by Antony John
Trouble is, it’s not just Mrs. Friendly’s and Angelica’s and Mom’s voices I hear gathering against me. I know that Dad would say the same thing if he were here. He’d show me the Cardinals roster and remind me how many of those players had to overcome injury and rehab stints in the minor leagues. He’d ask me what would’ve happened to any of them if they’d quit before making it back to the top. Then he’d tell me to get to work.
But if Dad were still here, I wouldn’t need to work. Everything would be different.
I ball my hands in my lap and watch the last of the runners approach the finish line. Dee-Dub has fallen to the very back. Soon enough, he’s the only person still running, huffing and puffing like the Little Engine That Could.
Why did he try to catch Logan? He’s a math genius, not a runner. Why not face reality?
He’s a mystery to me, Dee-Dub. But of all the things I don’t understand, this one ranks at the top: What makes him work so hard when the race is already lost?
18
Annual Checkup
Two things happen after school on my birthday every year.
(1) Dinner at Anthonino’s Taverna.
(2) Annual well-child checkup.
The good news is that my checkup means putting off PT until tomorrow. The bad news is that the checkup comes before dinner.
My pediatrician’s name is Dr. Marietta Grafton, which makes her sound like a character in one of those stuffy historical dramas that Mom likes to watch on TV on Sunday evenings. Dr. Grafton runs ultra marathons and collects tattoos, though, so I guess they won’t be casting her anytime soon.
Once the nurse has finished measuring me, I wait for the doctor. But the young guy who bursts into the room like the star of a Hollywood sitcom is definitely not Dr. Grafton.
“You must be Noah,” he says.
“Yeah.” (I hope my role in the sitcom is to look confused.)
“Well, thank goodness! Be kind of awkward if I was in the wrong room, wouldn’t it?”
“Uh . . .” (On second thought, maybe I’ve been cast to deliver monosyllabic answers.)
“Where’s Dr. Grafton?” Mom asks.
“Slipped when she was out running. Broke her arm in five places. By the time the surgeons are done with her, she’ll be carrying more hardware than a Home Depot employee.” He shakes his head. “Isn’t that the worst?”
Neither Mom nor I answer that question.
“I’m Dr. Ferrell, by the way,” he continues. “Double-R, E, double-L. Not feral like a cat.”
“That’s comforting,” I say.
Dr. Ferrell cackles. Maybe I’m getting the hang of this sitcom after all.
“So,” he says, scanning my file, “seems like you had an accident earlier this year. How are you coping?”
“Fine.” (Another one-word answer. I’ve really got to improve my range.) “It’s nice to be able to sit down all the time.”
It takes him a moment to realize I’m kidding. “Oh, I get it,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Very funny.” He doesn’t laugh, though. “And I see you’re going to PT. Bet you love it, huh?”
“Not really.”
“I was kidding.”
“Oh.”
Our sitcom is definitely missing some comedy. It doesn’t help that I can feel Mom getting tenser every moment. She brought me here to see Dr. Grafton, not the new guy. Mom likes Dr. Grafton. She trusts her. Dr. Ferrell has big trail-running shoes to fill, and he’s not impressing Mom in the starring role.
“It’s my birthday,” I say, filling the awkward silence.
Dr. Ferrell checks my date of birth on his clipboard as if I might be lying. “Why, yes it is. And you chose to spend it with me! Guess you like doctors, huh?”
“Not really.”
“Uh . . .”
“It was my idea,” says Mom, clearly not wanting to be left out of this riveting conversation. “I always say, when it comes to health, prevention is better than cure.”
“It’s true,” I say. “She always says that. Like, always.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” says Dr. Ferrell. He looks at the clipboard again. “Well, let’s see. Weight is still tracking around fifteenth percentile, so that’s good. You’ve grown, though. Height is up to thirtieth percentile.”
“Not when I’m in a wheelchair all day,” I point out.
“Well, no. That’s true. But again, the growth-trend line is good.”
“Phew. My growth-trend line has been keeping me up at night recently.”
Dr. Ferrell chokes out a single nervous laugh. Our sitcom is officially over, and I’m just making him uncomfortable now. I can tell by the way he glues his eyes to the clipboard.
“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you to avoid alcohol, tobacco, and drugs,” he says.
“Right,” I say.
He puts a check mark in a box and moves down his list. “Is there a gun in your house?”
“No,” says Mom quickly. “Definitely not.”
“Good.” Dr. Ferrell gives her a particularly big check mark for that answer. “And what about a bike hel—”
He doesn’t actually say “helmet,” but I know that’s what was coming because he’s turning bright red. He puts a check mark anyway and slides his finger onto the next question. “Do you always wear a seat belt, Noah?”
The air in the room seems to thin out. I can’t meet his eyes.
“Yes,” I say. “I always wear a seat belt.”
He checks a box. Then he leans forward and lowers his voice, like we’re in on some great secret. “And does your mom ever use a cell phone when she’s driving?”
I look at Mom. Mom looks at me. She swallows hard. “Uh, no,” she says. “No, I don’t.”
Dr. Ferrell gives a little smirk. “Is that true, Noah?”
“Yes,” I say, gripping my armrests. “It’s true.”
“What about screen time?” he asks, looking at the next box. “Do you have unsupervised access to the internet?”
I tell myself he’s just reading from a checklist. Dr. Grafton used to do the same thing. But everything has changed since last year.
“What about a cell phone?” he continues. “I bet you can’t live without it.”
“Okay,” says Mom, standing abruptly. “I think we should wrap things up.”
Dr. Ferrell falls silent. His pen hovers above the box. “Is everything all right?”
Mom is already releasing the brakes on my wheelchair. “Noah doesn’t have a cell phone,” she says.
“Good for him,” says Dr. Ferrell, rewarding me with an especially large check mark. “I keep telling parents, cell phones are responsible for—”
“Okay, then!” exclaims Mom. “Same time next year.”
“But . . .” Dr. Ferrell looks at his mostly empty checklist. “Would you prefer to reschedule?”
“Sure. Let’s do that.”
Mom opens the door, and I wheel myself through. As soon as I’m in the hallway, I pick up speed.
Check this out, Mrs. Friendly. I’m flying!
I don’t look back to see if Mom is following me. I don’t wait at the front desk in case she wants to reschedule. I just want to get away. Now.
If there’s one thing I don’t need it’s a lesson on how dangerous cell phones can be. Believe me, no one knows the dangers as well as I do.
As I press the button to open the main door, the receptionist tells me to have a nice day.
It’s my birthday. This ought to be more than a nice day. I should be celebrating. There should be presents and streamers and obscene amounts of junk food. And Dad should be here, celebrating right along with me.
But he’s not.
And he never will be again.
19
Dessert Is Overrated
You can’t go a block on The Hill without bumping into an Italian restaurant. The fancy ones are kind of famous—Charlie Gitto’s, Gian-Tony’s, Lorenzo’s, Giovanni’s—but we’d need a bank loan to eat in one of them. So we go to Anthonin
o’s, which is great and just around the corner.
There’s a short line for tables, so Mom and I wait inside the entrance and smile politely at people as they leave. Little kids check out my wheelchair. I try to smile at them too, but it’s harder because some of them stare at me like I’m a Martian.
I am not a Martian.
The TVs behind the bar are showing a Cardinals game, and the good guys are winning. I ought to be happy, but seeing Busch Stadium in the twilight reminds me of the last time I went to a game there. It was just Dad and me, and the game went to extra innings, and he let me stay till the very end, even though it was well past ten o’clock. Mom has never taken me to a game and I’m pretty sure she never will.
“What are you thinking about?” Mom whispers.
I peer up at her, surprised to discover that my eyes are moist. Okay, a little more than moist actually, which is totally embarrassing. “Nothing,” I say.
Her eyes droop. She probably thinks I’m blowing her off, but does she really want me to say how much I miss Dad? It just makes her sad, and it never changes anything.
I feel bad, though. Dad was always the one who filled the silence, not Mom. He loved to talk, and we loved to let him. Now he’s gone, and all Mom wants to talk about is school and PT and feelings, and I don’t want to discuss those. Maybe that’s why she likes hanging out with Mr. Dillon. He’s a talker too.
Maybe I should open up to her. Tell her exactly how I feel. Maybe she wouldn’t need Mr. Dillon to hang around if I were easier to talk to. A birthday’s as good a time as any to start over.
“Mom,” I say quietly. “I—”
“Well, look who’s here!” comes a voice from just behind me.
I crane my neck around. Unbelievable! Mr. Dillon is standing in the restaurant doorway, and everyone’s favorite precocious speller, Makayla, is with him.
“Odell!” exclaims Mom. Her face lights up. “What are you doing here?”
“Eating,” he says. “You?”
“Eating.” She steps over to him, and they share an awkward hug. “It’s Noah’s birthday.”
Mr. Dillon slaps a meaty paw on my shoulder. “Well, happy birthday. Want us to sing to you?”
“About as much as I want food poisoning,” I reply.
“Ha-ha-ha.” Mr. Dillon’s belly rocks with laughter. “You’re a funny one. Anyone ever tell you that?”
I pretend not to notice that Mom is glaring at me. “Not recently, no.”
A hostess in black sidles up to us. “We have a table ready,” she says. “Four of you?”
There’s an awkward moment as Mom and Mr. Dillon exchange glances, and Mom and I exchange glances, and Mr. Dillon and I exchange glances.
“I, uh . . .” Mom mumbles, waiting for me to make the call.
I keep my lips sealed. No way am I inviting them to join us.
Makayla slides an arm across my shoulders. “That’s right,” she says brightly. “Four of us.”
Then she trots along beside the hostess, leaving the three of us to follow.
Ordering dinner is as challenging as one of Mr. Kostas’s complex math equations. I want to spend as little time with Mr. Dillon and Makayla as possible, but I want to be sure I get dessert. Okay, yes, I’m twelve now, but so what? No one ever said that gelato stops tasting good when you’re no longer eleven.
Finally, I work it out: to speed things up, I’ll skip the appetizers and order my entree along with the drinks. It’s my birthday, so everyone else will have to follow my lead.
Before the waitress returns, Mr. Dillon clears his throat. “So, I didn’t know it’s your birthday, Noah, but it just so happens I’ve got tickets to a Cardinals game for you and your mom and Makayla. You can bring a friend, too. Best seats in the place. A week from Friday. What do you say?”
Mom nods enthusiastically. “We’d love to go, wouldn’t we, honey?”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Since when does Mom want to go to a Cardinals game? Is it just because Mr. Dillon is going to be there?
Anyway, how can a refuse consultant at Busch Stadium afford to give away prime seats to a Cardinals game?
“Those tickets must’ve cost hundreds of dollars,” I say.
He brushes the thought aside. “One of the perks of the job.”
“I’m still not clear on what your job is,” says Mom.
“Dad is Fredbird!” Makayla stage-whispers.
It’s lucky we’re not already eating or I’d choke on my food. I’ve seen Fredbird at Cardinals games—dancing around in his white Cardinals shirt, feathery red shorts, yellow tights, and beaked mask—and I don’t think Mr. Dillon could fit inside that mascot suit if his life depended on it.
“That’s how he got the tickets,” Makayla explains. “He’ll be Fredbird at the game. He’s even coming to my school in costume tomorrow!”
“Shh!” hisses Mr. Dillon, his eyes darting around the neighboring tables. “We’ve talked about this, Makayla. You can’t tell anyone I’m Fredbird.”
“But why not?” Makayla pouts.
Mr. Dillon refuses to answer, but I can think of a hundred reasons why not, starting with the fact that it’s obviously not true. But how would Makayla have come up with the crazy idea in the first place unless her dad told her it was true?
Even Mom looks unsure. She smiles blandly at Makayla but avoids eye contact with Mr. Dillon and me. “It’s a very generous offer, Odell,” she says finally. “We’d love to go.”
Mr. Dillon rewards her with a smile, but his gaze is fixed on Makayla too. He seems annoyed, and for the first time, I actually feel bad for her. If he’s been lying to impress his daughter, then he should be ashamed. Sure, she’s annoying as heck, but Makayla’s just a fourth grader. Of course she’s going to believe her dad when he says he’s Fredbird.
Two minutes later, we order food. Fifteen minutes after that, the entrees arrive, and I know I’ve chosen well. I have meatballs and spaghetti. Mom has toasted ravioli, which isn’t really an entree, but she knows I love it, and today is my birthday, so . . .
I eat half her toasted ravioli, and she has some of my spaghetti. Meanwhile, Mr. Dillon chows down on a bowl of pasta marinara while Makayla picks at a chicken breast. She’s eating so slowly that she still has half the dinner left when the rest of us are done.
I really hope this doesn’t mean I’ll have to wait for dessert.
“You okay, Makayla?” Mom asks.
Staring at her plate, Makayla gives a sorry nod.
“What is it, honey?” asks Mr. Dillon.
Makayla has been perfectly still and silent, which actually makes a nice change. But just as I’m thinking how much I like this version of her, she begins to sniffle.
Then she whimpers.
Then she sobs.
“Honey!” cries Mr. Dillon. “What’s up?”
Isn’t it obvious? He lied to his daughter about being Fredbird and got upset when she repeated the lie to me. If I were Makayla, I’d be upset too.
“I . . . I . . .” She gasps tiny choking breaths. “I failed the practice spelling bee. I failed so badly, the teacher says I can’t be in the school bee anymore.”
Uh-oh.
“But . . .” Mr. Dillon reaches across the table and takes her hand. “Are you sure? You worked real hard on that, and you hardly ever made a mistake.”
“I know!” she wails. “It was, like, everything I did was wrong. Just wrong!”
Other diners are tuning in now, like we’re part of some freak show. Tonight Only—Hysterical Girl and Wheelchair Boy!
Across the table, Mom looks utterly baffled. Me? I’m not baffled at all. But I am kind of worried.
Turns out, I should be too, because after Makayla wipes away her tears, she looks right at me like she knows it was me that ruined her chances. Maybe she noticed that some of the spelling words looked different after she left our house on Saturday. If she’s still got those sheets I printed out, the investigation will begin. What if our clueless parents trace
the crime back to me?
I feel caught. More than that, as Makayla begins to cry again, I feel ashamed. Sure, she’s really full of herself, but she wanted to do well. She worked for it too, like Dee-Dub chasing Logan in gym.
And what did I do? I stole her dream of winning the spelling bee. I tricked her, just like her father lied to her about being Fredbird.
“I’m sure there’ll be other chances,” I say.
Mom and Mr. Dillon seem surprised that I’m joining in the conversation—impressed too, like it’s a sign that I care about Makayla.
I do care. But mostly I’m scared to death.
“There won’t be,” Makayla says through gritted teeth. “I’m out. Done. It’s all over.”
We pause our conversation as the waitress returns. “I can box that for you, hon,” she tells Makayla. “Now, anyone interested in dessert?”
Mom shakes her head. So does Mr. Dillon. It’s my turn, but I’m so nervous I feel like I could barf, so I shake my head as well. The sooner this tragic dinner is over, the better.
The waitress turns to Makayla. I wait for my former nemesis to shake her head, beads jiggling back and forth. Her father let her down. I let her down. She must want this evening to be over as much as I do.
Instead, Makayla takes a deep, steadying breath and nods. “Gelato, please,” she says.
Happy birthday to me!
20
Cups of Flour
While we wait for Mr. Kostas to join us in math class the next day, Logan “entertains” us with a play-by-play of his weekend baseball game—how he pitched a perfect game on only one good leg and even hit a home run. I swear nobody does a better job of making Logan sound heroic than Logan.
Lower lip jutting out, Alyssa blows her bangs away from her face. “You look tired, Noah,” she says.
“I didn’t sleep well,” I admit.
“We can see that,” says Dee-Dub. “Your hair is positively vertical in places. Kind of like a peacock’s butt feathers.”
I glare at him.
“Why can’t you sleep?” asks Detective Alyssa.
I’m not going to answer that. Alyssa has always had a soft spot for the underdog, and I don’t think she’ll approve of what I did to Makayla’s spelling sheet. Heck, even I’m finding it hard to like me right now. So I pretend I’m busy opening my backpack. Unfortunately, it’s on its side, and half of my books tumble onto the floor, out of reach.
