by Rob Buyea
Fortunately, the second item I can report was a bright spot for us. Mrs. Magenta had a wonderful new idea. “Caroling was such a positive experience for all, I’ve decided to continue with trips to the senior center for our next service project,” she announced. “We’re going to bring the old people some company and sunshine with your smiles.”
I thought this sounded delightful, until I remembered that our commute there and back required riding the bus.
Once again Scott bolted up the steps and headed straight to the rear, plopping beside Gavin in the second-to-last seat, and once again Trevor and Mark were sitting directly behind them. Clearly Scott hadn’t learned anything from our first trip. It didn’t take long.
“Can you stop kicking my seat?” I heard him asking.
Right on cue. Here we go again, I thought.
“Hey! Give it back!” he cried.
What now? I glanced over my shoulder.
“Give it back!” he cried again.
“What?” Trevor said, playing dumb.
“Gimme my hat!” Scott yelled.
From her place up front, Mrs. Magenta was unaware of what was happening, but our bus driver saw everything in his mirror. “Turn around and sit down!” he roared.
I suddenly remembered this man from my previous field trips. Bus Driver Ted had a zero tolerance policy for people standing while his vehicle was in motion. He slammed on the brakes, and our gross-mobile lurched, which successfully jarred every last one of us and sent Scott flying backward. He would’ve landed in the aisle if Gavin hadn’t caught him. Bus Driver Ted meant business. We got the message; he was an effective communicator.
Scott planted it. There wasn’t anything I could do to help him at the moment, but I was determined to see him get his hat back before the end of the day.
Mrs. Ruggelli led us into the community hall, where the old people were gathered. They were quiet and staring at us, and we were quiet and staring at them. Singing carols to them had been one thing, but today it felt like we were two gymnastics teams sizing each other up before competition.
“Find yourselves an empty seat,” Mrs. Ruggelli said, gesturing toward the tables. “My friends are eager to meet you.”
That was it? We were just supposed to go and sit with some random old person and strike up a conversation? A row of stone-faced judges perched behind the scorer’s table at my gymnastics meets weren’t as scary as these strangers. All I can say is, it was a good thing we had Scott. He knew just how to break the tension.
“Are those frosted cookies?!” he cried, pointing to a table on the far side of the room. “With sprinkles?!”
Must be Mrs. Magenta forgot to give Mrs. Ruggelli the heads-up about Scott and goodies. He didn’t even wait for an answer. Like a tracking missile locked in on its target, he shot over there while the rest of us stood motionless. No one said a word. No one tried stopping him. We didn’t even know if the cookies were for us, or for later, or what! For the old-timers, I imagine watching Scott was a bit like watching one of those ancient silent movies. They were enjoying this. The stillness that filled the community hall reminded me of the quiet that falls before a gymnast’s big move—and we had no idea Scott’s big move was yet to come.
“What’re you guys waiting for?!” he cried. He wasn’t fazed by all of our staring faces or the dead silence. His sole concern was the pile of treats he had balanced on his plate. “They’re heart-shaped cookies for Valentine’s Day! And there’s even juice!” he exclaimed, lifting his cup high for all to see.
Too bad what Scott didn’t see was the step down in front of him. He must’ve forgotten about it being there as a result of his cookie craze. The only thing on his mind was getting to a table so he could gobble up his goodies—but he never made it. Thanks to that forgotten step, his foot didn’t land where he expected.
Scott’s plate went flying. His juice went flying. He went flying. He skidded nose-first across the floor, sprawled out on his belly, his arms stretched out above his head. It was another perfect ten for another spectacular tumbling routine. The once-silent community hall erupted in laughter.
“Smooth move, Slick!” Mark yelled.
Every crooked back in the place suddenly went straight as the room of old folks perked up to get a better look at their movie star.
“Are you all right, honey?” the old woman closest to Scott asked. She sprang from her chair like someone half her age. I bet these seniors hadn’t experienced excitement like this in years.
Scott got to his feet. He was fine, but his clothes were not. He had red fruit juice all over his pants and shirt.
“My clothes!” he cried. “My mom’s going to be so upset!”
I believed him. This was the second outfit he’d ruined.
“Don’t worry, sweetie. I can get that out for you,” a plump old lady said.
“Give your clothes to Eleanor, lad. She can get anything out,” an old man advised.
“Yup, give ’em to Eleanor,” a second old man agreed.
I’m almost positive the old folks didn’t mean that very second, but Scott wasn’t wasting any time. He ripped his shirt and pants off—right then and there! I’d never seen an almost-naked boy before, and after seeing Scott, I can tell you I’m in no hurry to see another one. What a sight he was, standing there in his Batman underwear. The old folks were laughing their wrinkles off. We’re lucky no one had a heart attack. But Scott still wasn’t fazed. It wasn’t the frosted cookies that had his laser focus now but his stained clothes. I was impressed. I wished I could focus like that, have everything around me—especially Jane—disappear as I stared down the bars.
Eleanor waddled over and took the heap from Scott’s arms. “Follow me, sweetie. We’ll get these washed out and see if we can’t find something more for you to put on in the meantime. Don’t want you stuck parading around in your skivvies.”
“Way to go, Captain Underpants!” Trevor yelled.
I laughed. We all laughed. How could you not?
Scott grabbed a handful of his frosted cookies off the floor and left the room behind Eleanor. Nobody was better at winning over a crowd than Scott. Unfortunately, it seemed we were always laughing at him and not with him. I didn’t think he cared, and I’d never cared either, but things were different now. He wasn’t just the kid who did my math homework. He was my friend.
I didn’t expect this to be fun, but I didn’t count on it being scary, either. Singing to the senior citizens was bad, but asking us to go and sit with them was something different. I was staring at more old people than I’d ever been around—enough for a full football team. I scouted my prospects.
I spotted two different bald guys with long arms who could play tight end for me. And the old man with unsteady hands, his buddy with the trembling jaw, and the two round women with nodding heads—they were perfect for the offensive line. The specialist positions would be filled out by the old-timers with reliable limbs and white hair, no hair, and messy hair. The old man and woman who kept drooling were made for the defensive line, where you needed to be nasty and not care about getting dirty. The gentleman with the newspaper could be my stat man. I’d play quarterback. The only thing left to find was our coach.
It might not sound like it, but this was an intimidating bunch. Only Scott knew how to handle this all-star team of old folks. He got everyone laughing with his ridiculous cookie fumble and follow-up strip show. Talk about breaking the ice. After that the old-timers didn’t seem so scary. I glanced around the room for a place to sit, and that was when I noticed the old man off to the side. He wasn’t paying attention to us. He was too busy with his paper and pencil. I tucked my lucky football under my arm and moved closer to see what he was doing. He had X’s and squares and circles all over his paper, but his X’s were lined up and in order, and then he started drawing arrows.
“They call him Coach,” Magenta said, stepping beside me.
“Is he drawing up football plays?” I asked her. “ ’Cause it sure looks li
ke it.”
“I don’t know. Let’s ask him.”
Magenta placed a hand on my back, and we inched closer. “Hi, Coach,” she said.
The old man looked up with a blank face. Magenta stood there for a few seconds, waiting for him to say or do something, but his expression never changed. “This is Gavin,” she finally said. He grunted and went back to his paper. Magenta nudged me. “Go on,” she whispered.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Is that a double reverse you’re drawing up?”
“A double reverse with the option to pass,” he said. “Big game this weekend. Thomson is a tough squad, but we’ll get them with this play.”
“How does it work?” I asked.
The old man explained his play to me. Then Magenta gave me a chair, and I sat there while he went through his notebook showing me one scheme after another, telling me how his team was gonna attack Thomson High and how a football game was a lot like a chess match—you always wanted to be one move ahead of your opponent. The man was a genius. I’d never had anyone talk football with me like this. Dad tried, but he didn’t always know what he was talking about—not like this old guy.
“How do you know so much about the game?” I finally got up the nerve to ask him.
Coach looked up from his playbook and glared at me like it was the first time he’d ever seen me. “Who’re you?!” he yelled, slamming his notebook shut. “Are you a spy for Thomson High? You get away from me! Help!”
I jumped out of my chair and backed away. I’d never even heard of Thomson High. What was wrong with this guy? Was he crazy? Why was he yelling at me?
“It’s okay, Coach,” Magenta said, rushing over to us. Director Ruggelli was with her. “This is Gavin,” Magenta reminded him. “He’s your visitor today. You’ve been talking football plays with him for the past thirty minutes.”
“I don’t know anyone named Gavin!” Coach barked.
“I think it’s time for you to take a rest,” Ruggelli said. “Let’s get you back to your room. Does that sound good?”
I stood there and watched her lead Coach away. I was still shaking. The old man had scared me bad.
“You didn’t do anything wrong, Gavin,” Magenta said, placing her hand on my shoulder. “Coach gets confused. He’s slowly losing his mind.” She sounded sad and tired, telling me that. “Please don’t be scared of him. I haven’t seen him so happy talking football in a long time. I hope you’ll chat with him again when we visit next.”
I shrugged.
“I should’ve told you ahead of time. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said.
I didn’t want her feeling bad. I’d been in football heaven before the old man flipped out. I was still thinking about all the plays he’d shown me when Scott suddenly reappeared and made us forget everything. The next stunt of his took the cake.
NATALIE KURTSMAN
ASPIRING LAWYER
Kurtsman Law Offices
BRIEF #18
January: Agnes and Eddie
It was thanks to Scott’s show-stopping performance—which there will never be words to adequately describe—that things in the senior center finally began to loosen up. I took Randi’s hand and had her follow me to a table where two cute old ladies sat. They had their hair pulled back in clips like little girls, even though they were all gray and wrinkled.
“Hello, I’m Natalie and this is my friend Randi,” I said, properly introducing us. That was the first time I had called Randi my friend, and it felt natural. It felt…good.
“Hi,” said the one wearing the purple clip. “I’m Agnes and this is my friend Edna, but you can call her Eddie.”
“Mind if we sit down with you?” I asked.
“Sit down and tell us about those boys!” Eddie ordered. “You’ve got some cute ones over there. Which ones are chasing you?”
“Ugh! Never mind her,” Agnes said.
“Or should I ask which ones are you chasing?” Eddie teased, looking my way.
Me? Chasing a boy? Puh-lease! Randi and I looked at each other and smiled. Who were the mature ones here?
We sat down and spent the next half hour playing a game of Sorry! with our new friends. Agnes and Eddie needed help turning over the cards and sliding their pieces around the board, but Randi and I didn’t care. In between moves, Eddie continued to give us a hard time about boys and Agnes would huff and scold her; it was both funny and fun. We did a lot of laughing, but everything came to an abrupt stop the moment we heard the commotion.
Out of nowhere the old man Gavin was visiting started yelling. Mrs. Magenta and Mrs. Ruggelli were over there in an instant to help rectify the situation. It didn’t last very long, but it was enough to put things back to the way they were in the beginning, with people barely breathing and silence so thick you could cut it with a knife. But never fear, we still had Scott, and he’d chosen to return when we needed him most.
The boy never ceased to amaze me. Just when I thought he couldn’t possibly do anything more shocking than what he’d already managed, he proved me wrong. Apparently, stripping down to his Underoos wasn’t enough, because he came back wearing a lime-green nightgown with silver snaps down the front, decorated with pink and peach flowers. It had to be something from Eleanor’s closet. The boy certainly didn’t do himself any favors.
“Check it out!” Trevor cried. “Captain Underpants has turned into Key Lime Flower Pie.”
Trevor’s remark was met by a chorus of laughs, from young and old. I shook my head. What else could I do?
“Well, that boy sure is different,” Agnes commented.
“Different is okay,” I said, defending my friend.
“Yes, it is,” Agnes agreed. “I never said it wasn’t. He’s the boy Eddie and I would be chasing if we were you.”
“You’ve got that right,” Eddie said. “Knew that as soon as I saw his underwear.”
Now Randi and I were cracking up with everyone else. Fortunately for Scott, he was spared much ridicule and laughter thanks to good timing and Mrs. Magenta.
“I’m sorry to say, but we must get ready to leave now,” Mrs. Magenta announced. “Please take a minute to clean up and say goodbye, and then you should make your way out to the bus.”
The old people smiled and waved and thanked us for coming. They were the happiest bunch around, like a house of little kids on Christmas morning. It warmed my heart.
Agnes and Eddie told Randi and me to come back soon. “And stay out of trouble,” Agnes said.
“Yeah, don’t do anything we wouldn’t do,” Eddie added, and winked.
“Okay,” I said. I grabbed Randi’s hand and pulled her along. We needed to get to the bus.
“Do you think those old women know us better than we know us?” Randi asked me as we were leaving.
“What’re you talking about?”
“You know, like maybe they can see what’s coming.”
“There are no such things as fortune-tellers,” I said.
Staying out of trouble had never been a problem for me.
I was happy when Mrs. Magenta told us we had to sit in the same seats on the way back. That was a great idea, because it meant I got to sit next to Gavin again, and Trevor and Mark were behind us, but so were Natalie and Randi. They were in the last seat on the opposite side of the aisle. They must’ve made it back there before Mrs. Magenta announced same seats, because that wasn’t where they sat on the way over.
“Yo, Gavin, what did you do to make that old fart so mad?” Mark asked. He was standing and peering over the back of our seat.
“Shut up,” Gavin said.
“You’re lucky he didn’t kick your—”
“I said shut up,” Gavin growled.
“Easy, killer,” Trevor said. “We’re just kidding with ya.” Now he was standing and peering over the back of our seat, too. He looked at me. “You better give him a hug, Key Lime Flower Pie. A hug from you will make him feel all better.”
“You better sit down,” I to
ld them.
“You gonna make us?” Trevor challenged.
Don’t say I didn’t warn them. I’d learned my lesson on the way over. Hitting the brakes fast and quick when you weren’t expecting it was Mr. Bus Driver’s signature move. When he did it this time, Mark and Trevor’s throats rammed into the top of our seat. Their tongues shot so far out of their mouths, they looked like gagging lizards.
“Sit down!” Mr. Bus Driver roared.
Trevor and Mark weren’t always good at listening, but they sat down for our driver from the Black Lagoon. I glanced back and saw them rubbing their necks. Then I glanced up front and saw Mr. Bus Driver looking in his rearview mirror and smirking. Thanks to his signature move, Trevor and Mark left us alone and didn’t dare stand up for the rest of the ride.
“I know how you can help that old man,” I told Gavin.
“Oh yeah? And how’s that?”
I explained to Gavin how memories were the most important thing an old person had. That memories were their treasures. I told him the old man at the senior center needed help remembering his and keeping them straight. Then I told him all about the memory string and how it worked and how one could help his friend. Gavin didn’t say much about my idea, but I knew it was a good one. I didn’t tell him I was making a string for Grandpa. That was top-secret.
When we got back to school, everyone jumped up and started pushing to get off the bus, but not me. If you put your hands on the tops of the seats, one on each side of the aisle, you can lift yourself up off the ground and swing your legs. It’s tons of fun. I was happy I was wearing Eleanor’s nightgown, because my legs were free and I was able to really swing them hard. I was flying fast and high when I heard the ruckus behind me.
“What the—”
“Watch out!”