It was on.
I knew Bowen had a few advantages over me—namely height, strength, reach, athletic skill, speed, and crowd support. So I figured my only chance was the element of surprise. I screamed a kamikaze scream from the bottom of my lungs, and started swinging both fists as fast and as hard as I could. Bowen stepped back. I kept swinging, and Bowen kept back-stepping, until his back hit the wall of the crowd, and they pushed him toward me again. He punched me extremely hard, once.
Dead-on in the left side of the chest.
I felt a crack, and a slicing stab of pain. I stopped swinging, started to reach for my chest with one hand, and bent forward. As I did, Bowen swung his knee up, into that same spot on my chest.
The impact jerked me fully upright, and time seemed to stop for a moment as I looked down at myself. The entire left side of my sweatshirt was already soaked through with blood.
I looked at Bowen. He looked at me. Everybody else was suddenly running away in all directions, except for one person.
Jamie.
“Bowen,” she said, strangely calm, “get your phone.”
As the spell broke, and Bowen sprinted over to where his book bag lay on the ground, Jamie said, “Maverick, come here and sit down on this picnic table. Can you do that?”
Apparently, I could.
“Now I’m going to take off your hoodie, okay? And your shirt, too.”
This was getting weird. But I must have nodded or something, because suddenly, my arms were up in the air, and Jamie was very gently pulling my sweatshirt over my head. Then she tried to tug on my T-shirt, and I almost passed out from a new wave of pain. “Bowen,” she said, “give me your phone. Mav, we need to take you to the emergency room. I’m going to call 9-1-1.”
“No!” I said. “No ambulance!” I was pretty sure ambulance rides were expensive, and I didn’t think my mom and I had health insurance at the moment.
“Then we have to call someone, Maverick. Who should we call? You need to tell me a number.”
I looked down at my chest. It was pretty gruesome. The star had broken, and then cut a deep slice, several inches long, just below my collarbone. Half the star was still stuck into my chest by the pin. But the shirt was still pinned to the star, too, which was why it had hurt me so much when Jamie had pulled on it.
I felt woozy. The next thing I knew, I was lying on the bench on my back. Jamie just kept saying to me, “I need a number, Maverick. Come on, give me a number.”
I didn’t know what to do. Aunt Cat had said she could lose her job if she got another distress call from me there—and I was pretty sure this qualified. But there was no way my mom would be able to come get me, because she didn’t have a car. My throat burned as I said, “I don’t have anyone to call.”
That was when Bowen grabbed his phone out of Jamie’s hand and started dialing. “Who are you calling?” she asked.
“My dad. He’s a cop,” he hissed. “Now shut up!”
“But he’ll kill you!” I managed to croak.
“I know! But this is my fault, and— Hello, may I please speak with Lieutenant Strack? This is his son. It’s an emergency.”
It’s probably more fun to get a ride through town in a police car if you aren’t bleeding all over the place, but still, I vaguely remember thinking the flashing lights were kind of pretty. The officers had sat Jamie down next to me, and she talked to me all through the ride. I was having trouble concentrating on her words, but in an odd way, it was nice not to be alone.
Jamie insisted on staying with me at the hospital while the doctor and nurses pulled the pin out of my chest, and she even watched as they cleaned and stitched my wound. She claimed to be my sister. I was developing all kinds of interesting pretend relatives. Anyway, the pain stopped after the doctor gave me a couple of shots. After that, I just felt some pushing and pulling. But I kept holding Jamie’s hand the whole time anyway.
When the doctor had finished, and I was all bandaged up, Jamie and I were left alone in the little curtained-off section of the emergency room for a while. The first thing I said was, “You were so calm when I was bleeding. That was awesome.”
She just shrugged and said, “My little brothers are accident-prone.”
Next, I thanked her for staying with me, and then I said, “Can I tell you something stupid? I’ve been carrying that star around with me all year. Do you want to know why?”
“Well, it’s the star your dad got you, right? I think you’ve mentioned it in school projects before.”
“Yeah, but that’s not why I’ve had it on me every day. I’ve been carrying the star because the night before school started, I decided . . . well, I decided I wanted to be brave and stand up for people if they were getting picked on. So, uh, the star was supposed to . . . I don’t know . . . I guess it was supposed to remind me.”
Jamie looked away from me for a long time and didn’t say anything.
I knew it, I thought. I shouldn’t have told her, because it’s the dorkiest thing in the world. I wouldn’t have said anything if not for all the blood loss. I just got goofy and—
“That’s not stupid,” she said, very quietly. “Can I tell you something?”
I nodded.
“You know how I’ve always blamed you for the whole three-legged-race incident?”
I smiled, just a little bit. “Yeah, I guess I kind of noticed that. A bit.”
“Oh, be quiet. Anyway, the whole thing was my fault. I was the one who tripped us with my stupid long legs. But I was really embarrassed about it, because Bowen and all the other boys always called me Too Tall Thompson.”
“I remember that.”
“Believe me, so do I. You were the only boy that didn’t. You were always nice to me. But when we fell, I blamed you for being short, instead of myself for being tall. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!”
Then Jamie Thompson, my old tormentor, started crying, and I reached out to hold her hand. If it hadn’t already officially been the weirdest day ever, this was the clincher.
But wait, the day wasn’t over. Because just then, Bowen and his father walked in.
I dropped Jamie’s hand like it was made of hot coals. Whatever blood I still had in me rushed to my face. I heard rustling as Jamie sat bolt upright in her chair. Bowen’s dad made Mr. Overbye seem like a teddy bear. He cleared his throat and spoke.
“Are you Maverick Falconer?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you feeling better now that you’re patched up, Maverick?”
“I think so, sir. Thank you.”
He nodded and smiled, but I could tell he didn’t really care whether I felt better or not. “Good, good. Now . . . I asked my son here how you got injured, and he told me his side of the story. I told him I was going to check everything out with you. Please keep in mind that this is very serious, young man.”
Bowen said, “Tell him the truth, Maverick. Please.” Even though I had just lost about a quart of blood, I was pretty sure Bowen’s face was paler than mine at that moment.
Mr. Strack just looked at Bowen. If all fathers looked at their sons that way, it was almost enough to make me glad for a moment I didn’t have a dad.
I sat up as straight as I could, looked Mr. Strack right in the eye, and said, “Bowen and I were playing a nice, friendly game of tag, when I suddenly tripped and fell. I guess my chest hit the edge of a picnic table or something. And, uh, I was wearing a toy badge to show that I was ‘it.’ The badge broke and cut me.
“Lucky for me, Bowen’s quick thinking saved the day. Most of the other players ran away, but Bowen stayed. He called you, and the next thing I knew, I was in a police car on the way here.
“Seriously, sir, your son is a hero.”
I felt like Mr. Strack’s eyes were burning two holes through mine, straight into my brain. “That’s your story?”
“Um, that’s what happened. Sir.”
Without another word, Mr. Strack grabbed Bowen by the arm and dragged him out of the room. But I
was pretty sure Bowen flashed me a little grin before he was pulled out of sight.
I couldn’t remember when, but the hospital must have called my mother at some point. She managed to get a ride from a friend, and made it to the hospital pretty fast. In the meantime, Jamie got picked up by her mom. The last thing Jamie did was ask for my father’s broken star.
“Why?” I asked. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Trust me,” she said. “Please?”
When your former enemy, who has just sort of saved your life, asks for your broken sheriff’s star, you give it to her. Am I right?
Mom didn’t say much to me in her friend’s car. We were alone for a couple of minutes when we stopped at a pharmacy to pick up some prescription pain medicine, bandages, and antibiotic ointment. Mom didn’t complain about the cost of any of it, but I felt really awful, because I knew the amount would just get added to her credit card debt.
But still, she didn’t say a word to me until we were in our apartment. I had no idea what to expect. First, she stared at me intensely, almost like she was trying to memorize me for a quiz. It made me nervous. I couldn’t recall a time she’d ever looked at me like that before.
Then, instead of talking, she just stood there as tears began to roll down her face.
I couldn’t take it.
“Mom,” I said, “I’m okay. It’s just some cuts. From a stupid little sixth-grade fight. I’m all fixed up. You don’t have to worry about me. I swear.”
Mom’s reaction surprised me, to say the least. She kept right on crying, but she also yelled at me. “Maverick, I DO have to worry about you! I should have been worrying about you all along, but instead you’ve been trying to take care of me. Your aunt Catherine even tried to tell me that, and what did I do? I threw her out of here. I’m so sorry.”
Next, she grabbed me in a bear hug and spoke into my hair.
“Now we are going to sit on the couch, and you are going to tell me everything.”
Everything? I had never told my mom everything. This could potentially take weeks. I had the crazy thought that we might need to send out for water and camping supplies.
“But, Mom—”
“Everything.”
“But, Mom, my chest is starting to hurt. I think the shots are wearing off.”
She loosened her grip, and said, “All right. First you are going to take a pain pill. And then you are going to tell me everything.”
At first, it felt strange telling my mother about my problems after trying so hard to hide every issue I had from her for so long. But as the pain medicine kicked in, I started to feel sort of light-headed and sleepy, and the words came. I told her about Jamie and the way she had treated me ever since third-grade field day. I told her about Bowen and his soccer posse. I told her about Nate. I explained my adventures with The Bird and The Bee.
When she asked me why the school had never called about any of the trouble I had gotten in, I even told her I’d put Aunt Cat down as my emergency contact person.
“Why did you do that, Mavvy?” my mom asked.
“Well, for one thing, she has a car . . . ”
My mom didn’t reply. She just sat there and looked at me until I continued.
“And, well, she always answers the phone. I mean, she’s . . . um . . . awake and stuff.”
My mother’s eyes filled up with tears. “You mean, you know she won’t be in some kind of . . . embarrassing condition when you need her. And you’re right. I haven’t been reliable. I hope you know I’ve been trying. But I promise you I’m going to try harder from now on. I want to be somebody you can trust.”
Things were starting to get sort of blurry for me by then, but I’m pretty sure there was some quiet hugging for a while.
Finally, I told her about the big fight. Which led me to explain about my father’s badge and how I had carried it around all year. How it had cut into me. How it had broken.
At some point, I must have dozed off, because somehow, I found myself in my bed, and Mom was sitting on the edge, stroking my hair and saying, “Maverick. Maverick. You never needed a badge to be my hero.”
* * *
I insisted on going to school the next day, even though my chest was so sore in the morning that every breath I took made me feel like someone was sawing into me with a hot, dull blade. In homeroom, Bowen gave me a look like he was going to say something to me—but he didn’t. I wondered what he was thinking, and what his night had been like. Meanwhile, when I looked at Jamie, she twitched her head toward the doorway and winked at me, like, fifteen times before I realized she wanted to go and meet at our lockers.
Everyone else must have thought she was having some kind of spasm.
Anyway, out in the hall, she dug into her backpack and took out a brown paper bag.
“Close your eyes and hold out your hand,” she said.
My heart started pounding, which made my stitches burn. I closed my eyes and said, “You know, this is totally dangerous. How do I know you won’t beat me up and take my lunch money while I’m blind and helpless?”
“Oh, give me a break, Mav,” she said. “We both know I could do that any time I wanted with your eyes wide open.” I know that sounds mean, but somehow I could hear a smile in her voice. I felt her fingers around my wrist, pulling my hand up and out in front of my body. Then, with her other hand, she placed something in my palm and closed my fingers around it.
My father’s star.
I opened my eyes and looked down. The star was back in one piece! I lifted it close to my face and turned it slowly in the dim fluorescent light.
“Um, it’s not perfect,” Jamie went on. “I used my father’s modeling glue. He builds airplanes. From World War Two, mostly. I help sometimes. And they’re plastic, so I thought . . . I mean, the planes are plastic and the star is plastic, right? So why not glue the star back together? But you can still see the line in bright light. And there are brush marks. And some dried glue. But my dad said you could probably get off the dried glue with a solvent if you’re really careful. And he said the star will be stronger now than it was before you broke it. I mean, before Bowen broke it. So, yeah.”
Maybe it was the leftover effects of the pain medication, or maybe I just went temporarily insane. I don’t know. But suddenly, I threw the arm that wasn’t holding my star around one side of Jamie in a bizarre half hug. There were so many reasons why this was dumb. I mean, Jamie and I hated each other most of the time. Plus, because of our height difference, I was basically smushing my nose into her neck. Her chin was resting on top of my head. Oh, and there was one other thing.
Somehow, without either of us noticing, the bell had rung. So the whole class was pouring into the hall just in time to watch this awkward spectacle.
Jamie and I stepped away from each other so fast that I almost dropped the star. She noticed and reached for it. That meant we were now practically holding hands, right in front of everybody. No, worse than that—cupping each other’s hands.
“Uh,” Jamie said.
“So,” I replied.
“So,” she said. It struck me that her entire face was red. And her neck. And her ears. I hadn’t seen her blush like this since I’d decorated her locker for her birthday.
“So, yeah. Great gluing.”
Great gluing? I thought. Who says “Great gluing”? In the entire history of the human race, when has any other boy ever said that to a girl?
Then we both backed away, slowly at first, then faster and faster, until the hallway crowd sort of swallowed Jamie up.
All the way to first period, I ran my sweaty fingers along the front and back of the star. Jamie had done a great job. I could hardly feel the crack at all. But I still knew it was there.
I sort of liked the idea that sometimes, when you fix a broken star, it ends up stronger than it was before.
* * *
That night, Mom cooked dinner. It was incredible! Okay, the dinner itself was just spaghetti with sauce from a jar, plu
s premade garlic bread. But it was incredible that my mother had held it together all day, assembled a set of matching ingredients, cooked everything at the same time, and then actually sat down with me to eat. The TV wasn’t even on.
She was drinking water.
I felt like I was living in a dream, or like I had come home to the wrong apartment. Mom asked me about my day. She remembered the names of all the people I had mentioned the night before. She laughed when I told her about Jamie and the lockers . . . but that was kind of okay.
So of course everything had to fall apart. While we were doing the dishes together—a first—our door buzzer sounded. Mom’s face got the pinched-up look she gets when she’s worried, and she said, “You finish up here, okay? I’ll go see who that is.”
But her expression had already told me, and soon the angry murmurs that cut through the sound of the running sink water confirmed it. Johnny was in the apartment.
I turned the faucet on harder so I wouldn’t have to listen to my mom and Johnny arguing. That didn’t work for long, because the only things standing between them and me were the refrigerator and the little bit of wall that separated the kitchen from the tiny foyer of the apartment.
My heart was pounding against the stitches again, and I could feel sweat breaking out all over my body. I didn’t know what to do. If Aunt Cat had been here, she would have told me to mind my own business, that it wasn’t my job to protect my mother.
But that was easy for her to say.
On the other hand, I knew I wasn’t strong enough to kick Johnny out of the apartment if he didn’t want to go. Plus, every time my mom sent him away, she always let him back in eventually, so what was the point of a confrontation?
There was a stained spot on one of the plates. I scrubbed at it harder and harder with our smelly old sponge, but the stain just wouldn’t come off. I tried to concentrate on the stain. Come on, I told myself. Get that stain out. Nothing exists but you and the stain. Scrub the stain. Scrub the—
The Secret Sheriff of Sixth Grade Page 10