by Tom Henighan
“You don’t want to spend all your time with fat boys and oriental chicks, do you?” Charles asked him. Hawk shrank at the insult but decided to join in anyway, if only to show Charles that he wasn’t afraid.
They played for a while, and when the bell rang they lined up with the others. Charles said to Hawk, “Let me read your palm, will you?” When Hawk looked baffled, Charles commanded, “Hold out your palm, Princess!” Hawk stuck out his right hand and Charles thrust a folded piece of paper into it. Hawk shoved it in his pocket.
Back in his seat, Hawk pulled out the note and read it: Bring one dollar on Monday. Otherwise trouble. The Ferret Master.
The rest of the afternoon was spent in math study — in this case they were dealing with graphing. Ms. Calloway explained that they would combine with a partner to graph multiple intelligences by producing a double bar graph with which each student could compare his or her multiple intelligences to a friend’s. But since, according to Ms. Calloway, the existing information forms for multiple intelligences weren’t adequate for grade four, they would design their own questionnaires and use them in preparing the information. Then they would make large graphs and demonstrate them to the class.
Hawk set to work with a very cool, slender, dark-eyed girl named Eliza Dean. He figured that one of his “intelligences” was physical, since he played so much baseball, but the others kind of baffled him. He wasn’t particularly good at math, no good at music, and what the heck, he wondered, did “interpersonal” mean? His project partner kept trying to get his attention, telling him over and over exactly what he should do. “I like your blond braids,” Eliza said. “But you seem to be a bit out of it.”
“Piss off!” Hawk told her. The pressures of the day were becoming too much for him. His comment reached the neighbouring desks and some of the kids giggled. Ms. Calloway called Hawk up to her desk.
“Are you having a problem, Hawk? Can I help you?”
“No, I’m all right. It’s just that girl — she’s too bossy.”
“Eliza? Well, I’m sure if you’re patient you won’t find her so. She probably just wants to help you. Why don’t you try again?”
“Okay. But Ms. Calloway, what does interpersonal mean? I don’t know if I’ve got it or not.”
Ms. Calloway smiled. “Well, I’ll tell you, Hawk. You just go back to your desk and try to get along with Eliza. And if you succeed, then you can assume you’ve got interpersonal intelligence.”
Hawk returned to work. Eliza seemed amused. He continued to find her bossy, but he gritted his teeth and bore it. After a while she seemed to loosen up, and to consult him before she plunged ahead, and he began to like her better. He enjoyed what they were doing, and the afternoon passed more quickly.
The day ended with some free time for those kids who had completed their work and had no homework due. “You can have free time today, too, Hawk,” Ms. Calloway told him. “But in the future you’ll have to earn it. For the next fifteen minutes you can work at anything that interests you.”
Hawk moved off to one of the computers and began to surf the Web. He looked up Babe Ruth and found more information about the missing baseball. He felt badly that he couldn’t be right there with Mr. Rizzuto, helping to dig out more information on those baseball games of long ago. He might not be as great at research as the kids in his new class, but he was sure he would learn fast. He might even find some important clues that would lead them to that missing baseball.
Hawk was eager to talk to Mr. Rizzuto, but had begun to wonder if his older friend was pursuing what his father would have called a pipe dream. If only he had more time, Hawk felt, he would be able to make that dream a reality, or at least to help find the truth. But he was so busy, and things were happening so fast, he could barely keep up with it all.
Hawk decided that as soon as he had told his mother some reassuring things about how his day had gone he would head off to afternoon baseball practice. This was the day he and Martin would challenge Elroy and see if they could get him stirred up and afraid, so that he would lead them at last to the Rippers. It was an exciting thought, a bit scary, but it might help him get his glove back. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about this crazy school stuff. He could play baseball, get on the Little League team, and maybe help find Babe Ruth’s baseball before anyone else did!
Before he left the room, however, Ms. Calloway took him aside and explained a bit more about his project. It needn’t be on medieval studies, she told him, since he had missed all the classes on that subject. But it had to be on a par with the others. She explained exactly what she wanted, and handed him a written set of instructions.
“If you have any questions, talk to me or to Ms. Clarke,” she explained. “You’ll meet Ms. Clarke tomorrow, and I know you’ll like her. You come up with a project and we’ll talk about it then. We’re eager to have you succeed and do your best with us, Hawk. We believe in your abilities. This class is going to be a big turning point for you.”
Chapter 11
Scaring Elroy
Hawk headed home after school, but his mother was nowhere to be found. He fetched the key for their room from the restaurant, went in and changed clothes, then took off for the practice field. He left a note for Storm Cloud: School was fine. I’m playing ball. Might have to go to Dad’s tonight or tomorrow.
Hawk jogged through the Riverdale streets, eager to get to the practice field. The sky had turned overcast, a sharp wind blew bits of paper and cast-off coffee cups along the sidewalk. Hawk shivered and kept on moving. Images from the day at school flashed through his mind — they weren’t all bad, but already there was almost too much pressure on him. The other kids seemed to take everything in stride, but he was different. He was the one who’d been living first in a taxi, and now a restaurant, the kid who’d been held up and robbed by the Rippers gang, the kid who had latched on to the dream of finding a magic baseball that the great Babe Ruth had once hit for a home run. He was the Grade Four kid who had to take on a school project halfway through the year and try to match the work of the brightest kids in the city.
For an instant he felt weighed down, helpless, but minutes later, when he was at his gloomiest, his most doubtful, he suddenly remembered something his father had told him a couple of years before. He had been feeling hopeless about something, and Jim had taken him aside and told him that he should have more courage. Everyone, but kids in particular, Jim said, had a secret talisman, a magic power in their deepest souls — it was something intangible but so real that you could sense it and feel it, even if you only half tried. Once you located that power, if you made sure to stay in touch with it, held it firmly in your mind and body, you could overcome most of the bad things that life would throw at you. It was just a matter of not giving in, of not cutting yourself off from your own strength by feeling sorry for yourself, or forcing yourself to be something that was wrong for you. Those things would put out your inner light, kill your inner strength.
Hawk had forgotten his dad’s exact words, but he remembered the message: find the power in yourself, believe in it! Be a warrior! And now, as he walked along these very ordinary streets in Riverdale, suddenly, under a cold, dull sky everything changed. Out of nowhere — or so it seemed — he felt a rush of energy, a stirring of power in his chest, arms, and legs. Just like that, in a twinkling, he was strong, safe in his own skin, and in touch with himself. It was as if the wind had forced him to stand tall, while at the same time it filled his lungs with fresh air, good feelings. He would do the class paper; he would deal with that creepy Charles and the Ferrets. If anyone could find Babe Ruth’s baseball, he could. Nothing could hurt him. Lightheartedly, he laughed and ran down the street toward the baseball lot.
“You look great, Hawk,” Mr. Rizzuto told him, as the boy approached the field and shouted a greeting. “School agrees with you.” The old man glanced up at the sky. “And we’re getting some sunshine at last. Maybe you brought it with you?”
Mr. Rizzuto was haulin
g some equipment out of his van, with the help of the boy from Chile and the two girls. “And here’s Martin just coming along,” he added. “Maybe he’ll go back to school, too. It didn’t hurt you none, I see. Here, Hawk, wanna help drag this batting cage over there for me?”
Hawk started to struggle with the heavy cage. Then Martin suddenly appeared, mumbled a greeting, and lent a hand with the wire monster. “I don’t see Elroy,” he said. “I hope he doesn’t skip today.”
“We moved out of the taxi,” Hawk told him. “Panny thinks the Rippers figured out that I was after Elroy. They threw a rock at the Oldsmobile and Mr. Selim, the restaurant owner, took us in. I hope Elroy shows up today. The gang may have warned him not to.”
“Maybe,” Martin said tersely. “But look, here he comes. I guess he’s got more guts than we thought.”
Sure enough, Elroy was trudging along from the direction of the railway yards, a bat over his shoulder and a glove swinging on the end of it like a flag on a pole.
Hawk and Martin eyed him slyly as they finished putting the cage in place. Sunlight flashed on the empty lot. The Contreras boys came out from behind a long line of cars. Two other boys tagged along behind.
“Busy day,” Martin said. “Don’t forget, we’ve got to lean on Elroy. Tricky thing to do with everyone here.”
“We’ll get him alone in the outfield,” Hawk said.
“This is great!” Mr. Rizzuto called out. “A great squad! Let’s set up an infield practice.”
He herded them together and starting passing out equipment and shouting instructions. The Contreras boys he directed to short and third. Their friends, two brothers from Mexico, and one of the girls he sent to the outfield. “You’re playing in,” he told them, “to make a play at the plate.”
Martin was at bat, the other girl the pitcher, and the Chilean boy was crouched behind the plate. “Hawk, you play second,” Mr. Rizzuto ordered. “And Elroy, first.” They nodded and moved off, but before they’d taken more than a few steps, Mr. Rizzuto shouted, “Hey, Elroy, I thought you had a first baseman’s glove!”
Elroy stopped, turned, and looked first at Mr. Rizzuto then at Hawk. “Oh, I lent that to someone,” he explained. He spoke very softly. “But that’s all right, I can use my outfielder’s glove today.”
“Okay, okay, if you have to! Get down there then!”
Hawk was stunned. Elroy had hidden or ditched the glove. Or maybe the Rippers had gotten worried and taken it back. Now what would they do? He wanted badly to talk to Martin, but just then it was impossible.
The practice started. Martin hit a few balls to the infield. The Contreras boys did their usual razzle-dazzle and Hawk managed to snare a line drive. He tossed the ball to Elroy who caught it without looking at him. They played in various combinations, then finally Mr. Rizzuto changed them around, and Martin, Hawk, and Elroy found themselves in the outfield.
This was Hawk’s big chance. It was time for the scare tactics. He called out to the Southern boy, just loud enough for him to hear, “Hey, Elroy, what happened to my glove? Have you hidden it somewhere?”
Elroy hardly looked at him. “What you goin’ on about? I ain’t got your glove…. And I don’t have to talk to you.”
“You prefer to talk to your friends? Maybe to that Ringo? He’s a great guy. Is he the one who gave you my glove — the one he stole from me?”
“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ about nothin’. I’m here to play ball.”
“We want to have a chat with you sometime, Elroy. Me and my friends,” Hawk said. “Otherwise you’ll be in big trouble.”
“I ain’t worried about no trouble from you,” Elroy said.
Hawk tried a few more times to rouse him, to stir him up, but Elroy hung tough. He clamped his mouth shut and said nothing. While the practice continued — another forty-five minutes — he avoided both Hawk and Martin, and when Mr. Rizzuto started wrapping things up, Elroy quickly took his leave.
When he had walked off and disappeared into the next street, Martin started after him.
“Good luck. And be careful!” Hawk whispered to his friend. He then turned back to help Mr. Rizzuto pack up. The other kids gradually disappeared in different directions, and the old man and the boy were left alone.
“So, school went well on your first day?” Mr. Rizzuto asked. “That’s good, Hawk. You’ll be pretty busy these days with that stuff, but don’t forget we’re partners, and we’re going to find that famous Babe ball.”
“I hope so. That Mr. Wingate — he doesn’t have any news yet?”
“Not yet. But don’t worry. He’ll do his job. We’ll probably find out something next week. You still on board, kid?”
“I sure am!”
Mr. Rizzuto gave him a glance. “Yeah, I believe you. You look a lot more with it today, Hawk. Something good happened, I guess. You went to see your dad?”
“I did. But something else happened, too. It’s great news. We finally moved out of that taxi! The bad news is that somebody threw a rock at the car and broke a window. We had to get out of there. Mr. Selim gave us a room at the back of his restaurant — it’s only for a month, but we’re safe there.”
Mr. Rizzuto waved him into the van. “That’s good news — great news,” he said, slamming the back doors. He climbed in, started the engine, and they pulled away. “You know,” he told Hawk, “I think some good things are going to happen. Just remember, a month is a long time.”
“Yeah.” Hawk smiled. “That’s what my dad said.”
Mr. Rizzuto drove Hawk back to Selim’s. When he saw the yard and the big empty space where the Oldsmobile had been rotting and rusting away all those years, he shook his head and whistled softly. “Holy cow! I wonder where they took that monster. Not worth much, even for scrap. But, boy, I’m sure glad you’re out of there!”
Hawk started to run inside, but turned back. “Hey, Mr. Rizzuto. Don’t forget to tell me what that Mr. Wingate finds out.”
“Don’t worry, kid! You’ll be the first to know.”
Hawk waved goodbye, slipped through the back door, and found Storm Cloud coming out to meet him. “So here you are!” she said, sounding a bit cross. “I got your note. And your dad left a message with Mr. Selim. He wants you to go over there tonight to study with him. You’re supposed to give a talk on Native customs, he told me, in your class. Well, that’s okay. That’s just great. But you could have asked me for some help, too.” She frowned and pushed Hawk gently toward the door of their room. “I know almost as much about the subject as he does.”
Chapter 12
Bad News from Martin
Hawk went to school the next day thinking of his father’s great stories about the origins of their people, the Ojibway and Cree, who had lived all across eastern North America before and after the coming of the white settlers. Jim had spent the evening describing the difficult but wonderful life of these tribes, and the natural environment of woods and lakes in which they flourished. He offered Hawk some chocolate milk and they ate chicken sandwiches. A recording of Native drumming sounded in the background.
The evening passed quickly. Hawk’s brain whirled with images of sunlight on shining lakes, snow-dusted teepees, birchbark canoes, sacred scrolls, sun dance ceremonies, and burial mounds. His father promised to tell him more about these and other wonders, each in its turn. Hawk found everything magical. It was true that his mother had explained some things about the Ojibway traditions, and these were mostly accurate, but despite her claim, his father knew much more. Besides, he was a great storyteller.
“I think I’m learning a lot, don’t you, Dad? I think I can do a great class presentation,” Hawk said, as his father prepared to take him home.
“I hope so,” his father said. “Don’t be overconfident, but stay in touch with that strong light within you.”
Lining up for class, Hawk did feel in touch with something strong in himself. Even the sneering face of Charles, head of the Ferrets, didn’t frighten him, or make him anxious.
>
Several kids clustered around Charles, and Hawk noticed one of them, a small, curly-haired boy, passing him a small envelope. That kid must be paying his dues. Hawk felt his anger rise, but controlled it. He wouldn’t become one of those Ferret flunkies!
When he entered the classroom, Ms. Calloway was busy in front of the blackboard posters, talking and consulting bulky files and a laptop computer with another woman. Catching sight of Hawk, she signalled him to come up.
“This is your other teacher, Hawk. Meet Ms. Clarke. We work together, although we mostly teach on different days.” She nodded at her partner, a slim woman with straight auburn hair and penetrating blue eyes. “I’ve already suggested that Hawk jump right in and do a research project.”
“Sounds great. Have you decided what the topic is?” Ms. Clarke asked.
Hawk gulped, but answered promptly. “I want to do something on the Ojibway-Cree Nations, to tell the class about their history and customs. My dad is helping me. He’s an expert. He works for the Native Centre.”
The teachers exchanged glances. “That sounds terrific,” Ms. Calloway said. “I hear you’re a great reader, so you should be able to find lots of information in the library, and on the Web. But there’s no substitute for your dad’s experience.”
“You should bring us a draft,” Ms. Clarke said. “Ms. Calloway or I can look it over and tell you if you’re on the right track. I hope you do really well in this class, Hawk. I’ll be teaching science, math, gym, and music mostly, and Ms. Calloway will handle art, literature, and social studies. But we both do everything. So if you have any questions, just ask one of us.”
“Maybe you could have the draft by next week,” Ms. Calloway suggested. “By the way, your dad is Jim Eagleson, isn’t he? I heard him give a talk last year — it was very good. I learned a lot about Wee-sa-kay-jac, the trickster in the Cree stories. You know the Greeks and the Norse had trickster figures in their stories, as well. Too bad you missed that part of our class, Hawk. But don’t worry. You can catch up on a lot. Now enjoy the day with Ms. Clarke. There’s science and gym today, which I’m sure you’ll like.”