under a hot magnifying glass beam. This was a tricky one. Did it end with ance or ence?
“C-o-r-r-e-s-p-o-n-d-e-n-c-e,” I said.
“That is correct,” Miss Greene said.
Relief washed over me, and I allowed myself to breathe again. Miss Greene took another paper from the fishbowl.
“Quentin, what is the correct spelling of vacuum?”
Quentin folded his arms. His face twisted into an almost comic expression of deep thought.
“Quentin?” Miss Greene prompted.
“V-a-c-u-m-e,” Quentin said.
“I’m sorry, that’s not correct,” Miss Greene said.
Quentin slapped his forehead.
“How embarrassing!” he cried. “Shot down on the first word.”
The whole class laughed.
“How do you spell embarrassing?” someone yelled.
Everyone applauded as Quentin walked back to his desk. Imagine that, the guy flunks out early and gets a round of applause. At least some of the tension had left the air. I hunkered down for the long haul.
More kids got eliminated. I survived, correctly spelling conscientious, harassment, and zealous among others. Eventually, everyone else from my class was gone. Only I remained, with four kids from the other class.
My confidence was starting to fade, though. A girl named Chelsea was doing fantastic, like a walking dictionary. She’d already spelled at least one word that I know I would have bombed.
Melissa did surprisingly well. Whenever it was her turn, though, Miss Greene always seemed to pick an easy word. That figures. Anybody who looked as good as Melissa would just have to luck out on everything else, too. As the line of contestants shrank, she ended up right next to me.
Sure Melissa thought I was a dork, but it was neat to have her standing so close. Her light perfume teased my nose. I could almost pretended that we were a romantic couple out bravely facing the world – the two of us battling the Great Chelsea. Melissa leaned toward me.
“You think you’re so smart,” she rasped in my ear. “You’ve just been lucky.”
I flinched, my little fantasy bursting like a soap bubble.
Then I gasped with horror. Mr. Badpenny was slithering through the back door like some giant, poison-vapor snake.
9: Against the Wall
I felt suddenly weak, my palms clammy with sweat.
Badpenny took full form by the back wall, standing with arms behind his back, eyes burning into me. His top hat nearly brushed the ceiling.
Some kids turned in their desks, following my gaze to the back of the room. They returned with puzzled looks on their faces. Miss Greene saved the situation.
“Well,” she said, “This has been quite a contest. You’ve all done very well.”
“Another round of applause!” Quentin said, leading a second burst of clapping.
As if propelled by the applause, Badpenny drifted down the middle aisle toward me. In a few moments, he stood right beside me – a tall, cold presence, blocking the window sunshine.
“Let’s take a short break,” Miss Greene said.
People kicked back at their desks. The other contestants talked among themselves, leaving me alone off to the side. Mr. Badpenny leaned toward me.
“The competition is pretty fierce, isn’t it, Tommy?” he said.
I gritted my teeth and whispered back. “I don’t like what you did to Bob Stewart.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Come now, Tommy, it’s what you did. I only fulfilled your request.”
“I didn’t say to put him in the hospital!”
Badpenny shrugged. “Such things happen. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been standing so close to the tree.”
I shut up. If I said anything more, somebody might notice and make a snide comment about me “talking to myself.” I’d get mad, then, and make sure the big mouth got taught a lesson.
I was on some nightmare roller coaster and didn’t know how to get off.
“I can see you’re upset,” Badpenny said. “I’ll be around if you need me.”
He vanished. A minute later I spotted him peeking in the windows.
“All right everyone,” Miss Greene said, “let’s get started.”
Once again, my turn came first. Miss Greene reached into the fishbowl and pulled out a slip. It looked innocent enough, but it was very bad news for me.
“Tommy, what is the correct spelling of camouflage?”
I stared at Miss Greene. I didn’t have a clue! A little smile twisted Melissa’s face.
“Tommy?” Miss Greene prompted.
Suddenly, Mr. Badpenny was at my side again. He wrapped an arm over my shoulder and leaned in close.
“I can tell you the correct spelling,” he whispered.
“Well?” Miss Greene said.
I felt faint, as if the blood had drained out of my head and puddled into my toes.
“Are you all right, Tommy?” Miss Greene asked.
“Yes ...” I lied.
No, I wasn’t. I was about to go down in flames!
But I couldn’t let Badpenny tell me the answer – the victory would mean nothing then. I tried to block him from my mind, even though his presence hovered around me like a rotten-egg stink.
I closed my eyes and concentrated hard. A vision of the ME-262 fighter blasted up from my memory. I saw the plane’s fantastic painted disguise – mottled on top, blue-gray on the bottom. I gave my best shot.
“C-a-m-m-o-f-l-a-g-e,” I said.
When I opened my eyes, Badpenny was gone. Melissa’s spiteful grin told me that I had failed.
“Oh I’m sorry, Tommy, that’s incorrect,” Miss Greene said.
“Loser!” Melissa whispered as I walked back to my desk.
10: The Long Walk
I bumped into Melissa as I was leaving school. Or rather, she bumped into me – hard enough to almost knock the pack off my shoulder.
“Oh, excuse me,” she said with phony courtesy. “Looks like this just isn’t your day, Tommy!”
She was walking with a couple of other girls from the stuck-up crowd and a football player goon. They all had a good laugh.
Man! How can somebody who looks so wonderful on the outside be so nasty inside? She was like a rotten apple covered with whipped cream. I shuffled home alone, taking the long way, struggling with fierce thoughts.
Why was all this crap happening to me?
I knew why. I knew a lot about Badpenny, if I just l
istened to myself without making a lot of excuses. Something inside me was calling to him. It was as simple as that. Whatever your deepest longings were, Badpenny would be there to help you achieve them, however terrible the cost.
I was on a slippery slope. I’d almost given in to Badpenny again during the spelling contest. Next time I might not be as strong.
How could I stop this before it trashed my whole life and somebody else wound up in the hospital, or worse?
Quentin appeared, interrupting my thoughts.
“How’s it going, Tommy?” he said.
“Hi, Quentin. All right, I guess.”
“You did great in the spelling contest,” Quentin said. “I thought sure you were going to win. Too bad about the camouflage. There’s no ‘disguising’ that fact.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Don’t you get it – camouflage, disguise? They kind of mean the same thing.”
“Oh, right,” I said.
“At least you didn’t get ‘vacuumed’ up like I did!” Quentin said.
I pasted on a smile and barked something resembling a laugh. Easy for Quentin to make jokes – he couldn’t have cared less if he lost some ridiculous spelling competition.
Maybe it was time he got taught a lesson!
We walked quietly for several minutes. I think Quentin finally got the idea that I was not in the mood for any more bad jokes. We came to my turn off and I continued on alone.
Badpenny squirmed back into my thoughts like a blood-filled leech. I’d sure been set up by that Belcho Burger girl! I must have had a big “Sucker” sign hanging around my neck. I’d been a weakling and an idiot. Badpenny fed on weakness like a vampire.
I looked anxiously about the street, suddenly fearful that Mr. Badpenny would reappear. A little dog ran down the sidewalk behind me, and a plastic trash can lid rolled along the street in a gust of wind. I felt the knot in my stomach relax.
Then, I was suddenly afraid that Badpenny might not appear again. This thought chased me all the way home.
11: The Mighty Sluggers
Badpenny was at our baseball game Saturday afternoon – in the bleachers along the third base line, two rows up from Melissa. He seemed almost transparent in the bright sunshine, as if somebody had painted him on the air with thin watercolors.
His wicked grin was the most solid thing about him, it hovered disembodied in the heat shimmer. People must have sensed his presence because the bleacher space on either side of him was empty. Nobody sat directly in front of him, or in back.
We finished warming up on the field and headed back toward our bench.
“Hi Quentin!” Melissa called from the stands. “Good luck!”
Quentin answered with a vague wave in her direction. She sure looked disappointed – a bit angry, too. Then Badpenny waved at me, and an evil chill ran up my spine.
I glared back at him and said aloud, “I’ve got enough problems!”
“We sure do,” Brett said, thinking that I was speaking to him. “These guys wiped us out bad the last time.”
I took my place on our bench and gazed over at the opposing team with a sinking heart. We were playing the Sluggers again, the toughest team in the Summer League. Worse yet, their star pitcher, Billy Preston, would be on the mound. He was out there now, throwing hard practice pitches. He looked mean and arrogant, just the type of guy you’d want to avoid. Only today we couldn’t avoid him.
The Sluggers had plenty of depth – extra guys to pinch hit, a good backup pitcher. Even their uniforms looked great, as if some Hollywood tailor had made them.
Their coach swaggered around giving orders. He wore a big silver whistle around his neck and held a clipboard in his left hand. His other hand rested dramatically on his hip. A real major-league wannabe.
Us Jaguars seemed a bit lame by comparison. We sat like a bunch of sheep waiting to get sliced into lamb chops. At least we had lots of room on our bench. Roberto was out with the flu, and Jenkie had left town for a family reunion. We had no depth at all.
Our coach, Mr. Bloch, busied himself with his own clipboard, looking as if he’d rather be someplace else – at the dentist’s office maybe. He looked up.
“Johnny,” he said, “you’ll be catching for Roberto today.”
“Yes, sir!” Johnny O said.
Johnny’s last name was Ostrowski, but we called him Johnny O for short.
Mr. Bloch (“Blockhead” behind his back) was nice, but not really much of a coach. He was a leftover after the better coaches had gotten teams. Our whole team was made up of leftovers, guys who had signed up late after the other teams were already full.
If Quentin hadn’t gone on a personal recruiting drive, there wouldn’t have been any Jaguars at all. Still, we weren’t bad. We had a decent record, except against the Slugger powerhouse. Quentin, was the real team boss, and he now went into his fearless leader routine.
“Listen up,” he said between chomps of gum, “We owe these guys one. We can beat them!”
He slammed a fist into his glove. I flinched, as if somebody had hit me in the gut. A whistle blew.
“Let’s go!” Quentin said.
We charged out to the field. I took my position at second base, ready to participate in the looming disaster. Already the sun was getting hot, and I wiped sweat off my face. The stands held a surprising number of people, mostly Slugger fans. They seemed like an obnoxious crowd that had gathered around a car wreck to look at the victims.
But Quentin must have believed his own pep talk because he pitched great. I watched his intense concentration as he readied the pitch, his smooth windup, the powerful throw. Wow! The first two batters went down, but the third one dropped in a single.
The Slugger fans roared like a bloodthirsty mob at a gladiator fight and stomped their feet.
“Go Sluggers go! Yeah! Yeah!”
The next batter came up to the plate. The runner at first poised for a dash to second base, eager to run right through me.
“Let’s go Sluggers!” somebody yelled. “That kid can’t pitch!”
Quentin fanned the batter with just four pitches. Our outnumbered portion of the crowd exploded into cheers. We ran back to our bench jostling each other and high fiving for all we were worth.
“What did I tell you!” Quentin said. “Those guys aren’t supermen, are they?
“No!” we all shouted.
“Now let’s get out there and score some runs!” Quentin said.
“Yeah!” we all shouted.
We were really pumped, but the air went out of us soon enough. Billy Preston was awesome. If he wasn’t Superman, then he was the next best thing. He cut through our lead batters as if they were nothing. Three up, three down.
We gaped into each other’s faces, shell shocked. Even Quentin looked stunned.
The game blurred past like a single inning, repeated over and over again. Billy scarcely needed any fielders backing him up; he simply mowed us down like dandelions. We got guys to first base on walks a few times, and Tony dropped in a single – that was it.
But we fought back hard from the field. Quentin continued his fine performance. Not overpowering like Billy, but smart, tricky, psyching out the Slugger batters. The rest of us played our guts out, too. The bottom of the last inning arrived quickly, and with it our last turn at bat. We trailed – incredibly – by only a single run.
“Okay, guys, great game!” Quentin said.
His sunburned face was streaked with sweat, and his eyes glowed like one of those TV preacher fanatics. How had he managed to fight this pitcher’s duel for so long? It must have been pushing 90 degrees out there.
“We can win!” Quentin shouted. “Am I right!”
“Right!” We all shouted.
12: Last Bats
But then Brett struck out big time, swinging so hard at the last pitch that he could have knocked the ball out of the county if he’d connected. Gloom settled over our bench like a damp, musty blanket. Some of the s
pectators started to leave.
Then fortune smiled on us again. Johnny O knocked a fly ball to left. It should have been an out, but the Slugger outfielders were not on their toes. The ball dropped in for a single.
Our bench exploded. “Way to Go! Johnny O!”
Our handful of supporters took up the cheer: “Way to Go! Johnny O!”
Billy Preston glowered at his bumbling teammates, as if he wanted to pitch somebody’s head at the next batter.
“Wake up out there, you morons!” the Slugger coach yelled.
What a jerk.
I cheered along with everybody else. Then a horrid realization struck me. Unless our next man up hit into a double play, I would have to bat!
Quentin placed an arm over my shoulder. “Don’t freeze up out there, Tommy. Let the power flow.”
“Sure,” I squeaked.
As if in a trance, I yanked myself off the bench and walked to the on deck circle, replacing Ryan who moved to the plate. Billy’s first pitch came in low for a ball. Ryan stepped out of the batter’s box and adjusted his helmet.
I looked away, unable to bear the suspense.
I gazed at my surroundings with fresh eyes. Never had the world seemed so beautiful, as if this dusty field was the edge of paradise. A warm breeze carried the scent of clover. The bleachers seemed friendly and inviting.
Wouldn’t it be great to be sitting in the crowd right now, a cold drink in my hand, watching the game-ending double play?
Boink!
The sickly noise of a baseball glancing off a bat wrenched me back to reality. Ryan had sliced a miserable little pop up. The Slugger catcher dropped his mask and moved dramatically under the ball. He made the catch easily enough. The crowd cheered. Johnny O stayed glued to first base.
After all our tremendous effort, it was now up to me to make the last out!
It was a long, long walk to the plate. I seemed to move incredibly slow, as if I were making a trip to the guillotine. Why can’t somebody else be doing this? I thought desperately.
With a smirk on his lips, Billy Preston ground the ball into his glove. He acted glad to see me, the way a shark is glad to see some poor guy bleeding in the water. I squared off.
“Heeey batter-batter-batter!” taunted the Slugger fielders. “Heeey batter-batter-batter!”
I heard Melissa’s shrill cry, “Come on Billy! Strike him out!”
