The Boy Who Failed Show and Tell

by Jordan Sonnenblick

  This means that when my mom needs gas, she wakes me and Lissa up in the middle of the night. First, we get dressed and brush our teeth. Next, we take pillows and blankets, climb into the hatchback part of the Citation with the back seats folded down, and try to get back to sleep while Mom drives over to Sam & Nick’s and parks behind the last car in line to wait for the pumps to open in the morning. It’s unbelievable. Usually when we get there, the line is already like half a block long!

  We really do try to sleep, but it’s hard. There’s brightness from the city streetlights pouring into the windows, and bunches of grown-ups are standing outside their cars, talking and smoking cigarettes. Plus, the back of the car isn’t as comfy as a real bed. By seven in the morning, when the gas station opens, my mom has generally scolded us a bunch of times for whispering and laughing.

  When the car starts moving, we give up on sleep, sit up, and eat a couple of Pop-Tarts for breakfast. If she isn’t too annoyed, Mom gives us money to run over to the soda machine. Coke and a Pop-Tart is basically the perfect breakfast, so that is kind of fun. Then, once the gas tank is full, we drive to I.S. 27 to drop Lissa off before heading over to the Staten Island Expressway and P.S. 54.

  By the time I get to school, I have already been awake for hours and hours. So have probably half the other kids in my class, but it doesn’t stop us from being wildly excited for what everyone says is the best day of the year: Field Day. This is way better than the stupid maypole decoration ceremony we used to have every spring at P.S. 35. Field Day is basically a mini-Olympics, and each class is like one of the countries. In Miss Tuff’s room, we come up with a team slogan: “You’ll have a tough time with TUFF’S TEAM!” Then a group of kids who are good at art make a T-shirt design on a rectangle of cardboard. Once that is done, each kid in the class has to bring in a plain white T-shirt, stick the cardboard rectangle between the front and back of the shirt, and use markers to trace the design onto it, so that we all have matching TUFF’S TEAM shirts.

  Well, that’s the plan. Mine comes out with big blobs of ink everywhere because I forget to keep my marker moving while I am tracing the design. And one side of my rectangular design is outlined much more thickly than the other, because I panicked halfway through and decided the line on that side looked too thin. I look around, and everybody else’s shirts look pretty much identical. Mine looks recognizable. If you squint kind of hard. I hope.

  By the time the week of Field Day comes, all the classes are going wild with excitement. Miss Tuff has bet one of the other fourth-grade teachers that our class will beat the other teacher’s class, and Miss Tuff is super serious about the bet. We even have several practices. I am in the three-legged race, the potato sack relay, and the two most important events of all: the 50-yard-dash relay and the tug o’ war.

  When Miss Tuff hands out the roster sheet, I have no idea what a three-legged race is. I have a partner for it, though, so maybe she knows. Her name is Michelle Longo, and she is very tan, very pretty, and very tall. I ask her, and she totally does know. Apparently, we are going to stand next to each other while somebody ties my left leg to her right leg. Then we will have to run together like we were one person, but with three legs.

  I don’t know how to feel about this. For one thing, Michelle is so pretty that I can’t look at her without blushing, and every time I have to talk to her I start sweating and sound like an idiot. This is complicated by the height difference. How are we going to run together when our legs are completely different lengths? Are they going to have to tie my thigh to her knee?

  I find out at practice. First, they tie our ankles together with a short piece of rope. Then they use another piece to tie our upper legs together. It’s not quite as bad as I had imagined. The rope goes around my thigh, but crosses around Michelle’s leg a couple of inches above her knee.

  But once my leg is tied to Michelle’s, skin to skin, I am terrified. What if I sweat? What if she is disgusted by my incredible amount of leg hair? (I am seriously hairy—kids have been calling me Monkey Arms since second grade.) What if I am slower than she is?

  And where the heck am I supposed to put my left arm?

  Before I can quite figure this out, someone shouts, “Go!”

  Michelle lunges forward, which hurts. I can feel the rope tearing out my leg hairs! When she realizes she is dragging me, she says, “Let’s go!” and throws her right arm around my neck to keep me with her. I fling my left arm around her back. Now she has me in some kind of wrestling hold, and I have my hand on her waist.

  This would be a good time for me to suddenly get tall.

  I start stepping at top speed, but by the time we are halfway to the finish line, another problem comes up: We are gradually turning right because my strides are so much shorter than hers. I try to turn us back on course by hurling my right leg forward each time, but this makes me turn inward toward Michelle. Somehow, our feet get tangled up so we fall on our faces.

  Michelle turns to me, her eyes inches from mine. I wait for her to scream at me from point-blank range. Instead, she laughs!

  “That wasn’t … smooth,” I manage to sputter, before I start laughing, too. By the time we somehow coordinate ourselves so we can stand up together, I have learned one important fact: I love Field Day, and it hasn’t even happened yet.

  Potato sack relay practice gives me another chance to prove my athletic grace. I step into one of the two moldy-smelling cloth bags that Miss Tuff has placed on the ground at the starting line, and pull the top of the bag up above my waist with both hands when I see our class’s other potato sack racer, Ramesh, do the same. I bet these bags were chosen with taller kids in mind, because in order to keep the bottom of mine pulled tight against my feet, I have to hold my hands practically up to my chin. I must look like a miniature Tyrannosaurus with my arms bent up in front of me, but the good news is that this comes in handy when I fall on my face yet again halfway to the finish line. My hands take the impact, and I scramble back to my feet in time to complete the race.

  Ramesh is already standing just past the line, holding his bag at arm’s length and grinning. Well, I tell myself, second place isn’t bad.

  In the 50-yard-dash relay, I am one of four boys competing for our class. Miss Tuff hands the front boy the shiny, hollow metal baton, and then arranges the rest of us in order. I am third in line, between Ramesh and—eek!—Albert. What if Albert purposely crashes into me when I hand him the shiny, hollow metal baton? What if he trips me? Or, worst of all, what if he yells at me in front of everybody for being slow?

  We practice the relay three times. The first time, Miss Tuff has each of us jog so we can get used to handing off the baton at a slow speed. The second time, we try it faster, and I drop the baton when Ramesh slaps it into my hand. The third time, Albert pretends he is going to trip me. He doesn’t actually trip me, and he kind of smiles at me as he pulls his foot back.

  Maybe I will survive the real race. That would be nice.

  My final event, the tug o’ war, will also be the final event of the real Field Day. Miss Tuff tells us we will need to give this contest our all, because it is worth a lot of points and usually determines the winner of the entire thing.

  No pressure.

  The big, fat, heavy old rope is lying on the ground across a spray-painted red stripe. Miss Tuff explains that in order to win, we have to pull the rope until the other team gets pulled all the way across the red stripe. If we get pulled across the stripe first, then we lose. That seems simple enough until we try it.

  The first thing we need to figure out is who will be our “anchor person.” That’s the kid at the very end of the rope, behind the rest of us. There is a person-sized loop at each end of the rope, and the anchor person has to step into the loop and pick up the rope before the rest of us grab on. Being the anchor looks scary, because that is the one kid who can’t let go of the rope. If another team is much stronger than ours, I figure there is a pretty good chance the anchor kid will go flying, and may
be even get dragged on the ground.

  Luckily, there is no chance I will be the anchor. We have to choose either the biggest kid or the strongest for that position.

  For once, I am glad to be tiny and weak.

  The biggest kid is Chuck Dai and the strongest is Walter P. Kelly. In order to figure out who should be the anchor, Miss Tuff has us practice against the rest of the class twice. The result is that we decide our smartest lineup has Chuck in the anchor position, with Walter P. at the very front. Also, I get a blister.

  But we are ready for the big day. That’s good, because nobody can talk about anything else. I would not have imagined there could be so much debate over proper egg-spoon relay technique or water-balloon toss strategies. It is amazing: Kids have theories about everything. Which partner should go on the ground first for the wheelbarrow race? Somebody has a formula.

  My big Field Day goals are to not lose any teeth, not embarrass myself to death, and maybe even stay on my feet the majority of the time. I have dreams of winning ribbons and helping Tuff’s Team to victory, but I’ll definitely settle for the keeping of teeth, the non-embarrassment, and the remaining upright.

  * * *

  The weekend before the big event, Peter comes over after a Little League game. We are playing with Hectoria and J.P. when we get an idea. The snakes have been hanging all over each other ever since the day J.P. first joined my family, and I am about to go away to camp for eight weeks. Peter, who’s going for a second summer, too, says Hectoria might get pregnant again while we are gone, and that seems weird to us. I mean, I made them live together, and they are clearly more than friends. The least we can do is make their relationship official.

  The only thing to do is perform a wedding ceremony for the two snakes.

  This is serious business, and it has to be done right. I go up into the attic and get the spare aquarium that has been empty ever since the brutal murder of Stripe. We pour in half a bag of fresh, new pebbles from the pet store. Then we need guests and an altar. I am a little bit stumped when it comes to the guest list, because our only other pets are Spicy, who is too big to fit, and Freddie the Second, who is clearly not an option. We settle on making two lines of my action figures, plus some Barbies stolen from Lissa’s closet. We push the dolls’ feet down into the pebbles until they are all standing up, facing each other across the aisle. Superman, Batman, Aquaman, the Flash, and two G.I. Joes are on one side, and all the Barbies are on the other.

  The altar is a tough choice. Pete and I are both Jewish, but J.P. is kind of named after a pope. Do we go Jewish or Catholic for this thing? After a brief argument, we realize we don’t have anything Catholic anyway. The only solemn-seeming item of any kind in my whole room is a souvenir miniature totem pole that my grandparents once brought me from Canada. We plant it at the front of the aisle.

  Next, Peter and I both put yarmulkes on our heads. They are a tasteful deep-maroon velvet and are left over from my cousin Marc’s bar mitzvah.

  The only last detail is the music for when Hecky and J.P. slither down the aisle. I feel it has to be a Beatles song. I have a new album, 1962–66, which Mr. Stoll has lent me, plus my parents have bought me The Beatles at the Hollywood Bowl. At first, I think of the most romantic Beatles song I know: “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” But Peter feels that would be kind of mean, since snakes don’t have hands. We go with my second choice, “She’s a Woman,” from the Hollywood Bowl record. This makes good sense, because you can hear a crowd cheering through the entire thing. Hopefully, that will make Hecky and J.P. feel supported in their new life together.

  When we think everything is ready, I put the needle down on the record, and we place the snakes at the beginning of the aisle. Then disaster strikes! J.P. doesn’t want to move, and Hecky immediately wraps herself around Batman.

  It’s a nightmare.

  I pick the needle up, and we get the snakes pointed in the right direction again. This time, J.P. turns completely around and starts trying to climb the glass at the back of the aisle, while Hecky cuddles up to Stewardess Barbie.

  I am starting to wonder whether these snakes even want to make a commitment.

  Before the third try, we take out all the dolls, push most of the rocks out of the center of the cage so there’s a canyon to guide the snakes, replant the dolls, and give Hecky and J.P. a pep talk.

  It works! They glide directly to the front and start climbing the totem pole.

  I make my voice as deep as I can and say the first Hebrew thing that comes to me, which is “Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu Melech ha’olam ha’motzi lechem min ha’aretz.” Technically, I have just blessed any bread that might be nearby, but it will have to do.

  Pete and I place the bride and groom back in their own tank and leave them to enjoy their honeymoon. Then we go downstairs and have some Twinkies. Hey, those are kind of like bread! If the drumming and the writing don’t work out, I think I show some promise as a rabbi.

  * * *

  Field Day gets postponed due to rain, which makes that Monday the worst Monday in the history of Mondays. But the weather forecast is good for Tuesday, so that’s when the event finally happens. Things start out great for Tuff’s Team. In the egg-spoon relay, powered by B.J.’s tremendous last lap, we win by a mile. In the water-balloon toss, Chandra and Mondhipa come in second. Jonathan Marks and Stu Heffer (slogan: “Pee-wee power!”) absolutely crush the opposition in the wheelbarrow race.

  A few events later, Michelle and I are tied together and lined up for the three-legged race. Miss Tuff has shared a brilliant last-minute tip with us. Apparently, the key to not falling on our faces is keeping our strides together, so she says we should chant, “Out, in, out, in” as we step with our outside legs and then our inside ones. We have taken a few practice strides, and I am pretty sure we know what we are doing, although this doesn’t do anything to stop the cords from ripping out the hairs on my legs.

  “Okay,” Michelle says, looking me in the eyes. “No laughing, right?”

  “Right,” I say. Then we both start giggling.

  But hey—we do the “out, in” chanting trick, and it basically works. We still turn off course a bit because my legs are just too short, but we come in third. That’s good enough for a ribbon! I am a bit sad when we get untied, because I think we could totally come in second if we had one more chance at this thing.

  On the other hand, maybe it is good to quit while I still have some leg hair left.

  In the potato sack race, I get an amazing start. I am leaping my heart out. I look around and realize I am in the lead. I have pulled away from everybody! Then I twist my left ankle by hitting a little hole in the grass of the field, fall sideways, and take out two other racers. But it’s all good, because Ramesh hops right over our bodies and into a first-place finish.

  That is totally worth a bit of ankle pain and a faceful of dirt.

  I barely have time to swish a cup of water around my mouth to get the soil out of my front teeth before we have to line up for the 50-yard-dash relay. Today, our team’s baton is a very bright neon green. Well, I think, at least it will be easy to find if I drop it!

  But I don’t drop it. When Ramesh hands the baton to me, we are in first place. All I have to do is keep the lead and then make a smooth handoff to Albert, who’s super fast. I pump my legs as fast as I can, trying to ignore the little twinges of pain from my twisted ankle. I run the first twenty-five yards, run around the cone there, and sprint back toward my team. “Hurry UP!” Albert is screaming, over and over.

  I do my best, but one kid passes me just before I reach Albert. “Go, go, go!” everybody shouts at him as I press the baton into his hand and fall over into the grass, panting. Albert goes, goes, goes, and passes the other kid about ten feet before he gets back to our line. We all jump up and down like maniacs! Albert even gives me a high five.

  It’s crazy. If you had told me back in April that Albert and I would be trading high fives two months later, I would have laughed in your face. But
now it’s different, because now I am a part of Tuff’s Team.

  We are within just a few points of two other teams when the tug o’ war comes around. There are two elimination rounds, and then the team that comes out on top of those has one final battle against the team that has the most points going into the event. So we will need to win three matches in a row in order to win the whole Field Day.

  We win the first round pretty easily. I am near the front of our line, just behind Walter P., and I can see the moment very clearly when all the members of the other team suddenly start tumbling forward. Then they all let go of the rope so fast that we all fall backward onto our butts. We are victorious! And our tushies are grass stained!

  Our second round is harder. When Walter P. sees how big and strong-looking the kids on the other end of the rope are, he calls a quick huddle. We decide that Walter P. should go to the back of the line, just in front of Chuck, so we will almost have two anchor guys. That leaves me at the very front, staring at the determined faces of our opponents. We pick up the rope, and when the teacher says “Go!” we pull as hard as we can. Unfortunately, the ground under our feet is now all torn up and muddy from the first two sets of teams digging their feet into it. I can hear the other team grunting as my feet begin to slide toward them.

  In desperation, I turn around so I am facing back at my own team. I dig my toes into the mucky ground with all my might, put the rope over my shoulder, and pull like I am trying to burst into a sprint. The rope stops moving. Then it slowly begins to come our way. “Pull!” Chuck yells.

  I’m not sure what he thinks we’ve been doing—reading the newspaper?

  But we pull and pull, until again, there is a sudden slack in the rope as the other team lets go. Now I have a mud-covered front to match my grassy butt.