Just Like Jackie

by Lindsey Stoddard

  dedication

  For

  Nana and Pop

  &

  Grandma and Grandpa

  contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  chapter 1

  Before I know it I have Alex Carter’s nose blood on me. My fist is tingling and his blood is squirted up the right sleeve of my sweatshirt. Everyone is crowding around, and Alex is crying like some tiny baby.

  “She’s crazy!” he screams and points right at me. “She punched me!”

  He shouldn’t have called me Robin. Maybe his face would be all in one piece and he wouldn’t be sobbing like a weenie if he knew when to shut his mouth.

  Baseballs drop to the hard-packed snow and all the players rush to third base, where Alex is crying and I’m standing over him. Everyone else is abandoning their snowmen and games of tag and running fast to surround us. “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

  They’re probably all thinking it’s about time Alex Carter got popped. And they’re right.

  Derek’s fumbling over now too, as fast as he can, and yelling, “Robbie! Wait!” but his feet are too big and he’s the slowest kid in the grade and he’d be no help in a fight anyway. Too scrawny.

  The teachers are sprinting across the yard to get between us, but I’m in ready position. Right fist up to strike if I have to. Left hand inside my baseball glove, blocking my face. I should have known Alex wouldn’t do anything but cry and bleed in the snow. He’s the biggest bully in the fifth grade, but I shut him up good. He’s not laughing at me now and flapping his arms and calling me a motherless Robin bird.

  A splatter of red is drying on my sleeve, but I don’t give a crap. Tough people look tough. That’s why Alex has long flowy blond hair like feathers and baby-blanket-blue eyes. And why my knuckles have his blood on them.

  And he was calling me a bird. I don’t have any feathers, nothing soft like that. My hair is blond too. But dirty blond. Not all white and fluffy, and I don’t wear it loose and flowy like he does. Mine is pulled back in two thick braids under my Dodgers hat. The braids aren’t perfect either because Grandpa doesn’t always pull them tight enough. So by the end of the day all my curls give up on being good and start popping out left and right. I know how that feels.

  Alex is blubbering now, and spraying snotty blood from his nose like it’s going to kill him. It splatters like spilled transmission fluid, red splotches across the white ground. Grandpa taught me how to seal transmission fluid leaks under the hood of a 1999 Honda Civic at the garage. But I’m happy to let Alex sop up his bloody nose with the sleeve of his sissy-boy snowboarding jacket. There’s no sealing up a kid that’s gone that bad. I should know.

  “What’s wrong with her?” he screams. White puffs of sad, sorry bully breath escape from his crying mouth.

  The first teacher that gets there is telling him to tip his head back and pinch his nose and asking if he’s all right and making a big deal.

  Derek’s still running and yelling, “It’s not her fault!” which feels pretty OK because it’s true and no one else will believe me. But Derek does.

  Then Mr. Danny has me by the shoulders. “That was not very ladylike,” he says all mean and close-jawed and under his breath like he’s sick of me but also maybe secretly glad someone finally gave that pest Alex what he deserved.

  “What kind of ladies are you talking about?” I say. “The prissy, snap-in-half kind who let stupid boys call them names?”

  He pushes me away from Alex and toward the front door of the school, and all the kids who are out for recess are staring at me with their jaws hanging open.

  Derek’s following behind us now and he’s out of breath. “Not . . . her . . . fault . . .” Mr. Danny shoos him off. “Let . . . her—”

  But no one can hear the rest of what Derek is stammering because Alex Baby Carter yells out, “That’s why people need moms! Or they’ll end up like her!” He’s crying at the same time, so he sounds all pathetic, but I’m not letting him get away with that crap.

  I try to wiggle out of Mr. Danny’s hold, but he tightens his grip on my shoulders. So I whip around and shout back, “You turned out mean and weak and pathetic! What does that say about your mom?”

  “Robbie!” Derek exclaims and pumps his purple fleece mitten in the air. And I can’t tell if he’s cheering me on or trying to get me to shut my mouth so I don’t get in any more trouble than I’m already in. But either way I know he’s got my back.

  The rest of the kids in the yard are still just standing around with their mouths hanging open. Mr. Danny nudges me across the yard toward the school.

  No one talks about my mom. Not even Grandpa. Not ever.

  I would listen to Grandpa if he talked about my mom, and not get all mad. But he doesn’t. Maybe because he forgets, the way he sometimes forgets why he folded his winter jacket and put it in his underwear drawer, or what goes first, socks or shoes. Or maybe he doesn’t forget my mom at all. Maybe he just doesn’t want to remember. I do, though. But I can’t. Not without Grandpa. And every time I ask he closes up tighter than a rusted bolt.

  The front door slams behind us as Mr.Danny walks me into Principal Wheeler’s office. I pull away and slump in one of the office chairs. No other kids are here. No other kids are ever here because this is a school of chickens. I don’t even know why they have so many chairs in the office. They just need one. Mine.

  “You’ll have to call Robinson’s grandfather,” he tells Ms. Burg, the office lady. She sighs like this is old news and picks up the phone. “This time we’ll need him to come in.”

  “Come in?” I sit up fast. “My grandpa’s not coming here. You can just suspend me and I’ll walk to his garage and help him work on the cars.”

  Mr. Danny puts his hand on my shoulder and I shake it off. “That’s not how it works, Robinson. What you did today is really serious.”

  Ms. Burg dials and holds the phone pinched between her ear and shoulder and I’m staring at the big clock on the wall above her head. It’s afternoon already, which means Grandpa could be all turned around and confused, and if someone like a stupid office lady named Ms. Burg pulls him out of his routine it could be even worse.

  “You don’t have to call—”

  “Enough, Robinson,” she cuts.

  “While you’re at it, you better call Alex Carter’s mom too,” I say. “Because he’s blubbering real hard out there. I’m pretty sure I heard him cry for his mommy.”

  “Robinson.” Ms. Burg looks at me over the tops of the green frames of her glasses and shakes her head. And I’m wondering if she got named Ms. Burg on purpose because it sounds like bug and she looks exactly like one with those dumb green glasses. Plus all she does is bug kids all day.

  Then my grandpa must pick up the phone because she puts on her fake nice voice and chimes, “Yes. Is this Mr. Hart? This is Ms. Burg from Robinson’s school.
She’s fine, she’s sitting right here with me, but we’ll need you to come down to the office. There’s been a little incident.” Then she swivels in her chair so I can’t hear the rest.

  Mr. Danny sits down in one of the bad-kid chairs next to me and looks right in my eyes. “Why did you do that?” he asks. “I just don’t understand.”

  “I told you. He wouldn’t stop calling me a little Robin bird, flapping his arms and acting like he’s all funny. I warned him to stop.” I look down at the blood drying on my fist, then punch it twice hard into the worn leather pocket of my baseball glove.

  Mr. Danny doesn’t say anything else, just blows a gust of disappointed air out of his nose.

  “No one calls me Robin,” I remind him. “How many times do I have to tell him that before it gets through his thick skull? My name’s Robinson and I’m sick of his crap.”

  Mr. Danny shakes his head like I’m a lost cause and I’m good with that. Lost causes get suspended and work in their grandpas’ garages for the rest of their lives and that is A-OK with me. Plus the ground is thawing and the sap is running and Grandpa could use my help collecting it from the maple trees we tapped, then boiling it into syrup. School just gets in the way of the stuff worth doing.

  “Her grandpa is walking over now,” Ms. Burg reports, pushing her glasses back up her nose and dialing another number.

  “Hi, Mrs. Carter?” she chirps. “So sorry to have to bother you. I know this is a tough time—” She swivels her chair again so I can’t hear the rest, but I bet it’s all full of sugar because nothing Alex does is ever wrong and it’s always my fault.

  Then Alex Baby Carter comes in the office and they sit him in a chair way on the other side, far from me. Good idea. He’s holding a big wad of white gauze over his nose, the kind Grandpa and I have in our first-aid kit at home.

  Ms. Burg tells him that his mom is on her way. “She’s going to take you right to the doctor to get that nose checked out.” He nods. Then she pokes her head into Principal Wheeler’s private office. “Mr. Hart is on his way.”

  “Nobody calls me Robin,” I tell Alex, slamming my fist harder into the pocket of my glove and staring right at him. Now I’m mad because it’s Alex’s fault that Grandpa has to walk over here by himself and it’ll be his fault if Grandpa takes a wrong turn and ends up searching the shelves for something he can’t remember at Dean and Walt’s country store.

  Alex sniffles and winces when he takes his hands off his nose. The blood’s all dried up. “What kind of girl only wants to be called Robinson, Robbie, or Son?” he asks.

  “The kind that just pounded your face.”

  “Robinson, that’s enough,” Mr. Danny cuts in.

  It better be enough. Enough to shut Alex up for good.

  The office door swings open and Grandpa hobbles in. His legs are shaped like he’s been riding a horse all his life instead of fixing up cars and tapping maple trees. He moves more side to side than forward. His navy jumpsuit from the garage has his name, Charlie, stitched over his heart, and I wonder where his jacket is. It’s cold out.

  He takes one look at Alex’s gigantic wad of blood-soaked gauze and says, “What in God’s name . . .” with a voice that’s as deep as the lines that run across his dark forehead. I shoot a glare at Alex that says, You better not say a thing about how he can’t be my real grandpa, or how I bet I wish my mom wasn’t dead. Or else.

  Grandpa takes a long look at me, then down at the blood squirted up my sleeve, and he shakes his head. I hate making Grandpa shake his head.

  “Mr. Hart, the principal is waiting to speak with you,” Ms. Burg says, and she gestures toward the door that says Principal Wheeler.

  I stand up to walk in with him, but Mr. Danny stops me. “This meeting is just for adults, Robinson.” Then before I know it Ms. Gloria is there too and Mr. Danny is opening Principal Wheeler’s door and telling me to sit back down.

  “Shouldn’t I be—”

  But the door is closed and my grandpa is gone, into the principal’s office like he did something bad and not me. And he doesn’t even like to talk too much unless he’s under the hood of a car, or splitting wood for the pile, and all these adults talking about their stupid school stuff will make him confused, and he didn’t do anything wrong except get given a bad kid.

  I almost wish I could take it back. Pull my fist out of Alex Carter’s face and count to ten instead, like Ms. Gloria taught me. Count to ten, take three deep breaths, or repeat baseball stats until that’s all I could think about—Career leaders. Batting average: Ty Cobb, .366. Hits: Pete Rose, 4,256—until I got calm again. Then maybe Grandpa wouldn’t have to shake his head and go to the principal’s office, and I wouldn’t be such a pain in the butt, like a trailer that’s too heavy for his small frame to tow.

  chapter 2

  When Principal Wheeler’s office door opens and they all come out, the grooves on Grandpa’s forehead look deeper.

  Ms. Gloria sits down next to me and says, “We all agree that you need to go home with your grandpa today. Tomorrow we’ll discuss some next steps about a behavior plan that will help you manage your anger in school.”

  “Tomorrow?” I shoot up from my seat. “I’m not suspended? What kind of school is this?”

  “Robinson . . .” Ms. Gloria’s got that voice she uses when she’s trying to calm me down, soft and low and serious. But I don’t care.

  “Isn’t it illegal in this state to punch someone in the face? Didn’t I break a Vermont law? What kind of message are you sending, letting me stay here?”

  Grandpa puts his hand on my shoulder and pats it three slow times. “You’re lucky now, Robbie,” he says with that deep voice all full of gravel and split wood. “You’ll come with me today to cool off and get your head straight, because this is unacceptable.”

  Grandpa thanks Mr. Danny and Ms. Gloria. And then, as if things could get any worse, Alex’s blond, flowy-haired mom shows up in black stockings and clicky high heels and a long black coat with big buttons. She looks like one of those prissy, snap-in-half-type ladies, but she has the same deep forehead lines that Grandpa does. I didn’t realize people as young as regular mom and dad age could get those.

  “I’m sure you’d like to apologize before you go,” Mr. Danny says.

  “No way—” I start, but Grandpa squeezes my shoulder hard like he’s tightening lug nuts.

  “Sorry.” But I say it more to my untied Nike Air Griffeys than to Alex. “If you don’t call me Robin anymore, I won’t punch your face again.” I cross my fingers behind my back just in case.

  Grandpa tightens the lug nuts on my shoulder. “Try again.”

  This time I just mumble, “I’m sorry for what I did.” But my fingers are still crossed.

  Mrs. Carter looks up from her sniffling sissy Alex and studies Grandpa’s hand on my shoulder for a quick second that she thinks no one notices. “You’re Robinson’s . . .”

  “Grandpa,” I say. But I know what she’s thinking. That we don’t match. That Grandpa is the dark color of a motor oil leak and I’m light as power steering fluid on my darkest summer day. But it’s none of her business.

  “That’s . . . very nice.” But she raises her eyebrows when she says it, like grown-ups do when they’re on to something, and it makes me wonder if she can see into Grandpa’s tired memory and if she knows that sometimes he leaves his keys in the refrigerator and the milk by the door. Because that’s nobody’s business except Grandpa’s and mine. But her raised eyebrows and long look make me feel hot and nervous, like we’ve got to get out of here fast because if someone finds out, they’ll make it a huge deal like grown-ups always do. Then what?

  Mrs. Carter looks straight down at me. “Keep your hands off my son.” And when she’s walking away with her arm around Alex, I hear her mumble “old man unfit to raise,” but I can’t catch the rest. And even though it makes my fists clench tight and I think that she deserves a nose to match her son’s, before I know it I’m pulling Grandpa out the office doo
r and away before he can mix up his words and anyone else raises their eyebrows and sees into our secret.

  On the walk to the garage I stay one half step ahead of Grandpa so he just has to follow along in case his memory gets tired. I do that to him sometimes, make his memory tired. Whenever I’m bad he forgets more. That’s why I have to try to be better.

  “You can’t be using your fists, Robbie,” he tells me. “You’re better than that.”

  “Alex deserved it,” I say, because he did. “And not just for calling me a Robin bird. He’s mean to everyone all the time behind teachers’ backs, then acts all innocent when they’re looking again.”

  “That doesn’t make it right. Violence will get you . . .” But he’s drifting off. And I know he means that violence will get me nowhere fast but he forgot the end of his sentence. And he’s shaking his head again. I hate that so much.

  I wait for Grandpa to tell me about Jackie Robinson like he always does when I do something bad. But he just goes along, saying nothing, and it doesn’t feel right all quiet like that, so I tell it to myself in my head:

  The man you’re named for was a great ballplayer. The first black player in the league. People taunted him all the time, but he didn’t pay no mind. He couldn’t. Even if they called him names, he just let it roll right off. He had to.

  And that’s how I know I’m not much like the real Robinson. But Grandpa wishes I was.

  He tells me about Jackie Robinson because he wants me to realize I have to do better. And that even when people are rotten, I shouldn’t fight back.

  But he’s not even telling me today. He’s just walking quiet, side to side, side to side, on his bowed legs. Maybe he doesn’t know what to do with me anymore and he’s giving up. Or maybe he’s forgetting about Jackie Robinson too.

  I want Grandpa to tell me about when he was five years old:

  It was the first World Series televised in color and Jackie Robinson and the Dodgers beat the Yankees in seven games. The only World Series they won in Brooklyn.

  But we just keep making small steps down the sidewalk.