Airball

by L. D. Harkrader

  I stared at the receipt. He’d done it. He’d actually done it. It didn’t matter how much evidence I’d collected to prove Coach didn’t believe in Stealth technology. To prove he was using sports psychology on us. Was messing with our minds. It didn’t matter that column #2 made more sense than column #1. Coach had bought invisible uniforms.

  No, not invisible. Nonexistent. Coach had bought thirteen boxes of air.

  And spent a lot of money on it. I looked closer. At the total circled at the bottom of the receipt. At the words PAID IN FULL stamped in red. Man. It must’ve been his entire basketball budget for the whole year. And he’d blown it on … nothing.

  The receipt quivered in my hand. It was a flimsy sheet of paper, practically see-through. Didn’t add up to more than a sliver of an ounce. But it was heavy enough to sink our whole basketball program. I closed my eyes. Wait till Mrs. Zimmer found out. It was bad enough we were running around the gym naked. Wait till she found out how much all that nakedness had cost.

  Well, there wasn’t much I could do about it now. I slid the receipt under the other papers and made sure it was clipped tight, then carried everything back into the locker room. Coach’s office was locked, of course, so I hung the clipboard and the whistle on the nail outside his door. With any luck, he’d think the janitor had left them there.

  I heaved my backpack onto my shoulder and trudged from the locker room, through the empty gym, and out into the frigid November night. I pulled my coat up around my ears, leaned into the wind, and set off for home, the notebook filled with worthless evidence banging against my back.

  Twenty-six

  “Kirb. Hey.” Bragger jabbed me with the corner of his lunch card. “What’s wrong with you?”

  I looked back at him. “Well, for one thing, my shoulder’s gone numb where you keep poking me.”

  “Besides that.”

  I rolled my eyes. “For the twenty-third time, nothing.” I turned back to face the front of the lunch line.

  “Nothing. Right. Let’s recap.” Bragger scootched out of line so that he was standing next to me. “During first period”—he held up one finger—“you stared straight into your math book the whole time and didn’t wave your hand in the air once to answer a question. During second period”—he held up another finger—“it took you the whole class period to finish a one-page pronoun quiz. During third period”—another finger—“you had no idea where we were when Mr. Greunke called on you to read out loud. During fourth period”—another finger—“you blanked out so completely when Mrs. Van Meter asked you to demonstrate the proper way to light a Bunsen burner, that she made you sit down and had to ask Duncan—Duncan—to show us.” He wagged his four fingers in my face. “That’s not like you, Kirby.”

  I shrugged. “It’s game day.” I inched forward in line. “I’m just, you know, nervous.”

  “About?”

  “About the game, Bragger. What else?”

  Bragger narrowed his eyes. Studied me for a moment. “Yeah,” he said. “What else?”

  The rest of the team was already sitting around The Hulk when Bragger and I got there.

  Eddie looked up. “Nickel.” He swallowed a bite of sloppy joe. “Just the guy I was waiting for. You find more evidence?”

  “Evidence?” I swallowed. My tray clattered against the table. “What kind of evidence?”

  Eddie looked at me. Let out a big breath. “What kind do you think? Evidence that we’re Coach’s big science project. Evidence that really clinches it. Like, did he pull you aside after practice yesterday and say, ‘Nickel, guess what? Those invisible uniforms? I was just kidding.’ Anything like that?”

  “Um.” I sank into my chair. “Not exactly.”

  “Cause here’s the thing, man.” Eddie slugged back a gulp of milk, straight from the carton. He wiped the milk mustache off with the back of his hand. “We’re out of time.”

  “Yeah,” said Russell.

  “Yeah,” said Manning.

  “Yeah.” The word echoed around the table.

  I glanced at my teammates. At eleven guys I’d convinced to follow me onto the basketball court wearing nothing but their underwear. Eleven guys who now wanted me, their team captain, to reassure them that their days of playing skivvy ball were over.

  I took a deep breath. Stared down at my sloppy joe for inspiration. It just sat there waiting to be eaten. Stupid sandwich.

  “Don’t worry,” I finally said. “Column two is still winning.” Technically, it was. Five to four. “When we get to the locker room before the game, we’ll suit up in our old uniforms.”

  “Our old uniforms?” Duncan scrunched his face into a frown. “Did Coach—”

  I held up my hand. “Don’t worry about Coach. Just put on the uniforms.” I glanced around the table. Swallowed. Hard. “It’ll be okay,” I said. “Trust me.”

  Trust me. Right. Because I’d taken such good care of everything so far.

  I checked my watch on my way out of the lunchroom: 12:06. The game started at seven sharp. That gave me six hours and fifty-four minutes to convince Coach to let us play Whipple in our old, completely detectable-by-radar, slightly frayed-but-visible-to-the-naked-eye, polyester uniforms. Polyester wouldn’t make us run faster or jump higher, but polyester did conceal our undershorts and bare chests, which, no matter what Coach thought, was all you really needed in a basketball uniform. Luckily (or unluckily, depending on how many pieces my body ended up in when this was all over), I was spending the next hour with Coach. Fifth period was P.E.

  I raced to the gym and found him wheeling the ball cart out of the equipment closet. I scurried over.

  “Coach. Hey. I’ve been thinking. About the game.” I lowered my voice. The rest of the class had started to filter through to the locker room. I kept my back to them. “As team captain, I feel it’s my duty to safeguard any secrets, plays, game plans, or other information vital to our team. An example would be, say, our playbook. We’d never let another team see that. Right? So I was wondering, do you think we really ought to let Whipple see our Stealth Uniforms? I mean, they’re our secret weapon. Shouldn’t we keep them, well, secret?”

  Coach finished locking the equipment closet. Turned and gave me a long look. “I’ll let you in on a little secret about secret weapons, Nickel. They don’t work if you don’t use them.” He rolled the ball cart toward me. “Get this set up for class, okay?”

  “Right.” I nodded. “Okay.”

  Strike one.

  I didn’t get another opportunity to talk to him till fifth period was almost over. The class lined up to shoot free throws. Coach stood off to one side, by himself, watching and making marks in his grade book.

  I sidled over. “Coach.” I kept my voice low. “I was thinking.”

  “You do a lot of that.”

  “Yeah.” I nodded. Swallowed. “I was thinking about this old gym. It’s awful drafty in here. Sometimes it can get downright, well, cold. As team captain, I feel it’s my duty to protect the team’s health. I’d hate for our players to catch a chill. So what I was thinking was, maybe we should layer up.”

  Coach glanced at me. Raised an eyebrow. “Layer up?”

  “Yeah. You know. Wear our old uniforms over our new ones so we don’t get cold.” And here I added what I thought was a true stroke of genius. “Which will also allow us to use our secret weapon without giving up the secret. The Stealth Uniforms will be underneath, doing their job, hidden by the old uniforms on top.”

  “You know, Nickel, if you’re getting cold in here, I must not be working you hard enough. But I can fix that.” Coach folded his arms across his chest and rocked back on his heels. “Give me twenty. No…” He stretched his mouth into an evil-gym-teacher smile. “Make that thirty.”

  Thirty. Meaning laps.

  I was still running circles around the gym when the bell rang. And Coach was right. I wasn’t cold.

  Strike two.

  I didn’t see Coach again till school was out. I was headed
toward the gym to look for him when I saw him come out of the teacher’s lounge. I bobbed and weaved my way through the packed hallway to catch up to him.

  “Coach. Hey.”

  He glanced around. “Nickel.” He didn’t break his stride. “Let me guess. You’ve been thinking.”

  “Well. Yeah. And here’s the thing—”

  “No.” Coach held up his hand. “Here’s the thing. I’ve got a basketball game to get ready for. If I fall down dead or become otherwise incapacitated, you are more than welcome to take over the team. Until that time, keep your suggestions to yourself.” We’d reached the gym, and now he stopped, one hand on the door. “You’ve got a basketball game to get ready for, too, Nickel. So quit worrying about what you’re going to wear and start thinking about how you’re going to play. I’m counting on you to give me your best game tonight. Got that?”

  I swallowed. “Got it.”

  “Good.” He pushed through the door and disappeared into the gym.

  Strike three. Batter out.

  Twenty-seven

  I checked my watch: 5:47. I leaned over and checked the alarm clock by my bed: 5:47. The date and time on my computer screen: 5:47. I let out a big breath. One hour and thirteen minutes till tip-off. Thirteen minutes till the team was supposed to suit up. Thirteen minutes till life as I knew it exploded in my face.

  And I admit it: I wanted to run away. Every cell in my body was screaming, “Run, Kirby, run!” I wasn’t sure where I’d go. Or how I’d get there. A twenty-inch mountain bike takes you only so far in the dead of November.

  Then I thought about the attic. I could live up there for years without anybody knowing. It was warm, with lots of blankets and clothes and the mattress from my old baby bed. I could tiptoe downstairs every night after Grandma fell asleep (and I’d know when she was asleep—her snores rattle the rafters) and snag enough food to keep me going for the next day. I’d have to rig up something in case I had to go to the bathroom during the day, but that wouldn’t be hard. A coffee can with a lid would do the trick. I could take my Game Boy and a supply of books with me to keep from getting bored. Maybe I could even wire an Internet connection and sneak my computer up there. I could hole up in the attic, nice and cozy, without anybody wanting to hurt me, till it was time to go off to college. Just me and the giant prairie dog.

  “Ready, Kirby?” Grandma appeared in my bedroom doorway, her red-and-white Stuckey booster jacket zipped to her chin. Her bleacher cushion was tucked under one arm, her big black purse slung over the other. She jangled her car keys. “We don’t want to be late.”

  Yeah. That would be a tragedy.

  * * *

  The gym was a lot busier than the last time I’d seen it. Trumpet blasts drowned out clarinet squeaks as the pep band warmed up in the bleachers. The seventh-grade cheerleaders, practicing their cheers, bounced and rustled pom-poms. Mr. Greunke, our social studies teacher and official scorekeeper, bustled around under the bright gym lights, directing students who were setting up the scorer’s table and running cords to the sound equipment. The air was dense with noise and expectation.

  Grandma immediately planted herself in the front row of the bleachers, directly behind the Stuckey bench, her usual spot during any Stuckey basketball game. Because, as she said, you never knew when the team’s coach might need a little coaching himself.

  Wait till she saw what our coach was planning.

  I shuffled across the long expanse of hardwood toward the locker room. Coach was probably already in there. In his office. Suited up in his boxers, waiting for the rest of us to do the same.

  Which was never going to happen. The guys would never do that. They’d refuse to play in their underpants, we’d forfeit the game to Whipple, Mrs. Zimmer would cancel the basketball program, we wouldn’t go to Lawrence, I wouldn’t meet my father, none of us would ever be able to show our faces in this town again, and the whole team—and Coach, too, probably—would end up living in the attic with me.

  And there was nothing I could do to stop it. I’d tried talking to Coach. He wouldn’t even listen anymore. What else could I do? Lock him in his office? Wallop him with another basketball and hope it smacked the sense back into him?

  I shook my head and pushed through the locker room door, my head hanging low.

  “Nickel. Man, you should’ve told us.”

  “I can’t believe you kept it secret.”

  “Yeah,” said Bragger. “Even from me.”

  “I know.” I was still slumped over, staring at my shoes. “It’s just, I couldn’t. I mean…”

  I took a deep breath. Finally looked up.

  And about fell right out the door backward.

  Eddie, Duncan, and Bragger had beaten me to the locker room. Eddie and Bragger were flexing and strutting in front of their lockers. Duncan was still sitting on the bench, struggling to pull his head through his jersey.

  And all of them wore shiny new uniforms. White, shot through with a big red lightning bolt that started on one shoulder and zigzagged across their shirts and down their shorts to the opposite knee. The word STUCKEY stretched across the front in blocky black letters.

  I blinked. “Where did those come from?”

  Eddie looked at me. “Our lockers, man. Where else?”

  “So you just”—I swallowed—“saw them? Suddenly?”

  “Well, yeah.” Duncan’s head finally popped through his jersey. “And look.” He turned around so I could read the back. Six letters—WEBBER—arched over a big black number thirteen. “We got our names on the back.”

  Manning and Russell banged in the door behind me. About knocked me over.

  The rest of the team filed in behind them. And stopped short.

  “Whoa,” said Manning.

  A grin spread across Russell’s face. “Cool.”

  “Look in your locker,” said Duncan. “There’s two of them hanging there.”

  “White for home. Red for away.” Coach’s voice boomed off the concrete.

  We looked up.

  Coach strode from his office. Wearing a red-and-white lightning-streaked warm-up suit. Adult size extra-large.

  He planted himself in the middle of the locker room. “You’re looking at your new uniforms, gentlemen. Better than what you’ve been playing in, huh?” He raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t believe in those Stealth Uniforms, did you?”

  We looked at each other.

  “Oh. No.”

  “No way.”

  We shook our heads.

  Coach nodded. “Good. ’Cause those things never existed. You knew that, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “We knew that.”

  We looked at each other. Nodded.

  “Funny thing about those Stealth Uniforms, though.” Coach crossed his arms over his chest. Narrowed his eyes. “They worked.”

  We shot sideways looks at each other.

  “They did exactly what I promised they’d do. Made you run faster. Jump higher. Play harder. They even pulled you together as a team. You didn’t have a choice. Your coach was making you play ball in your underpanties. You had to stick together. Not bad for a box of air. And one more thing about those nonexistent uniforms. I told you that only true winners, only those who have what it takes to control the technology, can use them.” Coach pooched out his lips. “And I was right. You boys proved it. Every single one of you is a winner. Every single one of you showed me you’ve got what it takes.”

  He nodded. Gazed from player to player.

  “Now suit up,” he said. “Let’s show this town what we’re made of.”

  Twenty-eight

  Oh, we showed them what we were made of, all right.

  We bounded into the gym in our snazzy new uniforms. And got hit by a freight train of noise. Pep band. Pep club. Cheerleaders. Spectators packed into the bleachers—Whipple, a wall of green T-shirts and ball caps, on one end; Stuckey, in red, crammed elbow to elbow at the other. Mrs. Zimmer, straight a
nd tall, sat in the front row, a few seats down from Grandma.

  The Stuckey fans whistled and cheered as we trotted over to our side of the court to start stretching and warming up. Whipple fans blew armpit farts. I wasn’t surprised. You learn to expect that kind of thing from Whipple.

  I sprawled on the floor to stretch my calf muscles. And tried to look cool and casual. On the outside, anyway.

  The other guys weren’t doing much better. Oh, sure, Bragger and Eddie did a good job of faking it. They smirked and swaggered and acted like they’d never missed a shot in their lives. And sneaked panicked, sideways glances at Mrs. Zimmer when they thought nobody was looking. And didn’t sneak any glances at all at the seventh-grade cheerleaders in their flippy skirts, which was a dead giveaway, especially where Eddie was concerned.

  Russell practiced his game face. He scowled at the Whipple players warming up at the other end of the court and let out mini–Coach growls from time to time. And wiped the palms of his hands on his shorts, leaving nervous streaks of sweat across the shiny new polyester.

  Duncan didn’t even attempt a game face. He sidled up next to me as I sat hunched over on the floor, stretching my hamstrings.

  “Kirby?” His voice was weak and wavery. His face, freakishly pale under normal circumstances, had taken on a gray tinge. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

  “I know.” I switched legs so I could stretch the other hamstring. “Me, too. Keep telling yourself it’s just pregame jitters. That’s what I’m doing.”

  We finished stretching and warming up. Coach gathered us beside the row of scuffed metal folding chairs that was our bench.

  He consulted his clipboard. “Starting lineup: Reece, Poggemeyer, Barnes, Webber, and Nickel.”

  “Nickel?” I stared at him. “You mean Wiles. Russell Wiles.”

  Coach looked at me. “When I mean Wiles, I say Wiles. When I say Nickel, I mean you. You’re in.”

  “But I’m—I’m—”