Mascot

by Antony John

  I’m not the only one who’s quiet. Standing behind his desk, Mr. Kostas stares at the pile of paper drooping from his left hand the way a preschooler looks at an ice cream cone as the scoop of creamy goodness goes splat on the ground. Then he glances at me, and suddenly everything becomes clear: today’s baseball-themed work sheet wasn’t for everyone. It was for me. A gift. An attempt to cheer me up. To get me talking again. To remind me of better times.

  And what did I do? Like a Cardinals fan catching an opponent’s home-run ball, I threw it right back at him.

  4

  The Dynamo

  Dynamo Duric is unstoppable.

  Don’t believe me? Just ask him.

  When I arrive for my physical therapy appointment at the Children’s Hospital clinic, he’s already lying on a mat, going through his exercises. He tilts his head as I pull alongside him. “Can’t stop the Dynamo,” he grunts. “The Dynamo has no off switch.”

  Nine-year-old boys should never talk about themselves in the third person. I’d mention this to him, but Angelica, my physical therapist (or PT, as she calls herself), is waiting.

  “Noah!” she says, like seeing me is the highlight of her week. “How’s that back-to-school program we developed working out for you?”

  “Not so good,” I say. “Teachers are still giving me homework.”

  “Ha! Actually, I asked them to double up on that. Don’t want you getting bored.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “And don’t you forget it!” she says, emphasizing each word with a finger wag. “Seriously, though. How’s it going?”

  It’s her job to ask me this, but I think she actually cares too. Trouble is, if I answer her honestly, we might end up talking about feelings, and I’m so not in the mood for that.

  “I’ve got a new friend,” I say, because I know it will make her happy. It also has the advantage of being true.

  “That’s great!” she says. “What’s he like? Or she . . .”

  “He,” I say quickly. “He’s, uh, different. Kind of funny.”

  “Good. And what about your friends from Little League?”

  “Oh, you know. Logan’s still mouthing off.”

  “Uh-huh.” She waits for me to continue, but that’s all I’m giving her today. She didn’t even know about the team until they tried to visit me at the hospital and I turned them away. That led to our first talk about feelings. I’ve been trying to forget about that conversation ever since.

  “Okay, then,” she says, all business. “How are the exercises going?”

  “Great,” I lie.

  She claps her hands together. “So, let’s see them.”

  I plant my hands on the wheelchair arms and push. Without the use of my legs, sliding onto the padded exercise mat used to seem impossible. But I’ve learned to compensate. Now my upper body is in pretty good shape.

  When I’m sitting, Angelica kneels beside me. She hands me one end of an elastic therapy cord. I grip the two handles while she keeps hold of the other end. Slowly, I tilt backward. It’s a helpless feeling, like a skydiver in free fall. Then the cord resists, and it’s like a parachute opening. But I still have to nail the landing.

  “And back up,” Angelica says.

  Gritting my teeth, I struggle to return to the seated position. “See?” I say breathlessly. “I’m doing good, right?”

  “You moved about an inch. Now let’s see if we can do two.”

  I repeat the exercise, but she doesn’t look very impressed. Sure, it’s partly my fault for not practicing twice a day for five minutes like I’m supposed to, but she doesn’t seem to realize how incredibly tiring this is. Being a qualified PT isn’t the same as being paraplegic.

  “All right,” she says. “Onto your belly.”

  I roll over. Angelica helps to lift me at the waist, so I’m propped up on my forearms and knees. “Let’s start with a plank kick down,” she says.

  That’s another annoying thing about PT: there’s a lot of jargon, and it’s impossible to keep the exercises straight in my head. Okay, yes, I’d probably remember the names better if I worked out at home, but I’m busy. Minecraft cities don’t just build themselves, you know.

  I think she’s lifting my ankles, but it’s hard to tell—I really don’t have any feeling down there. It’s like my brain is sending signals, but they’re getting lost halfway.

  “And . . . kick down,” she says.

  I try to do as she says, but I honestly don’t know if anything’s happening. I can’t even see my feet when I’m in this position. I’m propped up like a paralyzed pet porcupine, pretending I have a clue what my body is doing. It makes me want to scream.

  “Okay,” she says. “Let’s get back to a sitting position.”

  She helps me shuffle around, which takes way longer than it probably should. At least it gives me time to take ten slow breaths. Slow breathing is a relaxation technique she taught me—I use it to stop myself from spontaneously combusting during incredibly frustrating PT sessions.

  When I’m finally seated before her, Angelica points to my socked feet. This time I know what she wants and I stare hard, willing my toes to move. Slow and steady, Noah. Just stay cool.

  “Tell me when you’re ready to start,” Angelica says.

  “I already did!” I snap.

  She nods, but her tone is firm. “If you want things to get better, Noah, you’ve got to put in the work. Just look at Dynamo.”

  She points across the room, where the mighty Dynamo has progressed to the treadmill. Strapped into his weight-supporting harness, he puffs and pants his way to a depressingly slow walk.

  I resist the urge to point out that he gets winded after ten steps, and that he has the world’s stupidest Mohawk. Dynamo is every PT’s favorite charity case because he’s willing to humiliate himself publicly. “He’s certainly an impressive specimen,” I say.

  Angelica tsks. “Don’t be sarcastic.”

  I should really keep my mouth shut, but . . . Oh, whatever. “I’m totally serious,” I say in my most chipper voice. “I secretly hope that when I grow up, I’ll be as cool as him!”

  She pulls a face. “Positive remarks only, please.”

  Dynamo’s PT winds down the treadmill, which doesn’t take long, as it’s hardly moving. Then she passes him a towel. Dynamo runs it across his forehead like a prizefighter after ten rounds in the ring and flings it back to her. He’s ready to walk another three yards, I guess.

  Go, Dynamo!

  “You don’t need to be jealous of him,” Angelica says.

  I stare at her. “You don’t actually think I’m jealous of Dynamo, do you?”

  She tilts her head to one side. “I think you lack confidence.”

  “Unlike Dynamo, who should lack confidence but doesn’t.”

  “He’s a good kid.”

  “He has a Mohawk.”

  “I think it looks cool,” she says.

  “Are you kidding? He probably only has it to hide how short he is.”

  “He says his girlfriend likes it.”

  I bust out laughing. “Wait . . . girlfriend? He’s nine! And he looks like a toilet brush.”

  “Maybe she likes that.”

  “Maybe she’s blind. That’d help.”

  “You’re being very negative, Noah.”

  “I’m positive you’re right,” I say.

  Angelica huffs. When she started working with me four months ago, she used to laugh when I said something witty. Now she looks like she wishes she’d been assigned to toilet-brush boy. “Listen, have you thought about seeing a counselor again?” she asks.

  I tense up. “Why would I want to do that?”

  She sighs deeply. “Noah, please.”

  I don’t know if she’s saying, Noah, please see a counselor, or Noah, please stop pretending you don’t understand. Doesn’t matter. I don’t want to have this conversation.

  “Do you know why we do PT?” she asks finally.

  “PT seeks to rehabili
tate through specially designed exercises,” I reply in a singsong voice.

  “Yes.” Her eyebrows crinkle like she’s thinking hard. “In fact, that’s the exact definition in the handbook I gave you. You read it a lot, huh?”

  Actually, I just remember that one sentence, because I thought “rehabilitate” meant fix. Even “specially designed exercises” sounded scientific, like there was a magic formula to undo what happened to me. After two months as a full-time resident of the Children’s Hospital, I discovered there’s no magic formula. After two more months as an outpatient, I’m embarrassed that I ever thought there was.

  “Reading’s not the problem,” I say coolly. “My eyes and brain work just fine. It’s the rest of my body that’s messed up.”

  Mom wouldn’t like my tone of voice. Neither would Dad, if he were still alive. I wonder if Angelica will call me on it. Maybe you’d do better if you spent time exercising instead of reading, Noah. Or: Isn’t it time for an attitude adjustment, Noah?

  Instead, she nods like she understands. “I’ve told you, there’s no reason you can’t regain some use of your legs. But PT is a marathon, not a sprint. The only way to progress is to take a step . . . and then another and another. Take enough steps, and you’ll finish any race. Even this one.”

  I’ve heard all this stuff before. Usually I just blow it off. But not this time. “What does that mean?” I demand. “What race?”

  “Your journey,” she says.

  “A journey’s not a race.”

  “Okay. Then let’s call it a journey.”

  I can feel myself tensing up with every word. Race, journey—doesn’t matter. It’s all just words. “How long will this journey take?”

  “Well,” she explains patiently, “that’s up to you.”

  “So, if I want to finish today, I can?”

  “I think you know that’s not realistic.”

  “How will I know when I reach the end? What does ‘some use of my legs’ even mean?”

  “Every person’s recovery is different. But there’s no substitute for courage and hard work.”

  I feel like a volcano that’s about to erupt. Before the accident, I didn’t need courage to stand up, or walk across the room, or slide onto a toilet seat. But everything changed in the blink of an eye. And all the hard work in the world won’t fix me. If it could, I’d be playing baseball again and Dynamo would be competing in the Olympics instead of slogging along in a weight-supporting harness just like he was when I started PT. And maybe nine-year-olds with toilet-brush hair can believe in a winnable marathon—heck, most nine-year-olds will worship the Easter Bunny just as long as it keeps bringing them candy—but I’m not nine, and I’m not stupid. I don’t think I’m ever getting out of this wheelchair, and when I look around me, I don’t see a bunch of winners. I just see people who can’t face up to the fact they’ve already lost.

  Angelica watches me. She doesn’t need to be a mind reader to see that I’m angry. Furious, even. She’s probably thinking this would be a perfect opportunity for us to explore the world of feelings. She’s probably right too. It’d feel so good to tell her what I really think of PT. Anything to beat back the tears that are building behind my eyes.

  But when I open my mouth, my voice is small and defeated. “I’ll try to work harder on the exercises this week,” I say.

  Several seconds pass before she replies. “This is the first week of the rest of your life, Noah. Let’s make it count, okay?”

  Then she flashes a glimmer of a smile that looks as empty as I feel.

  5

  The First Hour of the First Week of the Rest of My Life

  If PT is bad, getting into our minivan afterward might be even worse. It has a five-star crash-test rating and more than enough space for a wheelchair. Unfortunately, it’s not wheelchair accessible, because wheelchair conversions cost at least ten thousand dollars, and we don’t have ten grand hiding out in Mom’s piggy bank. Which means that it takes about five minutes to get me on board.

  Mom meets me in the parking garage. She opens the side-door panel, wraps her arms around me, and hoists me up. Staggering sideways, she dumps me into the van. Even though I’m pretty short and skinny as a rail, this process involves a lot of grunting, and not much of it is coming from me. The heavy lifting isn’t getting any easier for Mom, probably because the object being lifted is still growing.

  Luckily, I can support myself once I’m in my seat. While I buckle up, Mom heads to the back. She folds my wheelchair and places it carefully inside. The whole van dips a little as she slams the rear door. Then she climbs into the driver’s seat, sucking deep breaths like she’s been working out—which I guess she has been.

  “So,” she says, starting the engine, “how did it go?”

  “Great,” I say. “Unbelievable progress.”

  She watches me in the rearview mirror. “Really?”

  “Sure.”

  “Honestly?”

  “Well, kind of.”

  Her eyes drift back to the garage ramp. “Not so good, then, huh?”

  “Not great, no.”

  This is what our conversations are like these days: little lies to hide the truth we don’t want to share. It’s pointless, but it’s a habit now, like we don’t know how else to talk.

  Mom is the youngest of six children. Her brothers and sisters called her “Runt.” She likes to say she grew up with a quiet mouth and a black belt in conflict avoidance. Me, I’m an only child, but my mouth isn’t so quiet, and I don’t have a black belt in anything.

  We pull onto Children’s Place and then join the rush-hour traffic on Kingshighway Boulevard.

  “Okay if I reheat leftovers for dinner?” Mom asks. “It’s your favorite, lasagna.”

  “Great.”

  “Yeah.” She shuffles in her seat. “And, uh, I thought I’d head out for a while this evening, okay?”

  “After dinner?”

  She hesitates. “Before.”

  She’s not exactly lying, but Mom is definitely hiding something. “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “Just, you know, to a restaurant.”

  “On your own?”

  “No. With Mr. Dillon.”

  “The guy down the street?”

  “Yeah.”

  A thought occurs to me. “Didn’t his wife run off with another man?”

  She massages the steering wheel. “You know perfectly well she did. The poor man’s still getting over it. That’s why I thought it would be nice for us to chat.”

  I don’t like where this conversation is going. “Why would he want to talk to you?”

  Mom makes a little sound at the back of her throat. “You’re right, Noah. Why would anyone want to talk to me?”

  More silence. We’ve reached the truth, and neither of us likes how it feels.

  “It’s just dinner,” she says.

  I watch enough TV to know that for grown-ups, “dinner” is a code word for date.

  “Kathy’s going to pop round to check on you,” she adds, like a visit from our elderly neighbor and her loose-fitting teeth is a special treat. “Please don’t make this hard for me, Noah. Please.”

  I can’t stand seeing Mom like this, so I say what I have to say. “Okay.”

  She stops at a red light and turns to face me. “Thank you,” she says. Then she breathes out deeply, like she’s letting go of all her worry.

  I don’t think either of us is really happy, though. Agreeing not to argue isn’t the same as getting along.

  6

  How to Ruin My Favorite Food

  We live in a neighborhood called The Hill. A hundred years ago, a bunch of Italians (including my great-great-grandfather) came to St. Louis, and pretty much all of them settled here. They called it The Hill because it’s built on a hill, which goes to show how imaginative our ancestors were.

  Our house is a bungalow: two bedrooms, one bathroom, kitchen and living room, all on one floor. Maybe that sounds small, but most of the houses a
round here are shotgun style, long and narrow, so it could be worse—I have enough trouble getting my wheelchair around the furniture as it is.

  While Mom gets ready for her dinner-that-isn’t-really-a-date, I do my homework on the small kitchen table. The work isn’t difficult, but there’s a lot of it. For a start, there are thirty math problems, and none of them is about baseball.

  Our geriatric dachshund, Flub, jumps onto my lap while I’m working. This is yet another downside to being in a wheelchair—I’m like an elevated dog bed. Flub turns around and around, kneading my legs like dough, until eventually he settles back where he started. Warm and comfortable at last, he makes a special delivery: a silent but violent fluffy that makes me gag. With his nose jammed tight between my legs, the freaking dog probably can’t even smell it.

  Mom chooses this moment to join me in the kitchen. She’s wearing a dark-blue dress and red lipstick. I haven’t seen her looking like this since Dad died.

  “You feeling all right?” she asks, sniffing the air.

  “It was Flub,” I say.

  “Oh.” She takes a deep breath, and then looks like she wishes she hadn’t.

  I guess I should just come out and say it. Another really delightful part of my life in a Corvette wheelchair is that I don’t have complete control over my downstairs plumbing. Because of that, Mom is in the habit of checking to see if I’m “okay.” It’s absolutely as awesome as you’d think. What almost-twelve-year-old wouldn’t want his mom keeping track of his pee and poop patterns?

  Mom must be feeling guilty about abandoning me because she takes the plate of lasagna from the fridge and reheats it in the microwave. She doesn’t usually do that. The occupational therapists at Children’s helped her reorganize the kitchen so that I could reach everything from my wheelchair, and ever since then, Mom has been tough on me about being self-sufficient.

  As the plate spins, she watches the clock, as nervous as a batter facing Logan Montgomery in a Little League game.

  “So, what’s Mr. Dillon like?” I ask her.

  She plays with her dress collar. “You know what he’s like. You used to see him at the bus stop when you were in elementary school. His daughter’s Makayla, remember?”