by Mike Knudson
“Raymond,” Mom finally called out. “May I see you for a moment?”
“Oooh, busted,” David said as I stood up. Slowly, I dragged my feet to her desk. I couldn’t believe it was still only the first day of Mom being my substitute. It already seemed like forever.
“Hi, sweetie,” Mom started. I heard a few kids giggle and repeat “sweetie” under their breath. Mom noticed too. “Let’s talk out in the hall,” she said.
“I will be right back,” she told the class. “Please keep working on your fractions and decimals.” I followed Mom out into the hall and down by the front doors of the school.
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Mom said with a sad look on her face. “I know you’re disappointed that I didn’t call on you to run my errand to the office, but just because you’re my son, it wouldn’t be fair for me to call on you for all the fun things. Do you understand?” she asked.
“Not really,” I answered. “I mean, who cares about fair? You’re my mom. I should get some privileges for you being our teacher.”
“Well, I’m sorry, sweetie,” she said, putting her arm around my shoulder. “I’ll try to find something fun for you to do sometime this week.” Then she gave me a kiss on the top of my head.
“Whoa, not in school, Mom! Someone might see you! Remember my baseball game last summer?” But it was too late. Brad Shaw had been walking back from the office and saw the whole thing. I turned just in time to see him snickering as he went back into the classroom. “Great,” I said under my breath.
“Of course I remember your baseball game last year. And I still don’t understand it,” she said. “Since when has it been a crime for a mother to give her son a kiss for good luck? Are you embarrassed that your mother loves you?”
“It’s not that,” I said. “It’s just that, you know, it’s not cool when you’re my age to have your mom give you a kiss in public.”
“Well, if people don’t think you’re cool because I gave you a kiss, then you don’t need to be cool as far as I’m concerned.”
What’s that supposed to mean? I thought to myself. I did want to be cool. And I sure didn’t want to give up being cool just so I could get a kiss on the top of my head.
“But, Mom,” I said. “It’s just that people make fun—”
“Oh, don’t worry about what people say, sweetie,” she said, cutting me off.
“And by the way,” I said, “when you call me ‘sweetie’ in class, I was wondering if maybe . . . you know . . .”
“Say no more, sweetie—I mean, Raymond. For the next week, I promise I will not embarrass you anymore.” I didn’t believe her, since embarrassing me seemed to be part of her nature, but I hoped for the best.
“Thanks, Mom,” I said. Then we both returned to class. She kept her word and didn’t embarrass me for the rest of the day. Unfortunately, there were still four more days left.
8
A Stinky Lunch
THE NEXT DAY started out well. Mom passed back our exercises on fractions and decimals. I got 100 percent on mine. Then she asked David to come to her desk while we all worked on the new math assignment. It looked like Mom was going over his assignment with him. During our government unit in social studies, she let us all write letters to the governor. She even brought a roll of stamps for us to stick on the letters. Then it was time for lunch.
Graham and I had our usual competition of guessing what was for lunch as we walked down the hall. “Smells like burritos,” I said.
“Are you crazy? It’s definitely chicken nuggets,” Graham said with confidence. We walked into the lunchroom and immediately saw chicken nuggets on the trays.
“Told you,” Graham said. Since I bring my lunch, I ran over and found a spot for us at our regular table and saved room for Graham and some of our friends. Zach sat down across from me.
“Hey, I heard you pitched a great game on Saturday,” he said.
“Yeah, it was awesome! Graham even hit a home run!” I said. “At this rate, I think we could win the championship.”
“I know we can. I just hope my finger gets better by then,” Zach said, examining his finger all wrapped up. “Plus, these bandages are really starting to smell.”
“Let me smell,” I said. My nose met his broken finger halfway across the table, and I took a big whiff. “Ugh, that’s terrible!” I gagged.
Just then Graham set his tray down next to me. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“Smell those rotten bandages on Zach’s finger,” I said. “They’re disgusting!”
Graham looked at me like I was crazy. “Why would I want to smell them after you just told me they’re disgusting?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Probably for the same reason I wanted to smell his finger after Zach told me it stinks.”
We sat there for about a minute until Graham couldn’t take it any longer. “All right, all right, let me smell that finger,” he burst out. He stood up and stretched his nose over toward Zach who gladly stuck out his finger one more time.
“Oooh, rancid! That’s the foulest stench I’ve ever smelled in my life!” Graham coughed and waved his hand in front of his face. All of a sudden our entire table couldn’t wait to smell Zach’s disgusting finger. Even Diane, Heidi, and some of the other girls wanted a turn.
Finally, after we were all thoroughly grossed out, we started eating. “Zach, did you hear about my homer on Saturday?” Graham asked.
“Yeah. I wish I could have seen it,” he answered.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of them left,” Graham said. “If you come to the next game I’ll do it again.”
“Me too,” I added.
“Hi, sweetie—I mean, Raymond,” Mom interrupted, setting down her lunch bag on the table between Graham and me. Then she squeezed in and sat down between us on the bench. “Isn’t this fun? We get to eat together all week.” The whole table looked at us. Teachers never eat with the kids. I don’t know where they eat, but it’s never with us. Suddenly all my friends were quiet.
“Please don’t stop talking because of me,” Mom said. We all just sat there in silence. “Zachary, how’s your mother doing with that new baby brother of yours?”
“Um, fine, I guess,” Zach said.
“And Graham, it’s nice to see your hair is back to normal. It was such a shame hiding those precious red curls underneath all of that goop,” she said, rubbing his curly hair.
“It’s called gel. And I just ran out,” Graham said.
“I agree with Raymond’s mom—it looks more like goop than gel,” Diane added. While Graham and Diane argued about the difference between gel and goop, I turned to my mom.
“Where did you eat yesterday?” I asked.
“In the teacher’s lounge with the other teachers,” she said. “But I thought it would be much more fun to sit out here with you and your friends.”
Mom took out a plastic container and pulled off the lid. A terrible odor floated out and filled the air around our table. It was worse than Zach’s finger. Everyone gasped.
“Oooh, what is that?” I asked, plugging my nose.
“It’s the leftover liver and onions from dinner last night. And this,” she said, opening another container, “is the sauerkraut from the night before.” A stench even worse than the first one exploded into the air. “Would you like some, sweetie?”
“No way.” I gagged.
“Hey, see you guys on the playground,” Zach said. He jumped up and ran out the door.
“Yeah, me too,” Graham said, picking up his mostly uneaten tray of food. “I’ve got to save the basketball court for us.”
“Hold on, Graham,” Mom said. “You haven’t eaten any of those carrots.” Graham looked at me as if to ask what he should do. I just shrugged my shoulders. Mom smiled and waited for him to eat them. Finally, Graham picked up a carrot stick, shoved it in his mouth, and ran out of the lunchroom.
“Well, that was fun, having lunch with you and your friends. I hope I didn’t embarrass yo
u,” Mom said.
What could I say to that? “No, it was fun,” I said. “But if you feel like you need to eat with the other teachers the rest of the week, I’ll understand. I mean, you are technically a teacher.”
“Not a chance,” she answered, putting her arm around my shoulder. “I wouldn’t miss eating with you for anything. Now run along and play with your friends. You don’t need to wait for me to finish.”
Just as I got up, Lizzy, who was sitting at a different table, came over and sat down right next to my mom. I could hear her talking as I made my way toward the door.
“Hi, Mrs. Knudson,” Lizzy said. “I think you’re the best substitute ever. And even though that stuff you’re eating smells really bad, I don’t even mind. I think it’s a great lunch. . . .”
I shook my head and ran out to the basketball game, which had already started. “Hey, whose team am I on?” I yelled.
“Is your mom going to play too?” Zach laughed. With his broken finger, he was trying to shoot the basketball with his left hand.
“Come on, guys. What am I supposed to do?” I said. “She’s my mom.”
“It’s all right. Just tell her not to talk to me about my ‘precious red curls’ anymore,” Graham said. “Here, you’re on our team.” Graham threw me the ball. I dribbled and went for a layup. David jumped and threw his body into mine, knocking me to the ground. He usually didn’t play basketball with us, but I guess it must have been my lucky day.
“Hey, that’s a foul,” Graham said.
“What’s he going to do, tell on me to his mommy?” David sneered. “I’m just giving you a little taste of what it’d be like to play against the Pirates in the championship baseball game. Too bad you guys won’t be there—unless you’re watching from the bleachers.”
“Oh, we’ll be playing,” Graham said. “I guarantee that. And this year, we’re going to win.” We needed a lot more wins if we were going to make it there, but Graham sounded like he really believed we could do it.
David just laughed. “Yeah, right,” he said. “You guys probably won’t even beat the Astros tonight, and they’re in last place.” He walked away before we could say anything to that.
With only a couple of minutes of recess left, we decided to quit the game. Zach stayed and shot a few more baskets, while Graham and I walked over toward the school doors.
“Man, I want to win that championship so bad,” I said. “It’s not even about the game. I just want to beat David.”
“I know what you mean,” Graham said. “But I’ve got a good feeling.”
“I hope you’re right,” I said. The bell rang and we went back to class.
It was a long afternoon. Whenever my mom turned away, David would either hit my arm or lean over to tell me how bad our team was. I just wanted the day to end. Unfortunately, when the final bell did ring, my mom had another surprise for me. She asked me and David to stay and talk with her after the bell. I told Graham not to wait up.
“Raymond, I would like you to sit down for a few minutes and work with David on tonight’s math assignment. David’s doing just fine, but he could use a little help with the fractions.” David and I looked at each other.
“But—” we both said at the same time.
“Don’t worry, I spoke with David’s mother when you were at recess, and she thought it was a great idea. I told her we would drive you home when you’re done.” With that, my mom pulled out two chairs at the back table for us and left us to work. “I’ll be in the office for a bit,” she added. Then she disappeared out the door.
“If you tell anyone about this, you’re dead,” David started. “I’m not stupid and I don’t need your help.” He was using the same mean words as always, but his voice was quieter, and instead of staring me in the eyes, he looked down at the ground as he talked.
“I know you’re not stupid,” I said. “Let’s just get started.”
We worked on fractions for the next thirty minutes. David asked me a lot of questions, and I explained things when he got something wrong. I could tell he needed the help. Luckily, I don’t have any trouble with fractions. I actually kind of like them. When we finished going through the whole assignment, David closed his book and looked at me.
“Remember, don’t tell anyone about this,” he said.
“Don’t worry, I won’t,” I said.
“Good. And don’t think that this means you’re not getting punched anymore.”
Even after helping him with his math, nothing had changed. David stood up and walked over to his desk.
“By the way . . . um . . . thanks,” he mumbled, not looking at me. Just then my mom appeared in the doorway.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“Good. We’re done,” I said. We all walked to the car. David and I sat silently in the back the whole way home.
9
What’s the Signal?
COACH PARKER WANTED us to get to our game early that night. Since we had lost two games already, he said we needed to work extra hard to get back on track. He wanted to win the championship as much as we did, and if we didn’t start playing better that wasn’t going to happen. Once we all got there, Coach gathered us around home plate. “Okay, guys, listen up. I know we haven’t worked on this yet this year, but we’re going to start using some signals. Before you step up to the plate, you need to look over at me to see what I want you to do.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant. I mean, what would he want us to do besides hit the ball?
“Now, if I do this,” he said, touching the brim of his hat and then sliding his hand across his chest, “it means you bunt on the next pitch. Does everyone understand?”
“Why don’t you just yell ‘bunt’ in Spanish?” Carlos said.
“Great idea, hermano,” Graham said, giving Carlos a high five. “We could learn the Spanish words for everything.” We all looked at each other and nodded.
“Let’s try to stick with our signals, okay?” said Coach. “If anyone on the other team understands Spanish, he’ll know what we’re doing.”
I never thought of that. I guess that’s why he’s the coach.
“Okay, when I do this,” Coach continued, sliding his right hand down his left arm and then sliding his left hand down his right arm, “it means swing hard, even if it’s a bad pitch.”
“Why would we swing if it’s a bad pitch?” Zach asked.
“Well, because we want the runner on first base to steal second base. If the batter swings, it will be more difficult for the catcher to catch the ball and throw the runner out.”
Wow, I had never thought of that either. I hoped I would never have to swing at a bad pitch. There’s no way I wanted to give up a strike just to make the base runner’s life easier. Coach showed us another signal for when he wanted us not to swing, and then he said, “But if I clap after any signal, that means ignore whatever signal I gave you and just hit away.”
I was getting really confused. “So if you give us a signal to bunt, but then you clap after the signal, we ignore it?” I asked.
“Right,” he said. “It’s just to confuse the other team, in case they’re catching on to our signals. Now, since we’ve lost a couple of games, we need to get on a winning streak. And this year we’re going to make it to the championships! Let’s really work on getting the signals down in tonight’s game.”
We did a little infield practice as the Astros arrived one at a time. Then we let them take the field to warm up. After a few minutes the umpire showed up, put on his gear, and yelled, “Play ball!”
We were up to bat first. Coach Parker stood by third base. Luke’s dad was coaching first base. Graham was batting first today. He walked up and pounded the plate with his bat. “Give me a good one!” he yelled out.
Graham let the first two pitches go by and complained when the umpire called them strikes. He stepped out of the box and looked at Coach, who was giving him a signal. Coach touched his hat, then slid his hand across his chest and clapped.
“He said bunt,” Zach yelled.
“No, he didn’t, he clapped. Just hit like normal,” Luke yelled.
“Hey, quiet, you guys,” Luke’s dad called over from first base. Coach Parker just shook his head.
Graham let the first one go by as a ball and then smacked the next one. He made it to first base. Carlos was up next.
As usual, his parents started yelling to him in Spanish. Coach gave him the signal to swing no matter what. The pitch was low and in the dirt. Carlos swung anyway, and Graham stole second base. The ball bounced behind the catcher, and Graham stole third base too. Carlos’s parents were still yelling. I figured they were telling him to quit swinging at bad pitches. Someone needed to explain the whole signal thing to them. The next four pitches were all balls, and Carlos jogged down to first base.
I was up next. I looked over at Coach for my signal, hoping he would tell me to just hit away. He gave me the bunt sign. I waited a second or two. Maybe he would clap after the sign, but he didn’t. I hate to bunt. First of all, I can’t do it very well. And second, it’s a stupid kind of hit. Who wants to hit a ball and have it roll five feet away? Baseball’s about home runs and grand slams, not bunts. But I followed Coach’s directions and tried to bunt.
“Strike one!” the umpire yelled. I had missed the ball completely.
“Move in, everyone,” their pitcher yelled. “He’s bunting.”
Coach whistled to me and gave me the signal to hit. I swung as hard as I could.
“Strike two!” the ump called out. Everyone on the other team moved back a little.
After two bad pitches, the Astros’ pitcher threw the ball right down the middle. I felt a home run coming on. I swung as hard as I could and hit the ball. It bounced on the ground in front of the plate and rolled about halfway to the pitcher. It wasn’t the home run I’d wanted, but I made it to first without getting out. Graham stayed on third. With the bases loaded, Luke stepped up to the plate and smacked a grand slam. Our entire team came out of the dugout and cheered Luke as he made it across home plate.